I have a weakness for personality tests... and I adored this one!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Losing face
My site looks a mess. I feel as if I have left the house without make-up, my hair unkempt and flat, wearing mismatched socks.
I had this brilliant idea to add a little more colour, a little more joie de vivre, and instead... this.
Pah.
So I apologise for my appearance whilst I undergo a major (or even minor ) reinvention.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
more
Over the last few weeks, things in my life have shifted quickly and with little warning. I stopped the other day and realised that I have been back in Vancouver almost a year, a friend of mine recently out of rehab said he had lived more this year than the years preceeding his recovery. In a sense, I can relate. This last year has been about facing up to all that I have spent years hiding from, and starting to make it right again.
I often write about being just there, at that moment, right on the edge of something bigger.
I feel that now, again, stronger than ever. Not that my life is about to start, but that I am about to embark on yet another adventure and this is the adventure I have spent years preparing for.
I am taking charge of my health, and despite all the emotions that are coming with it, I know that it will be okay. Whatever *it* is. Because I will be in control of it. Because there are so many people around me right now offering support, whether virtual or spiritual or medical or familial. Because I need to get past this to get to the next stage. Because I just know that I have a bigger purpose in this life. Because there is much more fun to be had, more words to be read and written, more laughter, more tears, more joy, more love, more adventure, more lessons, more truth, more value, more life.
There is just more.
I often write about being just there, at that moment, right on the edge of something bigger.
I feel that now, again, stronger than ever. Not that my life is about to start, but that I am about to embark on yet another adventure and this is the adventure I have spent years preparing for.
I am taking charge of my health, and despite all the emotions that are coming with it, I know that it will be okay. Whatever *it* is. Because I will be in control of it. Because there are so many people around me right now offering support, whether virtual or spiritual or medical or familial. Because I need to get past this to get to the next stage. Because I just know that I have a bigger purpose in this life. Because there is much more fun to be had, more words to be read and written, more laughter, more tears, more joy, more love, more adventure, more lessons, more truth, more value, more life.
There is just more.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Interpretation
It is amazing how differently we interpret words and gestures, sounds, a look. Listening carefully but only hearing a select few words which wrap themselves around our subconscious, and then lay silently waiting.
He walks into the room, flustered, and introducing himself takes the book from my hands.
"I am always interested in what people are reading." He holds the book at arms length to see the title, glasses perched precariously on a thin nose.
Polite chitchat, a discussion about the book. I am expecting no more than for him to quickly glance at my lab results, and send me away for a retest.
Nothing too serious. I am relaxed, tired of trips from here to there and back again; B12 and folic injections and blood labs. I am quickly overcoming my irrational fear of needles.
In a moment, his demeanour changes. He looks at the papers in front of him and fires a volley of questions, querying symptoms and tests, health history. I am caught off guard, trying to remain calm.
"Do you take medication? Anything at all?" He asks me this 3 times.
"No," I say, "I don't even take pain killers."
The words I hear before can I catch myself ring soundlessly through my ears.
I take a deep breath and listen again, for a few brief seconds I cannot hear anything, can only watch his mouth open and then shut, aware that there are sounds escaping from his lips.
"I'd like to send you for a head CT scan, I'd like to rule out the possibility of a tumour."
There is a ringing in my ears, I can barely hear what he says next. I know I ask a question, maybe 2. He reassures me. It is very rare, this condition. Precautionary measures.
I follow him through the corridors back to the nurse station, he shakes my hand and over the counter I can see the words STAT written beside the scan request.
Sometimes a word can be interpreted too carelessly, taken for granted its one dimensional persona, sometimes we do not take time to see past all layers its meanings hide.
Tumour, for example, literally means: a swollen part; swelling; protuberance.. It is the thoughts we associate with these words that cause our minds to race. I know I am a dramatist, I take for granted all the different miracles my body performs each day. I know that in my mind, a word hides many meanings.
I interpret tumour in a way that knocks the wind from me, replaces my calm assuredness with fear. I am not afraid to admit that I am frightened, and I am not afraid to admit that even after phone calls to my other doctor, to friends, to my sister and the reassuring tones that even if, if, there is anything it will be benign, I am still frightened.
He walks into the room, flustered, and introducing himself takes the book from my hands.
"I am always interested in what people are reading." He holds the book at arms length to see the title, glasses perched precariously on a thin nose.
Polite chitchat, a discussion about the book. I am expecting no more than for him to quickly glance at my lab results, and send me away for a retest.
Nothing too serious. I am relaxed, tired of trips from here to there and back again; B12 and folic injections and blood labs. I am quickly overcoming my irrational fear of needles.
In a moment, his demeanour changes. He looks at the papers in front of him and fires a volley of questions, querying symptoms and tests, health history. I am caught off guard, trying to remain calm.
"Do you take medication? Anything at all?" He asks me this 3 times.
"No," I say, "I don't even take pain killers."
The words I hear before can I catch myself ring soundlessly through my ears.
I take a deep breath and listen again, for a few brief seconds I cannot hear anything, can only watch his mouth open and then shut, aware that there are sounds escaping from his lips.
"I'd like to send you for a head CT scan, I'd like to rule out the possibility of a tumour."
There is a ringing in my ears, I can barely hear what he says next. I know I ask a question, maybe 2. He reassures me. It is very rare, this condition. Precautionary measures.
I follow him through the corridors back to the nurse station, he shakes my hand and over the counter I can see the words STAT written beside the scan request.
Sometimes a word can be interpreted too carelessly, taken for granted its one dimensional persona, sometimes we do not take time to see past all layers its meanings hide.
Tumour, for example, literally means: a swollen part; swelling; protuberance.. It is the thoughts we associate with these words that cause our minds to race. I know I am a dramatist, I take for granted all the different miracles my body performs each day. I know that in my mind, a word hides many meanings.
I interpret tumour in a way that knocks the wind from me, replaces my calm assuredness with fear. I am not afraid to admit that I am frightened, and I am not afraid to admit that even after phone calls to my other doctor, to friends, to my sister and the reassuring tones that even if, if, there is anything it will be benign, I am still frightened.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly
Last January I made some determinations, wrote a list of all that I would achieve this year and pinned it onto my pinboard where I would see it each day. Each day something new on that list jumps out, whether it be to be kinder to myself, or to fall in love, to nurture the most important relationships, smile more or to get a new job. All are determinations that I need to be taking charge of daily.
And then there are those that take a little time, like getting a new tattoo or travelling to places I have never been. Those determinations take a little bit more time, some carefully thought out contingency plans and research. Others are about confronting fears and obstacles we put in our way, starting that book I've been writing in my head for so long the words seem like close friends or pitching that great idea to the Georgia Straight or Globe and Mail. Then there are those determinations that push me, physically and mentally such as running that 10k I have been talking about for the past 3 years. Courage, wisdom and determination are the three words I need to keep repeating to myself in order to hold all these fragile pieces together.
"You overanalyse everything", The Gorgeous tells me several weeks back.
I know this, it is as part of me as my skin. Whether this negates my observations, or enhances them is anyone's guess. But for me, I need to see value in every day life; I know I am extremely lucky in the opportunities that I have had and I have worked hard to achieve them. And I take every day as an opportunity to continue to develop who I am, to improve myself.
The Gorgeous tells me not everything has to happen for a reason.
"Sometimes," she says and shrugs her shoulders, "life simply...is."
And indeed life is, simply, life. But surely, in the people we meet, the interactions we encounter or we make or we break, there is value and there are lessons?
A wise man and friend once said to me "Everything is value". And so I carry this saying around with me, try to see the lessons, good or bad, in all my adventures.
"You need to give yourselves foot rubs," another friends tells me, dropping Bach flower remedies into my bottled water. "You are out of your body, you need to ground yourself."
I nod, Bird says the same thing last autumn.
The last few months I have felt out of place, not just physically, not just mentally. Not sad, not blue... just off. I am dizzy, anxious, tired, my energy level dangerously low. I feel as if I am constantly neutral, constantly running on anything but physical energy. A bruised coccyx forces me to stop running for a week, and then another one. I start missing those cold nights along the seawall, my ipod plugged into my ear and the waves crashing along the path. There is a correlation between the two, my body picks up an infection and the antibiotics throw my body out of routine, leave me sluggish, tired, and toxic. My naturopath starts to pin pieces of my health history together, orders blood tests to rule out x, y and z. She cannot rule them all out, suggests something that has not been mentioned before. Symptoms and history fit, I will find out Thursday morning where we can go from here. In my head, I am straddling worst case and best case scenarios and trying not to stay too long on either until I know for sure. Whatever happens, I will walk away with a new found appreciation of how my body works, and hopefully learn not to take it for granted.
Life, simply, is. I add taking charge of my health to my list of determinations.
Then quite by chance, I am given the opportunity for an adventure and come across an artist who is as passionate about the tattoing process as I am. Amelia calls my decision to cover up what I was trying to erase a palimpsest.
I like that. Aren't we always scraping off and writing new after all?
If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies.
Unknown
And then there are those that take a little time, like getting a new tattoo or travelling to places I have never been. Those determinations take a little bit more time, some carefully thought out contingency plans and research. Others are about confronting fears and obstacles we put in our way, starting that book I've been writing in my head for so long the words seem like close friends or pitching that great idea to the Georgia Straight or Globe and Mail. Then there are those determinations that push me, physically and mentally such as running that 10k I have been talking about for the past 3 years. Courage, wisdom and determination are the three words I need to keep repeating to myself in order to hold all these fragile pieces together.
"You overanalyse everything", The Gorgeous tells me several weeks back.
I know this, it is as part of me as my skin. Whether this negates my observations, or enhances them is anyone's guess. But for me, I need to see value in every day life; I know I am extremely lucky in the opportunities that I have had and I have worked hard to achieve them. And I take every day as an opportunity to continue to develop who I am, to improve myself.
The Gorgeous tells me not everything has to happen for a reason.
"Sometimes," she says and shrugs her shoulders, "life simply...is."
And indeed life is, simply, life. But surely, in the people we meet, the interactions we encounter or we make or we break, there is value and there are lessons?
A wise man and friend once said to me "Everything is value". And so I carry this saying around with me, try to see the lessons, good or bad, in all my adventures.
"You need to give yourselves foot rubs," another friends tells me, dropping Bach flower remedies into my bottled water. "You are out of your body, you need to ground yourself."
I nod, Bird says the same thing last autumn.
The last few months I have felt out of place, not just physically, not just mentally. Not sad, not blue... just off. I am dizzy, anxious, tired, my energy level dangerously low. I feel as if I am constantly neutral, constantly running on anything but physical energy. A bruised coccyx forces me to stop running for a week, and then another one. I start missing those cold nights along the seawall, my ipod plugged into my ear and the waves crashing along the path. There is a correlation between the two, my body picks up an infection and the antibiotics throw my body out of routine, leave me sluggish, tired, and toxic. My naturopath starts to pin pieces of my health history together, orders blood tests to rule out x, y and z. She cannot rule them all out, suggests something that has not been mentioned before. Symptoms and history fit, I will find out Thursday morning where we can go from here. In my head, I am straddling worst case and best case scenarios and trying not to stay too long on either until I know for sure. Whatever happens, I will walk away with a new found appreciation of how my body works, and hopefully learn not to take it for granted.
Life, simply, is. I add taking charge of my health to my list of determinations.
Then quite by chance, I am given the opportunity for an adventure and come across an artist who is as passionate about the tattoing process as I am. Amelia calls my decision to cover up what I was trying to erase a palimpsest.
I like that. Aren't we always scraping off and writing new after all?
If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies.
Unknown
Thursday, March 01, 2007
slave britain
As Britain prepares to commemorate 200 years since the abolition of the slave trade, a new Panos exhibition at St Paul's Cathedral reveals how human trafficking is a bitter reality for thousands of women, men and children in the UK today. Slave Britain artfully documents the ordinary lives and everyday locations caught up in trafficking and calls for an end to this illegal 21st century trade. The show is produced by Panos Pictures in partnership with Amnesty International, Anti-Slavery International, Eaves and UNICEF UK.
Visit the website and read the full story here.
Visit the website and read the full story here.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Back in 5 minutes, maybe 10. Could be 15.
Owing to current events, I will be taking yet another very short break away from the blog. I seem to be missing a little "je ne sais quoi" at the moment, whether that be the inability to finish any of the blog posts I have started, whether that be the current period of reflection whilst I try to decide what next with my career and with my life, whether that be the project at work which is taking all my energy little by little or whether that be a combination of all but somehow I can't seem to stay here at the moment. There are so many amazing events and adventures happening, but somehow I can't seem to seperate them and give them each value.
I am trying.
Sometimes I feel as if I am just there, almost to that point where it starts to make sense. I keep passing milestones and markers, and I am gaining ground. I just feel stagnant at the moment, uninspired and burnt out.
A few weeks back, I sat on a bench looking across English Bay with a cup of coffee. In that moment, I felt life was perfect. And such it was, but I am a perfectionist and I need to continue to perfect that perfectness. I see the irony, and I am trying.
I hope to be back soon.
LMM
xxx
PS: In my absence, I will most likely be drinking (and researching) a fair amount of wine, experimenting in the kitchen (not in that way) and thinking up new ways to utilize olive oil in everything, nursing a bruised coccyx from a slight tumble and promptly getting back up the mountain to clear my head, running the seawall in preparation for the Sun Run, catching up on my favourite blogs (see side bar, I've neglected alot of them lately), perusing beautiful pictures from flickr, volunteering, organzing an amazing adventure that will take me to a country I have never travelled to, reading the archives from this brilliantly written blog, (I haven't laughed out loud this much in a long time) and spending much needed time with my beautiful friends.
PS II - Did anyone else think "The Departed" was over acted? Unbelievable? A blatant stab at black comedy? Jack Nicholson's facial expressions should have been nominated for best supporting actor at the very least.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Buy a word. Support the arts
I'm a little overwhelmed, work seems to have taken over my life and I'm not entirely sure I am liking it.
I haven't had a chance to pop in and say hello to anyone, enjoy a cup of tea and a gab so I apologise. I miss you all.
In the meantime, I urge you to do this.
Go on.
You know you want to.
I haven't had a chance to pop in and say hello to anyone, enjoy a cup of tea and a gab so I apologise. I miss you all.
In the meantime, I urge you to do this.
Go on.
You know you want to.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
the man who
"And then you pour the coffee in like this..." he demonstrates mockingly, his blue eyes laughing. "And voila. Coffee."
He steps back and takes a bow, winks.
"Don't listen to him," the owner comes around the corner, her bangles flashing as she slaps him playfully. "He is a tease."
I am awkward and stiff in my starched shirt and sensible shoes, dismissing the characters in front of me with all the self conscious indifference my 17 year old self can indulge. It is my first day, a Friday night 3 weeks into my graduating year and I am torn with the eagerness of impressing my new boss and the house party already in full swing.
"I'm Paul" he says. "Anything you want to know, just let me know." He resembles a blonde Buddy Holly, tall and slim in his tuxedo shirt and vest. Cocky as I am, I am unprepared for his flirtatious banter, his confidence, his smile. He keeps me on edge, clumsy and unsure of my body and my actions.
Not long after that year passes, he will hold my hand on the shores of a frozen lake, pull a blanket over us and tell me he loves me. He will be responsible for my first orgasm and hold my fragile heart in his hands. He will buy me that print that will need to be reframed and reglassed every time I move until finally I decide to leave it hanging in the house in Kentish Town. He will spend hours choosing the perfect dress he gives me for Christmas which will be worn over and over, and then finally to the funeral of a friend in my 19th year. He will make me soup when I am ill, try to teach me to drive standard on his white Volkswagen, brush the hair out of my eyes, trace my name under his on the pier at White Rock with a pen knife (if you look closely, it is still there). He will bake me a chocolate cake on Valentine's Day, hold my hand against his beating heart and show me how to love.
And then one day he will leave me without explanation; and I, unprepared and naive will act with little dignity, with anger, fear and desperation. I will find solace in my friends' laughter, in cheap beer, drunkeness and cigarettes. And then when I am tired of fighting, of sadness, of that bitter self destruction that keeps my blood warm, he will find his way back into my damaged heart. He will stand outside my window one Christmas Eve exchanging his gift for one small kiss. In return I will be careless with my love, handing him piece by piece of myself. I will love him as if I am using up all the love I will ever have, so that I will never be whole again.
And then suddenly he will leave again; it is less than 9 months after walking away when he will call me with the news that he just got married; perhaps it is only irony that his wedding day was my 21st birthday.
Whatever it was, it is a cruel lesson. It takes almost a decade to see past the hurt for what it was, to see the value in all that I gained in it. That what replaces the hurt is something more beautiful, more powerful, stronger and intense. Yet still I carry him in my heart like a cancer.
He makes another appearance in my life, suddenly last week. Seeking legal advice from a family friend, he speaks of me as if we are old friends. He is opening a bakery in White Rock, he explains, smiling.
Perhaps, now, the signs are all there. That it is now time to exorcise old ghosts and let what I have gained rule, and not the loss of my unsullied heart.
He steps back and takes a bow, winks.
"Don't listen to him," the owner comes around the corner, her bangles flashing as she slaps him playfully. "He is a tease."
I am awkward and stiff in my starched shirt and sensible shoes, dismissing the characters in front of me with all the self conscious indifference my 17 year old self can indulge. It is my first day, a Friday night 3 weeks into my graduating year and I am torn with the eagerness of impressing my new boss and the house party already in full swing.
"I'm Paul" he says. "Anything you want to know, just let me know." He resembles a blonde Buddy Holly, tall and slim in his tuxedo shirt and vest. Cocky as I am, I am unprepared for his flirtatious banter, his confidence, his smile. He keeps me on edge, clumsy and unsure of my body and my actions.
Not long after that year passes, he will hold my hand on the shores of a frozen lake, pull a blanket over us and tell me he loves me. He will be responsible for my first orgasm and hold my fragile heart in his hands. He will buy me that print that will need to be reframed and reglassed every time I move until finally I decide to leave it hanging in the house in Kentish Town. He will spend hours choosing the perfect dress he gives me for Christmas which will be worn over and over, and then finally to the funeral of a friend in my 19th year. He will make me soup when I am ill, try to teach me to drive standard on his white Volkswagen, brush the hair out of my eyes, trace my name under his on the pier at White Rock with a pen knife (if you look closely, it is still there). He will bake me a chocolate cake on Valentine's Day, hold my hand against his beating heart and show me how to love.
And then one day he will leave me without explanation; and I, unprepared and naive will act with little dignity, with anger, fear and desperation. I will find solace in my friends' laughter, in cheap beer, drunkeness and cigarettes. And then when I am tired of fighting, of sadness, of that bitter self destruction that keeps my blood warm, he will find his way back into my damaged heart. He will stand outside my window one Christmas Eve exchanging his gift for one small kiss. In return I will be careless with my love, handing him piece by piece of myself. I will love him as if I am using up all the love I will ever have, so that I will never be whole again.
And then suddenly he will leave again; it is less than 9 months after walking away when he will call me with the news that he just got married; perhaps it is only irony that his wedding day was my 21st birthday.
Whatever it was, it is a cruel lesson. It takes almost a decade to see past the hurt for what it was, to see the value in all that I gained in it. That what replaces the hurt is something more beautiful, more powerful, stronger and intense. Yet still I carry him in my heart like a cancer.
He makes another appearance in my life, suddenly last week. Seeking legal advice from a family friend, he speaks of me as if we are old friends. He is opening a bakery in White Rock, he explains, smiling.
Perhaps, now, the signs are all there. That it is now time to exorcise old ghosts and let what I have gained rule, and not the loss of my unsullied heart.
Friday, February 02, 2007
rejection is a dirty ass heartbreaking mo fo
There.
I said it.
Phew.
But the question to ask is, after the 9 millionth interview and subsequent (well... 4th) rejection, should you still try to get a job with that amazing company you want to work for so much it makes your heart tingle? Or should you just give up?
I'm stubborn. And determined. And stubbornly determined to work there.
Rejection is a dirty ass heartbreaking snidey cheating side wheeling snarky pillock mo fo.
I'm going to kick its ass.
I said it.
Phew.
But the question to ask is, after the 9 millionth interview and subsequent (well... 4th) rejection, should you still try to get a job with that amazing company you want to work for so much it makes your heart tingle? Or should you just give up?
I'm stubborn. And determined. And stubbornly determined to work there.
Rejection is a dirty ass heartbreaking snidey cheating side wheeling snarky pillock mo fo.
I'm going to kick its ass.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Life is always better with a soundtrack
My love affair with London was torrid.
I fought and kicked at her, loved her passionately and with glorious abandon, rediscovered her at every turn, fell out of her graces, grew bitter and angry, despised her teeming streets and never ending streaming tourists, threatened to leave and then to stay; felt suffocated and empty and small in her embrace until suddenly, one day wandering Soho's dirty streets with my walkman and a broken heart, feeling that life had somehow forgotten about me that I fell completely madly utterly back in love.
Life is always better with a soundtrack.
On that grey Wednesday afternoon it was Saint Etienne with its neopolitan candy sweet cover that brought London back to me; not too long after The Ex and I had left each other and not too long after I had been told I was losing my job. Somehow, amidst all that, there was joy.
I had forgotten the soundtracks of my youth, dancing to Olivia Newton John and lip synching to ABBA in my mom's old sequinned boob tubes and silver shoes, my brief foray into Motley Crue and Def Lepard, sitting underneath a street lamp listening to RATT on long summer evenings. My graduation to the Sex Pistols, The Dead Kennedys and The Cure watching the boys skate by, even now there is still that nostalgic yearning of those crushes at the sound of a skateboard whizzing past me. Depeche Mode, INXS, U2, The Cult, Joy Division, New Order. All anthems of my teenage heart, cassettes carefully compiled and labelled *Dave* or *Rob* or *Chad* to play alongside adolscent angst; listening to Bob Marley and Cat Stevens in tie dyed t-shirts and quartz crystal necklaces in Amelia's bedroom. A friend handing me Nirvana "Bleach" before the grunge scene exploded. Frustrated with the AM radio in my old 1968 Plymouth struggling to pick up a frequency on the drive to college, I travelled with a small ghetto blaster tucked on the front seat.
Frankie Goes to Hollywood reminding me of nights at the China Beach; Gin Blossoms and Stone Temple Pilots of the hot days of my 19th summer, margaritas on those humid Monday nights and my little red sportscar. Tuesday nights at Luvaffair introduced me to Front 242, Nitzerebb; lured me onto the dance floor with Morrisey and The Beastie Boys. Jamiroquai and the soundtrack to Priscilla playing over and over, lipsticks and misfits marking my days at MAC.
My 20's flew by in shiny UK clubs and hip hop, dance, trance, ska, punk, rock, house. I couldn't keep up, jumped from bar to bar, drank too much and danced it off. Worked PR for clubs and sat up drinking tea and talking tattoos with Boy George and Jon Digweed one crazy January night. Yet nothing ever stayed fluid, there was no consistency, no soothing sounds and I lost interest.
Life is better with a soundtrack.
The Ex was a music aficionado, yet it took Knickers' eclectic collection of old jazz and the boys in Kentish Town's acoustic collections to turn me back on. That glorious summer sunset in Afissos and Manu Chao; Franz Ferdinand, The Killers, The White Stripes playing loudly in the room next to mine, Tom oblivious to the volume. Red wine picnics and Glenn Miller bands in Canary Wharf attempting to jive in the streets, dancing in my room to Goldfrapp (courtesy of Liam and Friday nights at Ghetto) and wearing out the Wild Strawberries when I was sad.
On a trip to Seattle Miss Devylish sent me home with the Pocket DJ, downloaded her collection onto my itunes. I kept my eyes and ears open, went to gigs, flirted (albeit briefly and with disastrous results) with death metal, accepted an invitation to see Bob Dylan, met musicians and tried new clubs and bars. Danced to G Love at the Commodore, pushed past sweaty hip hops kids at the Columbia and braved the snow and cold for the Bloc Party.
Life, you see, is better with a soundtrack.
And today, making my way across town to work, my shiny new red ipod plugged to my ear, Vancouver suddenly looks brighter. Somehow the rain seems more ethereal, less dull and slightly more glorious.
* My colleague just sent me this, and I had to share as it was so fitting. Turn your speakers up, sit back and enjoy.
I fought and kicked at her, loved her passionately and with glorious abandon, rediscovered her at every turn, fell out of her graces, grew bitter and angry, despised her teeming streets and never ending streaming tourists, threatened to leave and then to stay; felt suffocated and empty and small in her embrace until suddenly, one day wandering Soho's dirty streets with my walkman and a broken heart, feeling that life had somehow forgotten about me that I fell completely madly utterly back in love.
Life is always better with a soundtrack.
On that grey Wednesday afternoon it was Saint Etienne with its neopolitan candy sweet cover that brought London back to me; not too long after The Ex and I had left each other and not too long after I had been told I was losing my job. Somehow, amidst all that, there was joy.
I had forgotten the soundtracks of my youth, dancing to Olivia Newton John and lip synching to ABBA in my mom's old sequinned boob tubes and silver shoes, my brief foray into Motley Crue and Def Lepard, sitting underneath a street lamp listening to RATT on long summer evenings. My graduation to the Sex Pistols, The Dead Kennedys and The Cure watching the boys skate by, even now there is still that nostalgic yearning of those crushes at the sound of a skateboard whizzing past me. Depeche Mode, INXS, U2, The Cult, Joy Division, New Order. All anthems of my teenage heart, cassettes carefully compiled and labelled *Dave* or *Rob* or *Chad* to play alongside adolscent angst; listening to Bob Marley and Cat Stevens in tie dyed t-shirts and quartz crystal necklaces in Amelia's bedroom. A friend handing me Nirvana "Bleach" before the grunge scene exploded. Frustrated with the AM radio in my old 1968 Plymouth struggling to pick up a frequency on the drive to college, I travelled with a small ghetto blaster tucked on the front seat.
Frankie Goes to Hollywood reminding me of nights at the China Beach; Gin Blossoms and Stone Temple Pilots of the hot days of my 19th summer, margaritas on those humid Monday nights and my little red sportscar. Tuesday nights at Luvaffair introduced me to Front 242, Nitzerebb; lured me onto the dance floor with Morrisey and The Beastie Boys. Jamiroquai and the soundtrack to Priscilla playing over and over, lipsticks and misfits marking my days at MAC.
My 20's flew by in shiny UK clubs and hip hop, dance, trance, ska, punk, rock, house. I couldn't keep up, jumped from bar to bar, drank too much and danced it off. Worked PR for clubs and sat up drinking tea and talking tattoos with Boy George and Jon Digweed one crazy January night. Yet nothing ever stayed fluid, there was no consistency, no soothing sounds and I lost interest.
Life is better with a soundtrack.
The Ex was a music aficionado, yet it took Knickers' eclectic collection of old jazz and the boys in Kentish Town's acoustic collections to turn me back on. That glorious summer sunset in Afissos and Manu Chao; Franz Ferdinand, The Killers, The White Stripes playing loudly in the room next to mine, Tom oblivious to the volume. Red wine picnics and Glenn Miller bands in Canary Wharf attempting to jive in the streets, dancing in my room to Goldfrapp (courtesy of Liam and Friday nights at Ghetto) and wearing out the Wild Strawberries when I was sad.
On a trip to Seattle Miss Devylish sent me home with the Pocket DJ, downloaded her collection onto my itunes. I kept my eyes and ears open, went to gigs, flirted (albeit briefly and with disastrous results) with death metal, accepted an invitation to see Bob Dylan, met musicians and tried new clubs and bars. Danced to G Love at the Commodore, pushed past sweaty hip hops kids at the Columbia and braved the snow and cold for the Bloc Party.
Life, you see, is better with a soundtrack.
And today, making my way across town to work, my shiny new red ipod plugged to my ear, Vancouver suddenly looks brighter. Somehow the rain seems more ethereal, less dull and slightly more glorious.
* My colleague just sent me this, and I had to share as it was so fitting. Turn your speakers up, sit back and enjoy.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
"You broke my fucking heart."
The words, clumsy and direct, are not spoken eloquently nor accusingly. They are not classy, perhaps not even appropriate.
It is, simply, a statement.
The Aussie PIMOTI stares at me, blankly.
We stand staring at each other in the entrance of the bar. A group of girls pushes past me, laughing and suddenly we are hit with the cold January air.
We are both taken aback at the words.
"I'm sorry."
I don't know if there is anything else he can say, confronted by my red lips and drunkeness.
I don't know how to respond, I am even more surprised at the words as they came out of my mouth. It is not the first time I have seen him since, a few weeks back walking down my street with a hat pulled low over my face I passed him, in July I saw him with his arms around another blonde, his face buried in her neck and presumed he had been playing games all along. Both times I fell out of his line of vision, perhaps I was cowardly, or perhaps I simply did not want to be remembered.
"If it helps," he offers, looking uncomfortable, "I'm still a little fucked up."
Whether it does help, in that moment or later when I wake up, it doesn't matter. Not really. It was just another bad decision made worse by vodka, by desperation, by loneliness.
I am bi-polar when it comes to relationships, I am either blind, flying in with my heart stretched out in both hands, pleading for it to be taken, to be loved and nurtured, wanting to be consumed with passion and promise. Or I am cold and distant, indifferent and guarded, not allowing my lover so much as a glimpse of this iron heart, holding him away from me and scoffing at love's triumphs.
Last year, I was blind, offering my heart up for so little in return that I came to believe I was no longer desired, nor capable of love. And the men, in whose arms I wanted so desperately wanted to stay, so superficially safe, simply walked away.
The next morning dawns bright, and in hungover technicolour.
There are holes in my memory, my mouth is dry and the room still spins. Some time the night before, vodka and I had fallen out and I am left with the evidence of several late night phonecalls, an empty purse and the start of a hangover that will take 2 days to get over.
And maybe it is the last time I allow myself to make poor decisions after too much alcohol, make decisions based on desperation or loneliness. I am selfish enough to know that my happiness does not lay in anyone's hands but my own, to know that my happiness cannot be bought, or drunk, or found in myths or fairytales.
My happiness does not come from anyone other than inside myself.
Perhaps, finally, it is time I started living like it.
The words, clumsy and direct, are not spoken eloquently nor accusingly. They are not classy, perhaps not even appropriate.
It is, simply, a statement.
The Aussie PIMOTI stares at me, blankly.
We stand staring at each other in the entrance of the bar. A group of girls pushes past me, laughing and suddenly we are hit with the cold January air.
We are both taken aback at the words.
"I'm sorry."
I don't know if there is anything else he can say, confronted by my red lips and drunkeness.
I don't know how to respond, I am even more surprised at the words as they came out of my mouth. It is not the first time I have seen him since, a few weeks back walking down my street with a hat pulled low over my face I passed him, in July I saw him with his arms around another blonde, his face buried in her neck and presumed he had been playing games all along. Both times I fell out of his line of vision, perhaps I was cowardly, or perhaps I simply did not want to be remembered.
"If it helps," he offers, looking uncomfortable, "I'm still a little fucked up."
Whether it does help, in that moment or later when I wake up, it doesn't matter. Not really. It was just another bad decision made worse by vodka, by desperation, by loneliness.
I am bi-polar when it comes to relationships, I am either blind, flying in with my heart stretched out in both hands, pleading for it to be taken, to be loved and nurtured, wanting to be consumed with passion and promise. Or I am cold and distant, indifferent and guarded, not allowing my lover so much as a glimpse of this iron heart, holding him away from me and scoffing at love's triumphs.
Last year, I was blind, offering my heart up for so little in return that I came to believe I was no longer desired, nor capable of love. And the men, in whose arms I wanted so desperately wanted to stay, so superficially safe, simply walked away.
The next morning dawns bright, and in hungover technicolour.
There are holes in my memory, my mouth is dry and the room still spins. Some time the night before, vodka and I had fallen out and I am left with the evidence of several late night phonecalls, an empty purse and the start of a hangover that will take 2 days to get over.
And maybe it is the last time I allow myself to make poor decisions after too much alcohol, make decisions based on desperation or loneliness. I am selfish enough to know that my happiness does not lay in anyone's hands but my own, to know that my happiness cannot be bought, or drunk, or found in myths or fairytales.
My happiness does not come from anyone other than inside myself.
Perhaps, finally, it is time I started living like it.
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