January

I am mourning a loss.

The only problem is that I'm not sure exactly what it is that I've lost. Youth? Time? You?

On this planet in space, are we hurtling or drifting? Can we simultaneously hurtle and drift? (But, oh, let's not think too deeply about our place in the universe, not alone in the middle of the night in the dead of winter with the weight of imminent decay threatening to crush us like a gnat under my thumb.)

With all those organs crammed in there, all that bone, all that blood, how can there be such an emptiness? It's like looking at someone across the pillow and having them seem a million miles away.

I want to sleep like a cat, curled up into myself.

I want to force the moment to its climax. (I want to eat a peach.)

But instead I will watch the dull orange glow of the dying light bulb above my head fade, and mourn my shadowy loss.

 








    

Fuck the status quo.

While lying in bed tonight, I was thinking about traditions (and also styles of baseboard, but that isn't particularly relevant to the issue at hand), and I came to the conclusion that just because something is always done doesn't mean that it is wise, or useful, or good.

Take the big three: Christmas, Easter, and Valentine's Day, and then throw in weddings for good measure. People feel enormous amounts of pressure and spend enormous amounts of money for no reason other than the fact that there are certain things that are done (and therefore expected) on these days. The exchange of one $25 gift card for another, the flora struck down in its prime, the bland chicken dinners in return for the buying of toasters: none of these things make any sense to me, so I choose not to participate, or at least to participate as little as possible.

As a topical aside, a certain amount of Christmas gift giving is unavoidable when one's family members love the holiday. I do send cards, which is wildly hypocritical of me, I know. This year I refrained from digging the Christmas cone (my sparkly silver conical version of a tree) out from under the stairs, although I did place the Santa Grinch (a green-faced cloth Santa figurine that my mother gave me one year, which I love for his oddness) on display. But that is as much Christmas tradition as I will concede.

I think people should never do anything if the only reason for the behaviour is that they feel socially obligated to. There is too much passive acquiescence and not enough thoughtful rebellion in this world.

Cut down a tree and throw some shiny stuff on it in March if you like the look of pine trees covered in shiny stuff so much--people will probably think you've gone mental. Go mental, I say! Don't put up a tree at Christmas. (Hell, don't even put out the Christmas cone!)

Throw a party to celebrate summer because people don't get outside enough and the warm weather only lasts for so long.

Hang out with someone instead of buying them something (time is so much more valuable than things), but if you see something you know someone you care about will really like or could really use, buy it for them, just because it's Tuesday.

Don't get married--marriage was only useful when fathers needed to pass their daughter-objects on to another man and men needed to ensure a legitimate heir in order to maintain their property.

Splurge on some really good chocolate in a month other than February, April, or December.

Tell the people you love that you love them because you want to, not because you feel you have to.

Do what feels right for you (unless what feels right includes pedophilia or murder) and don't worry about what society will think of you. The less you care, the less powerful society becomes, and the more powerful YOU become in turn.

To sum up, because it is after 4 a.m. and my eyes are heavy and my brain is winding down, I urge you all to go bravely forward into this black wintry night, and fuck the status quo whenever you can, because it needs a good hard fucking, don't you agree?  


   

Organized religion is the goddamn worst.

I do not come from a religious background. My spiritual leanings lie decidedly in the agnostic camp. I think reincarnation is a nice idea, but find the goal of enlightenment incomprehensible, because what happens once we've self-actualized and the cycle ends? Does our consciousness just dissolve into the universe like Jello powder into boiling water? I also find it pretty unlikely that anything like your anthropomorphized god exists, and, if on the off chance some sort of grand creator actually is responsible for the existence of the universe, I am also fairly certain that it doesn't concern itself with the thoughts and actions of such lowly creatures as human beings on this insignificant hunk of rock spinning lazily in space.

I do, however, believe that we do not know all there is to know about the world and our reason for being, and that one day it might be possible to scientifically prove the existence of the soul. I can't help but believe that I have one, that this particular spark (to crib a metaphor from every philosopher ever) belongs to me and me alone, and that my particular particles somehow make me a part of something bigger. (A really intricate Jello mold?)  

Yesterday I had the distinctly tragic experience of attending a Catholic funeral in all its pomp and glory. (As an aside, the circumstances of the death still have me reeling, and if I think about it for too long - like, oh, say, two seconds - I get really, really angry and really, really sad. The hypocrisy of the Catholic church infuriates me, but that is a blog for another time, a time when the wound is not as fresh and I can express my thoughts without becoming overwhelmed by emotion.)

Revulsion for the Catholic church aside, I found the experience to be rather interesting from an anthropological point of view. All the sitting and standing and singing reminded me of kindergarten. There are colourful pictures to look at on the walls, and you get snacks if you are a good child of God. (Are the believers filled with the joy of the holy spirit when they consume the "blood" and "body" of old J.C., or do they simply enjoy the tasty little treat as they (humbly) sashay their way down the post-eucharist runway?) There is comfort in the repetition of the rituals and the words, the way small children ask to be told the same stories over and over again, and comfort in the priest's soothing voice, lulling the children to sleep, pacifying their grief, smoothing over their indignation and their fear.  

I rather enjoyed the heady perfume of the incense the priest used as a symbolic way of consecrating the air, the bible, the corpse in the casket in front of us, despite being pretty sure that incense was the medieval way to offset the stink of the unwashed masses before the advent of aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrate and Colgate, and therefore also feeling sort of insulted. I also enjoyed the acoustics and the choir of school children, although I think the hymns need an update and the hymn writers could probably use a rhyming dictionary and maybe a refresher course in melody. (Man, do those things drag.)

What goes through the minds of the faithful when they are asked to pray? Do they really give serious consideration to Christ and the promise of everlasting life, or do they remember to add fabric softener to the grocery list? And what's up with that inane practice of shaking your neighbour's hand? (I refused on lack of religious principle, although I felt like sort of a dick afterwards. I will respectfully sit and stand and sit and stand and sit and stand again, because I am in your house of worship and people I love are grief-stricken and shattered, but I will not otherwise participate in your cultish bleating and blind obeisance.)

Catholicism seems to me to be full of archaic customs and oversimplified sentiments that speak to that childish part of ourselves, that part that is afraid of the world and wants to be comforted and protected and assured that there are no monsters under the bed, if only we believe hard enough.

As much as I would like to believe otherwise, life in all probability is a complete accident, and therefore irrelevant except to those around us whose lives we impact because we all share in this extraordinary happenstance. So hide your head beneath the covers if you must, tuck those feet in and turn on the nightlight, bow your head in humility and recite the Lord's Prayer and beg to be forgiven for sins that mankind, not God, has created to keep you in line. 

But know that I think you are a moron and a coward with no trust in your own ability to behave with decency and respect to the people with whom you share this earthly world. Think of how much blood has been spilled and how much wealth has been spent glorifying gods throughout the ages when the Golden Rule is the only principle anyone really needs. Organized religion is the goddamn worst.   

Sad

I wish that all the people who were sad, all the people who had bad things happen to them that were out of their control, or all the people who just felt sad because of goofy chemical imbalances in their brains, and felt overwhelmed and ashamed of their sadness, understood, even through their sadness, that there were still people who loved them even though they were sad, people who would listen to them and not judge them and try to help them be a little less sad.

Because when sad people become so hopeless that they take their own lives to stop the sadness, the world becomes a sadder place, and the world is sad enough already.

So it is our duty as human beings sharing this planet with other human beings to try to make it a little less sad whenever we can. Tell the people you love that you love them, even when it's hard. Don't hold grudges, because years will go by and you'll eventually realize how much you miss that person. Help those in need whenever possible, through money or time or emotional support or whatever you have to give. Forgive people their trespasses, because they're just slogging through the best way they can. And be kind to each other, because life is not always kind. Thanks.

All the world's a stage

Life is a creative act. It's a piece of performance art that we create with the people around us, saying things, doing things, responding (or not responding) to their responses. The unpredictability of the other players means that even the most mapped out of moments, the most carefully crafted of events, ends up being largely improvised based on our thoughts and emotions and words and actions, and on the thoughts and emotions and words and actions of others, which are the mixed media we use to create this art, to varying degrees of effectiveness.

Setting plays a big role, of course. The time of day or night, the season, the geographic location, the confines of a room or the expanse of the wild: all these factors dictate meaning and mood. Lighting, too, is important for the overall effect, as are the objects around us that we use as props, the cigarette lighters and bottles of beer, the books and cars and cell phones and packs of gum.

A piece that would otherwise be poignant and personal when performed for a single audience member plays differently in front of a large crowd.

Moments of regret are artistic failures. Those times you try to connect with your audience and everything falls flat. Sometimes the plot is convoluted and unclear. Sometimes the dialogue, despite your best intentions, is overwrought and clichéd. Sometimes the character you're playing doesn't suit you (blame it on bad casting). Sometimes you walk your way through the lines others have scripted for you (it's never convincing). And sometimes you find yourself at the mercy of someone else's directorial choices, wondering why on earth you accepted this role, and trying to find a way out of the contract you've agreed to by the mere act of existing in a world where we are all simultaneously the protagonists and each other's bit parts.

There are, however, also moments of uncategorical success. Those pieces that come together, either effortlessly or painstakingly (or a paradoxical combination of both), in a pure, perfect moment of brilliance, when the setting and the lighting and the props and all your thoughts and emotions and words and actions coincide so harmoniously with the thoughts and emotions and words and actions of the other members of your company that you look at each other, and you look out at the audience, and you all know with no uncertainty that this will be remembered for years to come.

And that is why we continue to wake up every day from those plays we create for ourselves alone (that are ultimately of no interest to anyone else), the dreams we dream at night that subconsciously colour our performances that day. Life is practice, and sometimes it is dull, marred by rote line readings and generic role playing. But sometimes it is unexpectedly beautiful and brilliant.

Ah well, and riot on.
   

That's life (in 1988)!

The following bit of writing appeared on page 75 of my Grade 10 English class personal journal. It was handwritten in a large cursive script in black pen. A lot of ink was wasted in this adolescent journal pining and being petty and insecure about things that time has, thankfully, largely erased from my memory, but I'm glad I dedicated at least a couple of pages to recording some positive moments from that awkward and uncharitable period of my life. Being a teenager is mostly the goddamn worst, but it can also be, even if only for the briefest of moments, the best. (If you were stumbling along with me in 1988, thank you. It's cool to see how far we've come. And thank fuck we don't have to do it again.)

As an aside, my fifteen-year-old self had already discovered what was to become my governing life philosophy by ending a fair number of entries with the phrase "C'est la vie!", the slightly more exotic version of the title of this blog. A lot of observations in this journal made me cringe, but that recognition made me smile.



This is my last gifted year. I’m really sad about it. We had such good times together. I can’t think of very many bad times. Here’s a trip down memory lane...

My fainting in English/History class in grade 9, 60th anniversary. God, remember that? My dress and the 50’s room which was the cool hangout. Cheap pop, too!

And our walk through the streets on Friday evening. Holding Jason and Markus’s hands. And Jason lent me his sweater because I was cold.

Math class with Mrs. Fowler. She’s a great teacher, if a little strict.

Grade 10, my birthday present. An overhead which I still have, and a truffle shaped in an Egyptian’s head. The truffle was in about a hundred boxes. It was so sweet. Ryan gave it to me.

Ryan’s “babysitting.” God was I upset!

The trip to the zoo when Ryan gave me my monkey that he so sweetly stole for me.

Going to ROM. God was that ever great!

“Yourgus, Argle L.” instead of “Yourgle, Argus L.”

Our plays. When Norwood screwed up the lights and Jason M. and I were supposed to kiss. And Tazy forgot her violin and messed up our action scene.

Shuman singing the theme from “Mr. Rogers neighbourhood.”

Jeremy’s “Stroker” game.

Win Lose or Draw in Mr. Moir’s geography room.

Mike McRoberts and my 9-er friends.

Dancing close with Ryan.

Hugging everyone good-bye on Christmas.

Passing notes in biology.

Greg Oh snapping my bra straps.

Canada’s Wonderland.

Becoming Vicki’s best friend.

Tuesday morning at the Movies.

Going out with Markus.

Jason Menard asking me out.

Norwood writing me a poem.

Seeing the dead tree.


I love these people!!!

A Pretty Lengthy Essay on Halloween Costumes

The Halloween of my childhood was a simpler time. As a trick-or-treater in the 1970s, you were a ghost or a witch or a superhero in Underoos and homemade cape. You carried an old pillowcase and sometimes an orange Unicef box, and, sure, your mom always threw away the apples due to the potential razor threat, but otherwise you gorged yourself sick on suckers and Tootsie rolls and caramels. There were no bite-sized chocolate bars or tiny bags of chips, and some people actually did hand out apples. Costumes were a secondary consideration, a means to an end: namely, the accumulation of candy.

Dressing up, playing pretend, was something we did every day as children, so Halloween was really not that different from any other day, pillowcases full of candy notwithstanding. In my imagination, I was Lucy shivering in the cold after exiting the wardrobe for the first time, I was Pippi climbing a tree and breaking all the rules a good girl usually followed. Other days I was Nancy solving a mystery, or a Jedi knight using the force, or Spiderman swinging from skyscraper to skyscraper on a silken web that I shot out of my wrist. I was all the things I would never be in real life. 

As adults, we no longer get to play pretend, or when we do, it is deemed somehow subversive (furries and drag queens and sexual role playing, for example). But for one night a year, the venerated All Hallow's Eve, we are allowed to indulge our fantasies and it is considered, in this era of ever-increasing restrictions and considerations, socially acceptable to take on the identity of something you are not. 

I am something of a Halloween purist, in the sense that I believe Halloween costumes should be scary, should be worn to ward off the dead spirits that break their supernatural bonds and walk the night, shambling, slinking, stalking, seeking their earthly prey. I do, however, understand the desire to cast aside the identities we are shackled to in our daily existence and become something greater, something dangerous or wild or provocative, something other.

There is something attractive about otherness, but there is also something inherently dangerous about it. The biological strategy of making generalizations developed as a way of helping us determine our safety (little cat-mostly safe, really big cat-dangerous). This biological tendency to differentiate and categorize works mostly to protect us. Historically it was important that I recognize someone's otherness because if he wasn't related to me, maybe he was going to beat me up and kill my offspring and steal my food. We were all just fighting to survive. 

We no longer need this sort of protection in today's global and "civilized" society, of course, but there it is, hardwired into our DNA. Perhaps the prevalence of costumes that perpetuate cultural stereotypes is not so much a reflection of an individual's inherent racism as it is the desire to become, for one night, something completely foreign, to adopt the identity of an other in order to face our fear of it. We cannot truly understand what it feels like to be in another person's skin, of course, any more than I could have shot those silken strands out of my wrists and swung through the night sky. But I'm not sure that the desire is as malicious or ignorant as some suggest.

This desire also explains the preponderance of so-called "slutty" costumes. (This works both gender ways: men aren't generally encouraged to walk around in loincloths, but Tarzan remains a popular costume.) Who among us does not want to feel sexy and desired? But how many of us are allowed to explore that aspect of our human animal in public? Undergarments should be hidden and our sexual urges should be restrained, or at least relegated to the bedroom, preferably with one monogamous partner. The French maid, the sexy nurse: there is nothing sexy about dusting or changing bedpans. The sexy comes in the subservience. Halloween gives us the opportunity to appear (and possibly behave) in a sexual manner that is typically frowned upon in public settings.    

At its historical base, Halloween is about faking an identity to trick the ghouls who want to steal our souls and drag us with them into the underworld. As adults, the concept of mortality becomes less than abstract, so this taking on of new identities, of playing pretend, becomes an important annual escape from the scary things in life: the darkness of the other, the darkness of sex, the darkness of death. 

Obviously, not every costume needs to be fraught with deeper meaning. Some costumes are crafty or witty or topical or cute. Halloween is also an escape from the solemnity of life. It is an inversion of the natural order of things. It is a time when entry-level retail workers can become dominatrixes, when boys can become girls and girls can become boys, when middle-aged men and women can become superheroes and middle-class girls (and boys) can become princesses. 

Happy Halloween!