FOR THE BEST

So many memories today. It started out with waking up from a dream that featured a girl I knew in high school. She was involved in witnessing someone pull a gun and later shoot someone. The setting was a former cold war Nova Scotia bomb bunker turned community college building I attended years after I knew her. Also, interlaced with the dream was a theme of me loosing "expensive" (to me that is) jewelry. This theme came out of recent times when I waxed poetic about a lost pendant that later turned out to be hiding under the sofa I was waxing on.

Over the radio that squawking was about the 60th Anniversary of WW2 ending. I remember where I was when the radio was blathering on about the 50th Anniversary of WW2 ending. I was in the midst of my own war. I'd recently run away from home without any money. I was taken in by a suspect, ogling, old gay priest with HIV who ran around in leopard print underwear. I'm sure I'm one of the few people who still remembers him or thinks about him. Unfortunately for me! The house I stayed in with him was later torn down to make an overpass to the bridge over the harbour between Halifax and Dartmouth Nova Scotia. Despite all these struggles all my mother could think to do was scold me about not putting more importance in the WW2 anniversary when she phoned me that Sunday 10 years ago. (People say I have a good memory Define good I say!)

Later in the day, on a drive out around town I spotted a tiny camping trailer. (Picture a large egg turned on its side with wheels.) My family had taken a trip to PEI in one of these little cans probably pushing 20 years ago. I remember my father snoring and the oppressive heat generated by 4 people being in the tiny fiber glassed egg of a trailer. I remember episodes of excitement such as spotting a great blue heron. Then there was sneaking into the shower room to see if any nude men and their "great blue herons" could be spotted. And finally a bunch some campers offering us all of their condiments, ketchup, relish and all, since they were leaving the camp ground. My parents refused the condiments citing, "Who knows where they've been!" My brother and I were left to wonder where the condiments could have been!- besides the cooler.

On the drive I completed a long desired goal of finding the two little houses I almost bought in 2002. Bedraggled, far from down town, one with slum on either side the other an in descript piece of a generic row house complex. At the time it seemed like a big loss not to have bought these houses. As I drove back downtown I couldn't have been happier with the way these residential matters had gone. I tried to apply this lesson to the broader context of my life. I had a bit of success. Basically, while not everything that happened to me over the years has been the best, and I would have chosen less torturous methods to get to the good stuff in life if I could have, at least the troubles and events have brought about a life that is for the best. I found myself in a moment of contentedness for the way things are. Rare for me, especially on a Sunday evening.

DRAMATIC EPISODES

As I mentioned before, "Law and Order" loves to do episodes on transsexuals. This past week the show was at it again. Just like a recent, "Cold Squad" episode the father found out about the son liking a ts girl. Then the son and father went ballistic. I've been through something similar to this type of pain and degradation. I'm thankful I figured out when it was time to walk away. In this episode, the father and son went and killed the girl. Two more people that could have been happy but ended up miserable and dead because of bigotry and people not owning their shit.

Another of my favourite shows, "Third Watch" ended this week. Call it pathetic -but only if you forget to walk a mile in my shoes first- but these characters used to keep me company in the late 90's and early 00's.

The show ending reminded me of another show ending. "Melrose Place" was a real favourite of mine. The day it ended I was sitting in a motel room on the edge of Nova Scotia about to shove off on a ferry boat for the USA to work as tourism worker at the dock of Bar Harbor, Maine. It didn't know what I was getting into. I should tell that story sometime.

My Past Sat Next To Me
Old churches. I've been in an old church tonight. To see a choral concert. I have now been to four of these concerts. Two Christmas and two Spring. I feel so appreciative to be there. To watch someone I love sing.

Each concert seems to mark time. Each stands out. Like it records in my mind an official record of what was going on in my life around the time of the concert. For example, the first Christmas concert was a time when I had just gotten out of the hospital. I didn't know if I was living or dying, laughing or crying. I was basically doing all of it. Starting a new life. With all of the luggage and themes from the old life in tow. Trying to understand the motivations for making new starts even after they've been made. Trying to reconcile and make peace with my expectations new starts that were shattered and didn't come to pass. Lost. Found. Soul deep in love. It was a dramatic, magical and never to be repeated time.

But the church looks the same. And it will look the same 50 years after I'm gone. I think of all the souls that have passed through the doors. What was on their minds? Where did they go in their lives? Are they sitting beside me in the pews, invisible?" Old churches magnify the passage of time to the point that I feel anxious. But at least the magnifying reminds me again that time is precious. To make as many beautiful memories as possible. We will all join the invisible church goers in the pews soon enough. And we want to have some memories to trade with them when we arrive.

Montreal's Beauty Is Its People - If You Know Where to Look

Lots of hurrying. Heavy pack backs full of CDs. Getting directions from people who sent me in the completely wrong direction (Dorchester St. is south of St. Catherine's St. not north!), subways, gocking and rain. What could it be? why another trip to Montreal.

I was back in Montreal to promote my CDs at a cool pride conference. I found the people there to be really friendly and receptive. I usually go to these venues feeling like noone cares and it is all going to turn out to be a huge discouragement. But one person at a time I was reminded not to think negative.

I was so inspired to sit amoungst people with such great courage and self respect. We are all on journey's. Some of us are not in the prettiest places right now. But every dark place gets a little brighter sitting with some new friends. Montreal I'll be back!

Crushes

Crushes for me have led to either:

1. a long enduring pounding red scar of a heart ache or
2. a tender love affiar set against a sun drenched beach.

Extremes.

I'm afraid of crushes. But since fears are just challenges to face something in disguise I'm exploring where crushes can reside along the continuum between these extremes.
I used to be a true romantic in search of a soul mate. These days I'm more emotionally pragmatic. sleep with whoever you want baby! I'm not going to cry about it. (Though I may bite the bed sheets at midnight and rake my fingers down the tiles in the shower. But you'll never see me do it so it doesn't count.")

What does this mean??? It means that I try damn hard to avoid getting crushes on people, fail dismally and proceed to try to repress my feelings by channeling them into Glam Rock and poetry. I sincerely believe that the poems and songs are subtle and obscure. when in fact, they read like honking declarations of my affections to the people who inspired the words. I'm a very "confessional writer". And confessions often egg themselves on.

KD Lang and the Halleluiah Chorus

KD Lang came onto the Canadian country music screen back in circa. 1987. she came to a small rural town near our home to play the county festival. She got up on stage, a flatbed of an 18 wheeler in the middle of a baseball field, in her trade mark stomping boots, leg warmers and cow embroidered big shirts. My mother took me to the show. I remember my reserved church going mother pushing her way to the front to see this great singer. I covered my little ears from the throbbing pain of the huge outdoor speakers. It was possibly my first experience with Canadian Rock and Roll.

Later, after KD Lang came out as a lesbian my family was in a car winding through some tree lined pot hole riddled, 2 lane artery through the middle of the province listening to my father's Stompin Tom Conners tape. He had a song called "KD Lang the Rany Tang Lady". My parents would play the entire tape until it came to that song. Then they would flip the tape. Refusing to listen to the KD Lang song. Against her for being a lesbian. I remeber feeling like I was sinking into the back of the car seat like it was quik sand. I felt so venerable, scared and alone. Because I knew there was some special quality I shared with KD. I didn't know what it was- and maybe I still don't - but felt a strong connection with her.

Years past, and KD faded into obscurity. basically turned out by country music radio and Canadian popular radio as well. For being one of the "freaks of the music business" that I so miss and long for.

Then, out of nowhere she returned. Through the jealous eyes and steely determination I watch all music awards shows with, I was watching the 2005 Canadian Juno Awards. It was announced KD would sing.

She came out on stage wearing a long, long black dress that was more of an angel's robe. And bare feet. Much older. I hadn't seen her in years. She started to sing. The audience wasn't sure whether it wanted any of her. I could feel the tension. She kept on. What unfolded was nothing short of one of the best, and most historical moments in Canadian music and television. KD began to unravel the most stirring, redition of Bruce Cockburn's song "Halleluiah". She seemed to say "This is me. I have nothing to hide. I have all to give."

I just sat there and wept. I heard myself saying, "I hope anyone who ever did you wrong sees you tonight KD. And everyone who's different that you ever inspired. " Sees her like I saw her- in her most glorious, unassuming, together moment. I cried for myself. She's sort of a battle scar personified for a lot of Canadian freaks who watched her blaze a trail and then have her career torched by bigotry. But she rose again. So eloquently. So wise. So forgiving. "You're much much too kind", she said. Everyone knew they didn't deserve her. I was inspired to keep trying to follow her example to make music on her terms. I think it's only by being your true self that you can ever hope to truly touch another person. KD Lang is proof of that for me. Thank you KD.

Carried Away By The Tide

I started swimming again this year. I go to a new pool with sauna and hot tub. There were some kids in the pool. They were using some brightly coloured foam as a raft. It got me thinking. When I was a kid my brother and I had rafts too. But they weren't foam and they weren't in swimming pools. We swam in a cove flanked by sandstone cliffs. In a basin of the Atlantic ocean. Where the green waves and swift current would carry a person out to sea when the tide changed to go out again, taking km after km of 8 meter deep water away within 4 hours.

My mother would use the huge sand stone walls as points to swim between. She'd say, "I'm going to swim to the other side." Then she'd proceed to let out an "EEEEWWW" as she pushed into the cold water and did the butterfly stroke across to the other side.

Once we found a raft that had been carried in on the tide. It was made out the base of a bin of apples. Not the apple bin itself. But a big base that bins sit on in the orchards. It was made of thick and roughly sawed wood. Inside someone had shoved an assortment of buoys.
We were tough kids. We would shinny on and off of that raft sratching and chaffing our stomachs on the wood. Turning blue in the lips and fingers from the cold sea water that engulfed our bodies. The raft vanished one night just as mysteriously as it had appeared. Despite us having done out best to tie it down. A metaphor for people in our lives it now seems.

The huge sandstone cliffs have now eroded away. My mother no longer swims in the cove. Nothing and noone lasts forever. One learns that living close to the sea. Though sometimes it takes leaving the sea and coming 1650 kms inland to really learn the lesson.

Elevator To Perspective

I was having a bad day. There was a lot of drudgery. I was almost home. An old man got into the elevator with a large, fluffy pure white cat. He was a real wheezing simpleton. He said, "Look at my friend." I said, "Oh isn't she pretty where did you get her?" "My wife got her." But now my wife is dead. And I'm stuck with the cat.", he wheezed. contrary to what he said, you could tell he was clinging to the cat for dear life. The elevator door closed and they were gone. I moaned. What a sad story. Why does this stuff happen to me?! A reminder I suppose. I tried to have a better day.

Give Yourself Another Chance - And Another...

Prime Time tv was at it again this week. Another "girl who’s a guy", as they called it, story played out on a detective show called "Cold Case." The plot involved some investigators discovering in 2005 that a girl who disappeared in 1979 was actually a ts. She and her high school student boyfriend had found love in each other despite the odds working against them. Odds in the form of overt societal back lash, not to mention the negative self talk they both had to overcome as a result of years of being mentally hard wired with the prejudices our society.

Unfortunately not everyone around them was nearly as progressive. The boy’s father followed him to the girl’s apartment where he punched the son for dating her and dragged him out of the apartment after forcing him to insult the girl by calling her "him". It was raunchy. By the time the boy got rid of the father, came to his senses, and ran back to his girlfriend’s house ( maybe 3 hours later) he was just in time to hear her blow her head off with a gun. Then in one final act of tsphobia the young guy buries her body on his own so that noone will know he’s been dating a ts.

So many emotions and questions were stirred in me by this story. Obviously fiction. But how many actual stories are there of this type of love affair? I know of at least 3 real life cases. Some have ended just as dramatically. Another still endures. So I can’t cynically conclude these two lovers would have split up two weeks later even without the father’s bigoted interference. As the boy said 26 years later as he was questioned by the investigators, "You only get one chance to find the one".

This touching sentiment even peeked through a crack in my own emotional armour to suggest that a young guy could love a girl in this situation. As opposed to not loving her because she was in this situation. Or only loving her because she was in this situation (treating her like some sort of punching bag for his fetish). But actually loving her. For her. "Seeing her" as he put it.
As for her actions, she killed herself. (Even that statement is an over simplification. Yes she pulled the trigger. But she was also driven to it by being treated like a leper by everyone she loved and left alone like an outcast. With no hope of any better. And the hopelessness is the kicker.) She didn’t stick it out even until the next morning. To call a friend. Refocus her life. Have a time-out or cooling off period. I’m not judging her. I’ve known this kind of despair. Obviously there was more wrong with this girl’s life than her highschool boyfriend running out on her on prom night. This girl was without family, social support, had just lost the one bright spot she had and was likely all hopped up on the emotionally dizzying effects of hormones. It’s a hell of a loaded gun. But I did call a friend who drove me to another friend’s house so I wasn’t alone in the crisis.

Admittedly, this script was specially crafted to exact maximum emotional collateral damage on the viewer. But beyond the "worst case scenario" hype there are two reminders in this story.

1. Love can exist despite the odds. Rather than dismiss this statement as cliche or trite, this story reminded me consider the statement as more of a plausible long shot. Which is an upgrade from viewing the concept of love as a total fantasy.

2. When the worst does happen a person is advised to seek out friends, support and if nothing or noone else is available at the time to go to bed for the night (things always look better in the morning even if those 1st few moments of regaining consciousness and feeling the pain are harsh enough to make a person bite the bed sheets), go for a walk, go out to dinner or even go to a hospital or crisis centre.

The old saying is " Those who give up never know how close they were to succeeding." It hasn’t been easy. It’s been rock on flesh rough. But I’ve had some reinforcement in the form of positive events coming to pass that suggest to me that by sticking out the rough moments, days and even years, a person can find experiences and moments of real living that are a solace from the despair and the periods of sheer surviving.

So keep working away at that little knot hole of opportunity with progressively larger wooden pegs. Many splinters later it is possible to make the knot hole big enough to crawl through one’s troubles and emerge onto a grassy knoll shining in the sun. New days and new chances await. I’m having a particularly "weak moment day" today. But the tv show - of all things- reminded me to be grateful that I’m still here. And that I’ve got the courage to try and turn disappointments into motivation to look for the next opportunity.

Walking along this morning I saw a poster for a charity that said, "Invest in Hope." In true, "the universe as a language" form this poster was speaking to me with a message that went beyond the meaning intended by the poster makers to touch my own personal reality. Life is a series of little and big "starting overs". So Invest in hope I will. Because it’s a good start.

When We Were Kids

The Pope. He was a figurehead all Generation Xrs and Yers grew up with. Two of the people I treasure most remember the Pope. One grew up in Ottawa/ Hull and the other in Toronto. Both have memories from like 1984 when the Pope visited both cities in his Pope bubble mobile. Both of these kids got to see this spectacle. Who knew, not themselves, nor the Pope that they would eventually meet each other and meet me. We are all linked together in the most preciously invisible little ways. Collective childhood memories being just one of them.

I often wonder if we'd met our best friends when we were 5 yrs old or 20 years old if we would have been friends with them or whether we would have overlooked or even rejected them and they the same to us. As much as I missed certain people before I ever knew them, I can see now why I didn't know them all these years. Timing. I'm in awe of timing.

TAKE THE GOOD AND LEAVE THE BAD

I put in my notice that I was ending the lease of my apartment. It was a hard decision. I was there 2.5 years. It's the only place I've ever lived in Ontario. When I found this place it was a God sent. I'd moved 1/2 way across the country, got myself stuck living in a rat hole with blackened carpet, the smell of bleach in the hall and a big prostitute who waited for her rides outside my first floor windows. I didn't know the city. I biked through the rain looking at places. I can still remember the rain soaking all over me and the ink of the apartment listing running right off the page in a smug of pink and purple ink that looked like a rag a clown had just wiped his face with.

Then I lucked into this place. My first and last real luck in a long time. It's not the "ritz". It's an old apartment building from the 60's with putrid pink plaster walls in the corridors garbage shoots that stink up every summer and a huge photo of New York City's "Twin Towers" still hanging in the lobby. But it was home. Way up in the sky. The way I like it. So I can sit in the window and look all around. It's a shoe sized little loft. Bursting with memories. My mind, body and outlook on life have all changed more than a cloud changes its shape as it makes its way across the sky. I've talked to two of the people I will love all my life for the last time over the phone in this apartment. Though I didn't know it was the last time when it happened. We never do.

I had my first real kisses of the decade in here. The best of my life really. Wrote songs in here that I think could live beyond whatever years I've got left on this spinning orb of dirt and ocean. Laughed in here, cried in here, almost even died in here. I've known real love and real anguish here. Real solidarity and real abandonment.

This apartment is apartment #7 for me. And like all of its predecessors, it really is a time capsule for me. I've rearranged the furniture many times. There's a computer desk where the sofa he kissed me on used to be. -

The sofa is a story all to itself. I'd had it since 1995. Its thin cushions were covered in a coarse weave fabric all most like rope in a dizzying shape that was neither gray, nor purple. It opened into a hid a bed. I slept on the hida bed from 1995 to 1998 in a couple of 1 room student dwellings. One of these student dweelings was one of Halifax's only highrises. It looked out over Halifax harbour. The fog would roll in so thick it was like the windows had become another white wall. I slept on the sofa so long, the mattress eventually sagged into a curve But in 2004 I even though that out. I find I'm really transcending my reputation for being someone who "holds onto things", be they items or toxic people or whatever has past its place of positivity in my life, for too long.

I know that it is time. I've outgrown this home. I've been though so may rights of passage since I first turned the key that in a way it is holding me in a time warp of an era that no longer exists.

But the memories are forever etched in my memory. I'm choosing to "Take the good and leave the bad", as my pal Tracy says. In terms of memories I suppose I take this apartment with me. This revelation eases my angst about leaving. It's not this box that holds the memories, it is my head. And more memories are awaiting me to make them.

MY TIME TO BE FREE

The more I go on ther more I realize that I don't seek to own anything. To acquire and possess inanimate objects. People have been doing it for ages. The Romans and their empires. Knight's conquering castles. Pioneers racing across the new world to stake a claim to a slap of land. Cars. I Pods. Big screen tvs. Shiny new fridges from the Brick. Right down to the suburbanites in line at Home Depot to pick up the new tile to remodel the bathroom. Remodel the bathroom? For who?

In the past there was a house I wanted to own. It had a great back yard with a cliff at the back. Ivy, little tress and even a waterfall decorated this cliff. It was such an oasis. But I soon realized what a prison the oasis would turn into once the mortgage payments started rolling in. A wise person told me, "A house is really just a shelter poking out of the earth... when you think about it." It was such a great reminder to hear this when the house I wanted was eventually sold to someone else.

We often think there is someone, or some thing, or some house that we can't live without. We must have it. Possess it. Experience it. I've been all caught up in this head space many times. This is the only person for me! The only house! But in time I saw that there were others. And without fail I missed out on these "only ones" only to find there was once better suited to me down the way.

I've found life has taught me time and time again, through a series of sometimes tragic disappointments, that one can, does, will and otherwise should live without all these "must haves". Sure it is alright to have the possessions and personal needs to work and live. Still, for me, to let go of the want to possess needless items has meant a freedom. A freedom to see myself. unearthed from all the hedonistic gadgets and junk tv commercials holler at us to obtain. Free from obligation. Everything I have I own. It's not much. But it's mine. I don't owe anyone anything. So free to pick up anfd go tomorrow if I wanted to or had to. Free to figure out who I really am. To realize I am complete without the excess.

The only commodity that I want to possess these days is as much of my time as I can keep. The time, of course, can not be kept. Theonly useful thing my mother's bigoted minister ever said was"the time's going to go by, might as well do something useful with it." So instead of "keep" then, I'll say as much of my time as I can use. Use to build friendships, love and create.

LOVING OURSELVES / WTS

This week in Dan Savage's "Savage Love" saucy advice from a gay man column he features three advice seekers who have WTS, "Wishful Thinking Syndrome". There is no denying, except maybe by them, that they are dreaming if they think whoever they are fixating on is going to give them whatever it is they want - usually it's sex with the people in this column. The third party reader delights in the smug satisfaction of knowing something the advice seeker doesn't know - that they are caught up in wishful thinking.

But we all do it. Or have done it. Thought wishfully. Let our desires for someone help us construe their platonic behaviours into flirtation with us. Believe that that person will be with us, just as soon as they dump their current lover - which we believe is soon to happen. The list goes on.

I've done it! And I defend myself. Wouldn't it be great if we had the 3rd party insight to our own behaviours possessed by the readers of "Savage Love". But we don't always know that we had WTS until much later. And besides there have been many times - unless you're a real main stream pin up dream- when we've all had so few bright spots in life and so few love prospects that unrequited love was the only bowl we could find to hold all the over flowing love we had to give.

As humans, we all want love. The more I look at why we do things, the more I believe the root motivation is to be loved. Work, buy clothes, make a home, make art. All to be loved.

But I'm reminding myself after reading this week's "Savage Love" that: Rather than give one's over flowing love to some jerk who does not appreciate it, deserve it or respond in kind, it is a much better idea to give yourself that love. Turn ourselves into a closed circuits of love for a while when we don't have, or perceive we don't have, anyone to share love with.

Rather than being someone's ego booster and feeling all nasty and rejected we can be radiating in the confidence and positivity of loving ourselves. Let's get started!

WORDS FROM ELANDA

I ate breakfast with one of the women from last night's show in the B and B where we were both staying. She had put on a 30 minute performance last night. She was a Mohawk who was emphasizing all of the real hell that the colonalization of North America has inflicted on her people with every beat of her drum. She later got in a cage decorated with blue, yellow and red cloth and beat her drum some more while a video of her sewing a big fur pelt played in the background.

After 30 minutes of this, she wasn't a "crowd favourite". And she was well aware of this fact at this morning's breakfast. She passed on a few words of wisdom which I hope to remember:

1. She said that she doesn't make her art for "entertainment", she makes it because she has something to say. And I think she is damn right to think like that.

2. She tells nosey people like the sound guy I mention in my March 20, 2005 post that she is an artist and a human first. Anything to do with her sex, or sexuality is just one facet of who she is.

3. She seeks to influence with her art, not have direct decision making power. She thinks influence is power.

4. "Berdache" - is a disgusting word. It is Pursian for "kept boy". "Kept" meaning prostitute.

5. Work in the world. Do not get stuck in little sandboxes of in-fighting and community politics. Use that energy to get out there and see the entire beach of sand.

6. Art has become a commodity - eg. the person who wants the painting because it matches their sofa. It's all about "bums is seats". To transcend this, just keep doing your own art. Maybe the world will catch up.

7. The worst thing that can happen to a young artist is to have a big hit right at the beginning and have a bunch of money thrown at them. It is better to toil away for some years and then have the world discover you later.

8. Don't wait for others' permission to do your art. Or it will never happen.

9. Figure out why you are doing your art.

10. A person has to be healthy in themselves to truely be able to pursue anything.

11. Just set out. Begin. With passion. And following opportunites as they present themselves.

12. Compared to racial issues, the sexual revolution and the discussion of queerness in all its forms has happened in a relatively short time - even if it did seem a long way away in 1994.

13. Being an asshole is a far bigger impediment to a person's career in the arts then any queerness that society's main stream suburbanites would associate with them.

MONTREAL'S TRANSIT CABARET

I decided I would go to Montreal to the Transit Cabaret that was being organized by my frend Trish Salah. Actually, I waffled and did not decide through every step in the process right up to and including buying my bus ticket.

Along the way I looked for sights to encourage myself. I saw some young guys trying to stop people on the street to get them to donate to Greenpeace. I thought to myself, "How much easier is giving my CDs away than this? Lots!" I saw the girls working in the local organic market, who gock at me like they think they know something about me, scratching their dreadlocks and selling their tofu loafs - going nowhere. I didn't want to be like that.

But there was alot to discourage me. The jerks selling the bus tickets smirked at me and some guys at the diner gocked at me. And the bus was late. But I did get on. I rode to Montreal as this ignoant, pompous civil servant yapped on his cell phone beside me all the way.

I got very lost trying to find the venue. As I was heading up a big hill on rue Jeanne Mance sweating in my coat despite the cold with two boxes of CDs on my back I got to wondering if my father was right all those years ago to yell "Why do you always have to swim up stream (be different)." Ofcourse the answer is "Because I am."

I did find the theatre. the show was just beginning. I was distressed to concluded I'd missed my chance to give out my CDs in the lobby before the show. I decided to try to make my own luck by asking the MC if she'd announce that I had CDs for after the show. But in my efforts to get back stage I managed to go through the wrong curtain and emerge right onto the stage in the middle of an act. "Wrong exit!"

I did manage to get the MC to announce I had CDs. There was a slight misunderstandign though. She said I wanted people to sign a petetition for me to be a star. How Diva is that! In fact I just wanted people to join my "email updates" list. (There's yet to be an email update.)

So after the show I was able to meet up with many hip. open and positive energy exuding people and give them CDs. The only blooper was that a picture of the female anatomy that I had from my gynecologist fell out of the CD box onto the floor in front of someone. All I could think to say was, "That won't work!"

I always regret that I couldn't speak to each person more. So many of them looked like they could have been great friends. I hope to go back to Montreal and see all these cabaret cuties again sometime!

When I finally got to bed at 2 am I was so glad that I didn't let the snickering bus ticket sellers make me quit and go home without going to Montreal and sharing my music.

THE LOST FREAKS OF THE MUSIC BIZ

The many flaws of the "American Idol" tv series are as obvious to me as its annoying theme song. There's the promoting of karaoke stars who can't play instruments, read music or spell chord progression let alone than actually use one. Rather than promoting actual young bands who are struggling to get their music out to people now that commercial radio is completing it's quest to implode on itself with generic, derivative songs and acts. There's the fact that the "winner" of this competition has increasingly gone on to a lack luster recording career of putting their voice on a prefabricated ballad and then faded into obscurity after their one hit. There's the fact that Simon Cowell and the judges of "Canadian Ido" as well) show visible distain and uncomfortably for the young fags that prance in to the auditions and turn them away whether they can sing or not.

One of the few redeemable qualities of the show is Paula Abdul. Her own career had no staying power and it fizzled after her 1992 single "Rush Rush". But her music will always be important to me. Back in 1989 I had a tiny cassestte deck with built in speakers. I sat in my little windowless bedroom in the basement in the country and recorded myself singing along with "Strait Up Now Tell Me" at least 40 times. Trying to get the perfect take. My parents would stomp on the floor overhead to try and get me to quiet down. But the diva in me sang on.

This past week I ended up being lulled into gocking at an "American Idol" used as the filler between about 20 commercials. The theme was "#! Billboard Hits" Well before I knew it I was faced with another blast from my own musical past. One of the karaoke stars went out on stage and let rip her rendition of Heart's 1987 song "Alone". And I'll give her this : I was regretful that I didn't get her performance recorded on tape. And that's a good sign. My want to have her performance on tape rated right up there with my want to have on tape other stellar performances like Areasmilth's 2002 American Music Awards performance which featured Steven Tyler in this slinky white pant suit and high heeled boots and Tiny Tim on Ed Sullivan sing "Tip Toe Through The Tulips".

For me "Alone" is the anthem of my youthful musical aspirations and my patterns of painful high school unrequited love stories. I don't know how I first heard this song because I didn't own any Heart tapes. But somehow I ended up with the sheet music.

I had my "$ by the hour" singing teacher make a crappy synth background mix of the song and I entered it in the 1992 high school variety show. I was dressed in a pair of tight 'stove pipe cut" black Levi's and a big Le Chateau belt made of jangly metal hoops and links. I took to the stage and the country boys immediately started yelling obscenities at me. The music started. The tape was cued wrong. The song was already 1/4 over. (Looking back this was probably a blessing.) I found my place in the song and sang. I thought I did really well. Still, it was a very traumatic experience.

Only a true artist would persevere in the face of that kind of abuse and rejection. Simon Cowell's comments that this contestant or that "sounds like you're on a cruise ship" are tame compared to what a lot of eccentric artists have been told. "American Idol" is proof that main stream radio, video, tv and live venue access has almost completed the inialation of freaks from the music business by marginalizing them out of the main stream's consciousness.

The result is the eccentric musician gets confronted with the Neanderthal human thought process," What's that? Never heard of that before. Must be bad. Don't like it." The result is the freakier artists can't make any money. So their output dwindles and their participation in the music business fades into nothingness as we are forced into office cubicles to pay our rent working as secretaries. Simon Cowell keeps saying he's looking for an original artist. If he actually knows what "original " is, and if he does, if he is sincere that that is in fact what he's really looking for- both of which are big ifs - I wonder if he realizes that it's his show that is contributing to the reason why so few original musical acts can be found anymore. Tiny Tim where are you now?

ELEVATOR MUSIC

Walking into the office tower I heard U2's "Still Havn't Found What I'm Looking For" playing on the radio. It was rough. It was Monday morning. Last night's audience was a bunch of literary snobs who were at the event simply to "hear their own voice". Not for my Glam Rock. So I was definately relating to the words of this song.

The elevator opened and two office hens emerged. The both sang "I still havn't found what I'm looking for..." in unison as they walked in slow motion passed me. I wondered if i was in some sort of dark music video. Then I realized I was. The title was called, "Life As I Know It".

JUST CURIOUS

I'm not terribly optimistic. Just determined. So it is a wonder that I always think the best of people. I'm always surprised when people turn out to be snakes.

I was in a bar for a gig. The sound guy came up to me and put his arm around me. He said he had a confession/ question/ comment. He said he'd been attracted to me when I first started doing shows at this bar. But he emphasized that he was only attracted to me in this environment. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

He asked me a bunch of personal questions. I wouldn't give him anything to nibble on. He didn't legitimately want to know. He was just nosey. I've long since told people who are
"just curious" piss off. People who legitimately want information on a particuliar subject or group of people can do a google search. Getting in someone's face and asking people to explain themselves is lazy reasearch. Worse - it's invasive, nosey, and low class.

I asked him what he was looking for. He said, "Basically anyone who would have me. I've got two categories.: 1. People I want to do. And 2. Mom."

AQUARIUM

A French teacher/ painter I've been talking to speaks about the need for an artist to have the right environment to work in. Create an aquarium to work in. An oasis. Homeless people don't create many works of art sitting in their cardboard boxes or as they surf from sofa to sofa. I know this first hand myself from the 90's.

He also pointed out, "Who says an artist should be poor!" He said he would have been more responsible about holding down a day job if he could do the past 20 years again. He cited his lack of $ to fix his broken glasses as an example.

He also said something very profound - which I told myself I'd remember - but have forgotten! It's almost as tortuous as if I'd forgotten a great song lyric or melody. I think the basic message was that a person has to be true to themselves and their art and keep going even in the face of rejection and discouragment.

I think it was a metaphor. In it's place I will substitute this revelation:

"A bee has to visit a lot of flowers to get just a bit of honey. The same is true in creating art"

JOYOUS ON THIS SIDE OF THE GLASS

I woke up dreaming about the Micheal Jackson trial. The closing arguments were to have Micheal put on the stand, wrapped in loads and loads of bright yellow tissue paper, and sit there sobbing. It was not an effective closing argument.

I could have written song ideas so happily all day long while watching the snow. The snow flakes were dancing by my windows so joyously. Holding hands with each other to form a giant white bed sheet against the sky.

Instead I had to go to work. I always get annoyed when I hear people on the bus say that they HAVE to go to work. Because truthfully noone HAS to do anything. It's their choice. Tell that to my AMEX bill.

Joyous snow flakes become more correctly described as a blizzard the moment one has to leave their window and go outside. At times like this I remind myself that I'm glad to have a job. At least I didn't have to go out into the storm just to go to the job search centre! I've been in that position many times. Too many times.

DISTRACTED BY THE TOAD

I dreamed that I was staying in a hotel which was like a crappy mass produced apartment building upstairs. But had an ornate carpeted, expansive entrance and lounge with a front desk all in wood with an old man who'd been running the place in the Queen's fashion for years. I was with some other people. (I think I was there with some older gay men - in real life I've just watched a movie with a bunch of gay men called "Connie and Carla" - a long story.)

It was over in England and I was there for a concert. But there was a huge controversy about the participation of Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. Controversy in that they had gotten super bad since the year before.

The next theme was that Prince William and Harry were there as well. I really wanted to meet Prince William very much. On the way up an elevator the door opened and I got to see him and say hi. But he was saying hi just as the door shut. So I was left to wonder if he had really seen my face.

I then went out on the street where a homeless man convinced me to go back to his elaborate box by drawing me in with promises that he would show me how to shine my shoes really well. In the box he showed me a bunch of Le Chateau clothes he had aquired but they were not in my size. He then tried getting sexual with me. I asked him how old he was. He said 19. But I thought he looked older.

When I tried to leave I discovered that he had taken possession of all of my boxes of possessions (Bop magazines and New Kids Dolls and you name it). he refused to give me the boxes. They spilled all over his box. I got out of the box and went home to Ottawa, which by this point was just around the corner. As I left the box I saw he was much older. Like 45.

I later saw him near Parliment Hill. He chased me on his bike saying that he had my stuff and had a claim on me. He did not catch me. But he had the stuff to the end.

I had gotten all tangled up with a bum. And missed my chance to try and chill out with Prince William.

TREATS AND TANKS

My big success so far this weeknd is that I bought 2 aquatic plants for my triangle shaped aquarium. I had said no aquarium until I cleaned out my apartment. But slowly I've thrown out a lot of papers and even a sofa. So I earned these plants! Ironically perhaps, I am not interested in possessing anything. But I am interested in a cozy living situation. Which does require some aquisition. Still thinking about all this.

In the pet store I saw a small fish in a tank. It's nose was pointing strait down. In the bottom of the tank was a semmingly gentle fish. I read the tank sticker. It named this bigger fish as "aggressive". I'll say. The reason the little fish was pointing strait down was because it was missing it's back half. No tail. or half a body either. But it was still breathing. I've been this fish so many times! Poor thing. If only people would come with warning labels like "Aggressive". "Neurotic". "Delusional in their determination that they are not treating others like shit, when in fact they are". "All talk and no action." "Classsic abusers." I've met them all. Sometimes all in one monster.

When someone shows you who they are or tells you who they are - BELIEVE THEM. Don't make excuses for them or tell them they are just being eveil or vengful today. Believe them. This is how I've kept my little gills breathing in the absence of warning labels. I think I've even grown a new tail too.

I also bought a frame for a pix of myself with Jann Arden taken in Halifax's Sam the Record Man store in Nov. 1995! I put that up to inspire me.

TIME BOMBS

I went to home (?) and threw out 14 garbage bags of artifacts from my many "previous lives". It was emotional. I still kept too much. Basically everything I kept could cause me problems. But true to form, I hung on to my time bombs. But I did live all the years I lived. And I think it is important to have some record of it. Most people from those eras have drifted away. The only person I can rely on to be my memory for these formative times is myself.

BACK TO BEACH

It's Sunday morning. I've just (tried to) run home. It was very cold. I had a heavy pack. So the running was hard work. Plus my hair froze. As usual. It's all quite romantic really. In some sense that I'm just trsuting is there rather than identifying completely.

My dream last night was:

I was walking to an Island. This is a small island just off the landmass surrounding the ocean. The ocean beside which I lived beside for 20 years. Every day I would walkdown the beach after the tide went out and climb upthe sandstone sides of the island. I'd perch there and observe the beaches and surronding low mountainsof the area. The big saddness of this island is that it, like everything else I suppose, is eroding away. It once featured huge arches jutting off the sides like half rainbows or the arms of an octypus. But just as the tide currents carve these arches, the currents eventually pull them down. So this is sad, as I said. My beach was known, or rather un-known I suppose forbeing deserted of people. KM after KM of noone. But me. In this dream the place had become overrun with people. Loads and loads of them. Lots of blue clothing contrasting the red sand beaches. I wouldnever walk on the beach when there were other people. As it was by refuge from the world. And I didn't want it tainted in that way. (I suppose this could also beseen as agoraphobic. Either way- I give myself permission.)

So there were all these people. But I did do my walk. When I came to the island I showed visible signs ofcontempt for the people around. Shaking my head etc. a black man tho was there accused me of being aracist. This theme went on for some time. Later, it turned out that in fact deep inside the the islandthere was a minister living. He had a great wooden office with lots of old books and even a window with asalty breeze coming in. I remember thinking how muchI wanted this office. I ended up debating ith him fora long time about why he was there and racism.

Recently I heard an island is not an island unless ithas 3 trees. But Patti's island will always be anisland to me.I think I'm going back there next weekend. I have visions of going to the local Walmart that has recently crusaded itself into the local area. Getting some large rubberstorage totes. And cleaning out whatever clothing, memories, New Kids dolls I have left behind there.

HOLE IN BOTTOM OF THE BAG

Last Night I dreamed my big boss insisted I cut holes in the bottom of my Roots pack back. holes in the bottom especially. And the pockets. Then I had to sew plastic Hartman's grocery bags over the holes. I remember thinking "When I bought this pack back it was so new and trustworrthy. I would never have imagined I'd cut holes in it for anyone."

MONSTERS

I was in some sort of space age prision. Not a big one. Just a little room. Like a submarine. Outside was perilios. I was with two other people. One was a short, petite girl I knew. I can't say who it was now. In order to get out of this prision (monsters were our captors) we had to look at a glowing map of the world. You pressed countries and they lit up. We knew we had to focus on europe so we got this shape shifting map to just show Europe. Then there was an escape through some haunted forests ( like the Smurfs) to rescue someone. In a car. On the way back a monster jumped on the car and broke through the window. The petite girl killed the monster. But lost her arms in the defense.

CHICKEN LITTE - THE SKY IS FALLING

You know my life was a rough patch str8 through for about 25 years. In the recent past I've had a few bright spots and have been able to pull out of the troubled eras enough to clean up my place and even finish those records. But as a result of the 1/4 century plus of hardship, ironically I go to therapy every 2 weeks just to try to cope with the fear that i could be forced back into my old life by calamity.

So it's bitter sweet. Life has been better but I've had a "Chicken Little The Sky Is Falling" thought process chizeled into my psychie. As a response, rather than waiting for society to remove it's ills, I'm trying to look at ways at diverifying my life. Diversifying so that no one person or loss could send me completely back to my old life of being an internet addicted, shut in who's held in that state of being by being shunned by most Matime/ Ottawa social scenes I ebbed my way through. Getting out there with my music is one of these diversification methods.

THE BODY BASICS

My dream last night was of trying to convince a series of bank tellers to let me use my bank card. The story began when I tried to use my bank card. I was told i could not. I had to fill out a form. So I left with the form. I filled it out. Brought it back. it was the wrong form. Several of these exchanges occured. Each trip back to the bank got longer and longer. At one point I went in with all the forms and papers intent on laying them out for this guy at the bank. To explain the lunacy of it. But, just like real life, my papers where in a mess, despiter me having gone through much effort to organize them. then I took out my bank card and it had fallen apart. Woke Up.

Woke up to this:Today, for me I'm going through a lot of jealousy over young chicks in Ottawa's music scene who have "gotten their shit together" and are pulling ahead of me despite being a) younger and b) not as talented. All because they don't face the social barriers I do to connectng w. other musicans and finding audiences. Nor do they have the emotional barriers that come from a lifetime of facing these social barriers.

So cry me a river. What am I going to do about it? I paced around here imagining telling a bunch of them off. Then imagined myself holding my mythical Grammy award high. After that non productivity, I guess I'm on to some more composition and guitar practicing.
That and remembering to not judge myself by the same standards of success and timelines as demonstrated by main stream ez streeter girls. Avoid that trap. I'm a succes to still be in this game.

I mean reality check: these chicks were born whole. They didn't spend 27 years of their life sorting out the basics.

ATTACK OF THE MASS PRODUCED TAMPON USERS

I can't stand television. The Boob tube. The Idiot box. Mind Rot. The Can. Whatever we call it, it's a big waste of time. I'm really proud of my brother who recently threw his tv in the dumpster. He's happier, can think more clearly and has even started being creative. He's continuing on with his creative writing! The worst part of tv is the commercials. Whenever the ads are on I insist that they be put on "mute". (I even have "remote" to do this muting. The remote still startles me when I see it on the coffee table as it is just one of those things that I'll always think of as "something other people own.") it's not that I don't mind some commercials or all commercials some of the time. I literally can not tolerate them.

There's a lot of terrible ads on tv. But these two are the most offensive ones I've seen in the last few months:

Runner Up:
The McDonalds commercial that is advertising turkey sandwiches. There's a farmer with his birds. (This is supposed to entice me?) And there's a smiling baby in a carriage. The baby gets poked in the tummy. Or is this just the Pilsberry Dough Boy who gets poked in the tummy.) I feel sad for this baby. he's being exploited. he didn't choose to be there. His parents did. He didn't have a say. And all too often it is the parents who take home the money. To all the bar assed baby showing diaper commercials I say: Stop th exploitation of babies!

The Worst Ad on TV:
The Tampex Tampon commercial. There's a bunch of giggling bimbos. The kind that inspire hard ons in19 year old guys living in their parents homes and wearing dirty white tube socks. And thereby these girls get instant credibility with all bimbos everywhere. They are on a desert island. So these spell out Tampex on the beach and a plane drops them off loads and loads of tampons! Forget the water, food and survival equipment. As long as they've got tampons to shove up their twats these bimbos are saved. And that's not the most ridiculous part of the add. Anyone who's ever visited Halifax Nova Scotia, where they flush millions of liters of raw sewage into the harbour every day, and walked along Point Pleasant Park has seen the hundreds of tampons that cover the beaches and rocks. We humans are not fit to inherit this earth. Bunch of pigs.

The alternative to tampons is to go to your local womyn's store and get a "keeper". It's a rubber cup about the size and shape of your thumb. it's better for your body, cheaper and reusable.

With all of the SUV driving to Cost Co, the cities that won't pay for decent recycling programs - like Ottawa, Ontario - the capital city of Canada, and yes the tampons being flushed in the Atlantic ocean by the residents of Halifax I have to wonder. What are we thinking?

The earth is an outpost. A sanctuary in an otherwise barren universe. Earth is the only planet in the galaxy that has an atmosphere that can sustain life. If we wreck it beyond repair (this is already happening, just ask the polar bears who can't find a decent ice berg to stand on anymore) then we can't take mother Earth back to the "Used Planet Lot" after we've traded in the SUV at the "Used Car Lot".

The alternative to SUV's is car pooling, biking, public transit, hybrid cars and dare I suggest walking. The alternative to the mass produced wastefully produced, distributed and consumed paradime is buying at least some organic products at local shops and even visiting a farm once and a while.

(It's taken me 5 weeks to make the time to write this down. How long will it take the world to take some of what I've said to heart?)

Searching Fore A Thought Of My Own

My thoughts right now are of pushing past the notion, and possibly the reality that I have no thoughts right now. It's just rush rush rush. Running through frozen Canadian streets and abusivly early hours to try and catch a last bus to work. A work that is devoid of creativity, where using my intelligence is discouraged, and making autonomous decisions is forbidden. Micro managing, nit picking, and back stabbing are in abundance. Meetings featuring catch phrases like " we need to think outside the box", "let's get on the train" and my personal favourite "we need to decide on deliverables" run together into a blur. A blur that is the back bone of the "all talk and no action" office culture. Sitting in the grey carpetted cubicle walls glowing from the floresent lights overhead.

And the guilt I have over pointing out all that is wrong with work. Coming from a have not part of the world. And being one of the most marginalized and have nots of the have nots. Having worked in drafty dim barns sifting through tables of dirt to pack strawberry plants for $2.12 an hour. And having no work at all many times. Should I not be glad for the glowing cubicle walls. At least it is inside. a chair. A window. This is why it's call "the golden hand cuffs". To cooshy to leave. But devoid of stimulation and more tragically devoid of soul.

Rushing. Standing with the human "herd" that has descended out of the office tower like a bunch of rats jumping out of a sinking wooden priate ship. Cramming onto the buses with the smile devoid faces that conceal thoughts of refinancing morages for houses in the burbs behind glazed over eyes.

Rushing into grocery stores. To pick up the usual stables and receive the usal gocks from the cashiers who have nothing running through their heads except a roll of receipts and nothing in their hands but plastic grocery bags.

Rushing home to make meals and try to beat back the encroaching kitchen stains and teetering tower of recycling.

Rushing. To do it all over again.

And for what? Some days I don't even remember the day before.
Well for survival. For one. That's what.

But the "rat race" does often leave me wondering if have a thought of my own these days. Other than the quote tattoed across the fingers of a guy who I was recently introduced to "Who's next?" Or the thought of how to block out the thought that life may have become that dreaded word "routine".

A lot of artist's websites feature rabblings about their inner contemplations and poinant descriptions of their most stirring emotions. I've identified that I've felt some pressure to keep up with that.

But I think in 2005 I'm going to refrain from these philosopical debates. Not force myself into being one of these artists who feels duty bound to point out those little observations about life that are so simple that they've been overlooked, and thus when pointed out are supposedly insightful.

I'm going to back away from patronizing dogma (preachyness) that many artists are displaying that is evidence that they think they are somehow enlightened to the point that they have something to teach the rest of us. "There there dear. Let me explain life to you."
It's all so obtuse.

This year I'm going to stop censoring, and editing my self. Moreover I'm not going to "package" my thoughts into neat little lessons of the week. I'm just going to write what think. If it's mess. Great.

This is my little Christmas present to you. Please spend it all in one place. :)

Marion's Cookies - A Chintzy Little Christmas Story by Mackenzie MacBride

Last night I attended a C budget local musical pageant called "The Christmas Rose." It was in a glorious domed downtown church that I'd walked by for years (has it been that long?!) but not entered until last night.

In the past I tended to avoid going into restaurants and churches that I can see from my loft window. In case I'm forced to look at them later and remember the "good times" that have slipped away. And basically be tortured by the memories. Lately I've been trying to subscribe to the philosophy "it's better to have the memories than not".

This little musical pageant was complete with child singers, divas playing singing monks and a little orchestra. The plot concerned, as one might guess, a Christmas rose. Basically the characters spent the entire pageant chattering about and disbelieving in the existence of a rose that blooms every Christmas Eve. At the end a little child walked out onto the stage when the lights were low and dropped the Christmas Rose in front of everyone. Plop. There it was.

I was reminded of Sunday school pageants I participated in when I was little. One of our pageant's plots concerned a Christmas bell. The children sat up in the choir loft in front of the congregation. Singing songs and acting out little skits I've long since forgotten. It seems the children were not told what the ending of the play would be.

I just remember at the end of the pageant when the long-awaited, mysterious Christmas bell was supposed to make its entrance we kids looked down into the pews as the senior citizens who made up the choir, including my own dazed and awkward old aunt Ira, pulled big gold bells out from their shimmering blue polyester choir gowns and rang them with guilty looks on their faces. Guilty like they'd betrayed the fact that there was no Santa Claus. (A fact I still refute.) These were the Christmas bells. These were the Christmas bells?! I remember looking out at this bell ringing episode and thinking "Who's fool do you think I am? The seniors in the choir rang the bells. Not angels." I guess that was the start of my moth to the flame appeal/ contempt for B movies and C grade church pageants. I can't help but enjoy the laughs these productions inspire.

Sunday school was an especially tortured experience from start to finish. It was operated by a purple haired hair dresser named Dina, her over-bearing and mean high school woodshop teaching husband named Irwin, a quintessential grandma named Marion, and a few other shrews from the surrounding area. Dina's two sons Mark and Rick were in the Sunday school and always given preferential treatment. They got to stand in the front of the lines. Use the best markers. Bully the other kids, including myself.

Irwin, the father, was a bully too. During preparations for the previously mentioned Christmas Bell pageant I tripped on the stage. Looking back i guess I did do it for attention. Irwin yelled, "This is not a stumble show!" I yelled back, "I know." I remember that show down as one of the first times I ever stood up for myself. It's no wonder when Irwin later showed up dressed as Santa Claus I refused to accept my bag of treats and instead sat on the church steps waiting for my father to pick us up. This was very controversial behaviour at the time. But I refused to accept Irwin as Santa Claus. And I still believe anyone who could accept this was seriously settling for less.

The Sunday school format was always the same. My brother and I would be chased out the door into a whatever used car my father was trying to sell at the time and driven at full speed to the next village where we were deposited in front of the church, hopefully before anyone got a look at whatever car we were driving. We would then stand in the front of the church in a line with the other kids and sing songs such as, "Jesus Loves Me" and, "Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock".

We would then go into the church vestry to complete some religious themed craft. Some of the more memorable crafts were: 1. trying to take ceramic hand-held sized versions of the 10 Commandments and paint them brown with watery water paints and having them come out looking like they were china plates sprayed with diarrhea instead of the ancient slabs of mud rock that the 10 Commandments were said to have been written on. And 2. Irwin deciding we were all on "God's team" and therefore all needed to wear these hideous matching black team tee shirts with gold numbers on the back. And all of the tee shirts had #1 on the back. Because we were all #1 to God. (Irwin thought this craft was a real brain wave.)

The morning would always finish with a snack of watery McDonald's putrid orange drink and white short bread sugar cookies with coloured crunchy sprinkles on top. For years we ate this. Years! My brother would always get us laughing by sarcastically saying, "Got to get some of Marion's cookies. Yum Yum" And we'd laugh even harder in the pews during family Sunday, as we stood next to our father and watched our mother sing louder than everyone else from the choir loft, when my bother would say, "Now we turn to the E- piss- els". (Epistles being a book from the Bible. Duh.) Where did those days of innocence go? One day they just seemed to vanish. Along with the cookies.

Every spring, when the Sunday school would close for the year, the "Perfect Attendance Pins" were handed out. To get one of these lovely golden pins in the shape of doves or crosses the child had to have made it to all but 2 Sundays through out the year. For some reason my brother and I were rarely successful in attending all but two Sundays. So every other year we were humiliated in front of the entire congregation by being handed these chintzy little consolation pins that said "God still loves you" with red foam hearts sticking out of the centre of the pins.

Mark and Rick however got their "Perfect Attendance" pins every year. Not that they made it to all but two Sundays. They would go to Florida every winter and miss more than 2 Sunday's. But purple-haired Dina always had a flawless plan to help the boys cheat. Dina explained to the congregation that she personally administered the Sunday School lessons to Mark and Rick on the road. Thus they had not missed any Sundays and were entitled to receive their "Perfect Attendance" pins.

And it went beyond just pins. Each child's name was then put on metal plate and applied to a wooden plague constructed by Irwin, Dina's woodworking toad of a husband. Beside each child's name it was listed how many "Perfect Attendance" pins they had received. So by the time we all grew up Mark and Rick had 15 "Perfect Attendances" where as my brother and I had two. This plaque probably still hangs in the dusty old church today.

The cheating continued for Mark and Rick when their father took over the local Cub Scouts organizations and the boys had soon, I'm told, won the Cub car races and collected every badge there was to collect. Up to and including the "Pet Care" badge. Which was possibly the biggest farce of them all since they didn't even have a pet. The excuse given for why they should be able to wear a "Pet Care" badge on their sleeve when they had no pets was - they looked after the neighbour's dog for a day. Gave it some water or something. This was the beginning of my long standing disgust for cheaters, liars and patronage.

So I thought of all these memories as I stood in this foreign church hall during the intermission of, "The Christmas Rose". As I simultaneously: 1.stared down sneering children, 2.glared at little Cosmo girls who'd apparently wanted to date my boyfriend in the past, 3. fended off an obnoxious gay man who was telling us to, "Eat drink and be ferry" and that "Santa Claus really brought out your claws" and who only left when I asked, "Do you rehearse this stuff?" and 4.Ate a corner of my boyfriend's short bread white sugar cookie.

"I can tell these aren't Marion's cookies- they're missing the coloured sprinkles."

THE END


Note: Names have been changed to conceal the identities of the guilty.

The Reasons for My Failure

I had it all planned out in my mind. I would ride the bus to Montreal. One year to the day after I rode the same bus to the same cultured city to make some big steps forward in my life. A year ago I rode with my friend Angie. She held my hand as well pulled into the Berri Guam bus terminal. She waved to me as the black limo then carried me away into the rain to an uncertain fate. For all we knew the Grim Reaper could have been in the driver's seat.

It was my plan to meet Angie there a year later. To go to an arts fair. To launch my new single. To give away 50 copes of the new Cd. To show myself that I was moving on with my life.

But it wasn't to be. These are the reasons for my failure.

1. It goes without saying that there wasn't enough time. There never is. I'm sure the day I die I'll sit up in my bed like Beethoven did, shake my fist at the heavens and yell, "I wasn't finished yet!" I had only 1 month to put the record together.

2. And on top of working a day job to finance the music, I was sick for 3 weeks of this month.

3. Plus I stopped everything to try and finish my book. Which didn't get finished either.

4. When I did sit down to record a giant circular saw started whirring at a construction site near the recoding studio. And it didn't stop slicing and dicing for 3 days.

5. I finished the CD booklet Saturday morning. At which point my computer announced it would not print the booklet. it took several people and hours to determine that the computers hard drive was too full to think. By 4pm we were out on the street trying to find a copy centre that was open. After 1.5 hours All of them shut. Except for Staples which refused to do the copying unless we used their proprietary paper. Talking at this corporate piracy I slammed my special papers into the printer when the clerk's back was turned. Pressed "copy". This hopelessly jammed the only colour copier in the store. So we ran out onto the street like bandits and went home.

It was sinking in that I was 'beat". I was supposed to leave for Montreal in 12 hours and I didn't even have the Cd booklets done. It was proposed to me that I could go back to Staples and buy those expensive little ink cartridges for my printer and print out the labels myself. Since it was my only remaining option I ran back to Staples. it was 6 pm. They were just closing. Closing like the doors of the bus closes between the end of your nose and the back of the person in front of you in line. It was that close. So I ran around to the front of the store. I banged on the door. They did let me in. I was clutching the ink cartridge that I'd ripped out of my printer to show the clerk since I didn't know how to describe what cartridge I needed. this proved to be a very BAD idea. Once inside I discovered that I was covered in red, green and yellow ink. All over my brand new cream coloured pants, white mittens, sun glasses and face. I was such a sight that the clerk just gave me the cartridges and I went home.

6. But with all of the running through the allies at top speed and banging on the doors of the store I had swisted my back and pinched a nerve in my spine. So within an hour i was walking around like a right angle triangle and in a lot of PAIN!

7. Thanks to the circular saw, the day job and dozens of other time drains like the fact that I had to eat here and there I still wasn't done recording the single. So I stayed up all night. Hundreds of takes later and at 5 am it was done.

8. Exhausted and in pain I dragged some recording equipment over to the piano and tried to hook it up to record. For some reason. likely because it was 6 am, the equipment would not connect properly. In the struggle to move the equipment I feel down on the floor between the piano and the plants. Laying in a heap I giggled hysterically. Even though all that was funny was how pure my bad luck really can be some times.

9. I tried to cut one of the CD booklets with scissors. It was a slow and tedious job. After completing one side of one booklet I realized it was a lost cause. It is in my nature to be determined and to try to persevere to the end. Which is what I did in this case. But usually I prevail. In this case I did not. I was beaten. I went to bed exhausted and mortally disappointed. the would be no reunion trip to Montreal.

So all and all it was a who's who of everything that could go wrong did go wrong. It was a full on comedy of errors. It was such an "all talk and no action" episode.

If I've said it once I've said it 5 times now, "Britney Spears never had to go through all of this!"

Weeks later I reflected on the final product. Yes the cd did eventually get finished three days after the arts fair. I had to ask myself why I viewed all of this as such a failure. As I listened to my new record, I realized I should have said success.

I had done what I said I would. I made a new CD. An original, fun new CD. I had been true to the words of Angie,. Words I've mentioned on previous occasions. But worth repeating.

"When you finish a new project, that's a step up. And there's no going back on that."

Hope For the World

Two things caught my eye recently that gave me hope. One was a letter to the editor from a reader slamming the Ottawa Express, the local pop culture describing rag, for dedicating a cover of one of its recent weekly issues to the "Bridget Jones" movie sequel. The reader pointed out that she hoped the Ottawa Express got paid for the ad (the cover of the magazine blatantly advertising a trash Hollywood movie) as opposed to using the cover to support/ advertise a performance of any indie band playing a gig in Ottawa.

As all the girls in my office argued amongst themselves about which theatre they'd all go to see the sequel in, I felt encouraged that others had shared the contempt I had when I first looked at the advertisement for this generic, mainstream-catering, mind-numbing travesty called a movie on the cover of the Ottawa Express rag. I had intended to reprint her letter here. But since I, of course, lost/misplaced in a mountain of papers at the end of my bed the issue containing her letter I will content myself with paraphrasing the writer who said something along the lines that seeing this pop culture garbage at all, and especially on the cover of a rag that's supposed to support local artists had "hit her gag reflex." Well said.

And the second thing that gave me hope was going into my laundry room and finding a message on the bulletin board. Someone had written "the key to an open mind, is an open heart." on a yellow post it note and pinned it up. The person had even taken time to arrange all of the remaining thumb tacks into the shape of a heart. In the 2 years I've been going to this laundry room I've not seen anything on this bulletin board except for the odd stray sock. then suddenly this enlightened message.

So, more than ever, I'm hopeful that I'll be meeting up with smart, courageous, outspoken and sensitive people in this city.

The Santa Claus Parade

Two days after Remembrance Day (Veterans Day in the USA) the horns and tunes of the Santa Claus parade could be heard going up a street less than a block away. the parade takes me back. It was during the Santa Claus parade two years ago to the day that I moved into this place. (Note to self: Never move during a parade- it's a logistical nightmare.)

The day started out in another province with some rough and rented on the cheap movers showed up to help me get my stuff out of one of the worst apartments I'd ever lived in. it had been on the ground floor. Requiring me to keep all the curtains closed. There was a nosey hooker hanging out right outside my door all the time. The carpets were blak along the walls. The halls reeked of bleach. And worst of all it was cursed. At least 4 different friends who came there to visit ended up leaving my life on bad terms within the next year. So it was good to get out of that hell hole.

Upon arriving at the new apartment building the movers I'd hired immediately abandoned the truck with cargo doors open to go for a coffee on the clock. when they were back one of them went to my brand new washroom 4 times in less than an hour. And my other help was a couple of toxic (though I didn't know it then) of older people masquerading as friends. After I paid the bum movers and the others had gone, I was left alone in the apartment. After all the years of struggling I finally lived in Ontario. I remember thinking, "This is where I'll live during some of the biggest moments of my life." And it turned out to be true.

One year later during the Santa Claus parade I was heart broken two times over and looking down the barrel of the biggest test of my spirit's determination to survive on this earth. I rode the bus to see my friend Angie. After I hung up from a heart wrenching call with a guy I walked along with Angie to the Reno Depot where I got two lamps. To say I was numb would be an understatement. I didn't want to come back home that day. To the disappointment to the despair. That the apartment seemed to gather retain and magnify like a sponge that wipes ups a cup of water holds onto it for a really long time and then wrings out an ocean.

This year's Santa Claus parade saw me wake up in love. Together. So together I didn't even make it to the parade. My good fortune stood in stark contrast with the previous upsetting and lonely years. it was such a blessing to be able to look the powerful passage of time in the face and be able to say for once that at least the passage of time had brought me to a long sought and dreamed of better place. A place I'd never been to before. Even though I'd already been living there for two years.

The Songs of “Glam Rock Revelations”

If you’re wondering what the songs of “Glam Rock Revelations” are all about,

Missionary Position

A song with a message of fun defiance and deliverance to improved self esteem. It has a soul born out of a path that begins with the discouragement, torment and loneliness of interacting with lying, closeted, self-phobic “guys on the internet”, otherwise known as “eels”, who are chasing “chicks with dicks.”

The path rounds a corner and uncovers 1. the self respect needed to refuse degrading sexual encounters entered into to try (in vain) to feel love by some external ( in this case skanky “eels”) source; and 2. the freedom and courage to refuse incorrect fetish labels and define ones own self.

Incidentally: Once the girl in this song fends of the “eels” and finds those higher level people with their gender politics and bedroom moves working in delicious harmony, I’m sure she’s got lots of time for the Missionary Position.

I’ve Got Your Picture

A true loved ‘em and lost em – if ya really had ‘em to begin with ballad. Originally a very long song with numerous piano interludes, this song was shortened to it’s present form.

Incidentally: Haunting new words were laid over the third chorus after some tragic events and cruel events conspired to bring on the fate of knowing in your soul you will love someone for the rest of your life, but will never see them again.

Everybody Start

This song is about the apathy surrounding the Bush invasion of Iraq. When people weren’t entertaining themselves with this “spectator sport” war, they were distracting themselves from the horror of its blood shed with all kinds of devices. “Having Sex” and using “peace marches as pick-up joints” were chosen as the examples of the distractions used because they just might be shocking enough (and that’s a big MIGHT BE) to jar people out of the comatosed state they’ve been lulled into by mass media, political spin doctors and a hedonistic, “gimme gimme gimme”, material acquisition based North American culture into the realization that earth is “d”evoling into a barbarian “eye for an eye” cruel hell hole (yes it is a hell hole – you just can’t see it from the suburbs) where more and more innocent people (children and the poor) are losers. A realization that hopefully will give rise to the conclusion that, like the 60’s, in the new millennium there should be at least as much peace making as fucking.

Incidentally: this song first appeared on the Lady Fest Ottawa 2003 compilation CD. It was put on the cd as the last track, I was told by the organizer, because (as I later confirmed), it was the best song on the CD.

Would You Ever

It’s a rhetorical question. The strong “NO! – I would never have a sex change!” reaction this song evokes in 99% of the people who hear it is supposed to enlighten those same 99% of listeners that the remaining 1% of listeners feel EQUALLY as passionate that “YES, they need to have a sex change”. That this surgery is not a want, a pop culture joke, a sickness or a fetish. It is a real medical, emotional, social, spiritual need some people were born into. A need to align their bodies with their spirits and their opposite sexed brains.

Incidentally: On my way to the Toronto CD launch of the “Glam Rock Revelations” EP I was subjected to watching “White Chicks” (without volume) on the bus. It was from the same ill informed, tranny as comedic gag genre as 1995’s“Too Wong Foo” (Patrick Swaysey’s career never recovered) and 1982’s “Tootsie” (Dustin Hoffman’s career didn’t recover for a long time). Only this time black cops dressed up as white “chicks” to get this bus load of fat heads laughing as we, ahm, dragged down the highway in the rain. It was then that I was proud of myself. Even though I was spending $200.00 on travel, not to mention exertion, to give away $300.00 worth of CDs to strangers.

Proud. Because this song actually tells the stories of people who’ve been singled out as comic relief by Hollywood, and even the small screen (can Law and Order get through even two episodes in a row without making reference to a “tranny”?) the real story is these people aren’t just for laughs. They are struggling. They are trying. They are smiling. They are crying. They are living. They are looking for work. They are going gray. All of these things. Just like everyone. Except on top of all this – they were “born with the wrong crotch.”

How many would have folded their cards rather than folded, if they had been dealt the wrong crotch. As many people who were laughing (at themselves unbeknownst to them) during all those bad drag movies. Less smirks. More respect for these brave, wrong-crotched souls.

Ms., Miss or Mr.

This song describes all of the many hilariously, poetic and tragic “miss”haps that happen to people who are “the third in an either or option.” “Miss” haps most “either ors” would never even think of, let alone experience. Bottom line: Being constantly scrutinized and ogled by people who are trying to “figure you out”, in many cases as a distraction for avoiding figuring themselves out) is a lot to deal with! That’s why “flower power” and Glam Rock will always be such necessary allies.

Incidentally: My brother always laughed at this song. Before it was even finished. And because it wasn’t finished. Laughed in a loving way. He thought it was a fun idea. He’s one of my biggest fans. (He just didn’t know he was for years.) Well on that note, after 3 years, whether it’s Ms., Miss or Mr., it’s finished. And it’s only just begun.

No Going Back

Sunday I attended Toronto CanZine at a haggered, holed and otherwise "had" old relic of 1890: the Gladstone Hotel on Queen St. West. This place really had character. Something like the set of the Muppet Show.

There were 150 vendors lined up shoulder to shoulder at little tables, not as wide as your arm. Selling their zines. I was there, dressed in a wine coloured boustier outfit, for my Cd release party. I gave away copies of my now finished (after almost 3 years) EP "Glam Rock Revelations". I took 102 copies but could only Give! away 65 copies. Despite sitting at my table from Noon til 630 pm. And actually hocking it. "Do you like Glam Rock music? You know - early Cyndi Lauper?!"

A very humbling music carreer moment. Plus someone stole/ aquired my wallet. I came home that same night in a car full of ass-dragging misfits (me being the most misfitish of all, ofcourse). The Toronto cops had found my wallet by Monday night. The Toronto police are still coordinating the couriering of my wallet.

Incidentially: I did get 65 people to sign my mailing list. So when I have a new announcement about my music I can send it out. It's something. My friend Angie who gave away her zines (including titles such as "I Hate Latte Drinkers" and "She Was Debbie Gibson, I Was Martika") said most people never try anything, let alone finish anything. So this EP and CD release party is, "a real step up- which there's no going back on."

Watching Myself Do The, “You Go Girl!”

I walked through the stationary warehouse store picking up the blank cds, jewel cases and labels. Tom Waits was singing “I Aint Missing You” on the speakers.

It’s a hard call to say which version is better, Waits’ or Tina Turner’s. I have to pick the former as I have more history with it. (I can remember listening to it over and over as I drove the 5 hours back home to the other seashore from Nova Scotia's St. Francais Xavier University where I’d been auditioning to get into the Bachelor of Jazz program (which I'm retrospectively happy to not have been accepted into) and hanging out with a guy I had a crush on – but later turned out to be gay (though he's still in the closet to this day).

“I Aint Missing You.” I think of all the people who’ve stampeded in and exploded out of my life in the nearly 3 years it has taken me to create my EP, “Glam Rock Revelations”. And it seems that finally, triumphantly even, I’m NOT missing these people as much, if at all, any more.

I feel vindicated to realize that I am carrying on. Somewhat lighter from dropping the tears and toxic people. Somewhat heavier from the memories. With a few more scars from the evil done to me. But overall much more free from the past. And confident, based on a quick glance into the past, that I can persevere through almost anything, and anyone.

I’m carrying on.

Beyond persevering now.

To thriving.

To putting out my EP.

To fulfilling my dreams.

I’m carrying on.

As someone who was listening to a few of my stories of battling everything from anorexia to agoraphobia said in her wonderful German accent,

“ Mackenzie... All these things. All these struggles. But overall the message is:

“Look how far you’ve come Baybay.””

Going, Going, Gone*

(*And this deal doesn’t come with a mail in rebate – so don’t bother fishing around in the bag for it on the drive back to the suburbs.)

I think one reason I don’t relate to some people is we don't want to talk about the same things. For me, I want to talk about what I've learned, what I've seen, what I've experienced, who I've loved, what I dream and why I'm "here". This doesn't go over very well in the lunch room.

Instead I hear some (or most -depending on where I'm listening) people talking about their "stuff". These people are living a very materialistic-oriented life. Talking about their cars breaking down, getting fixed, the new furnace they’ve installed in their second home, swimming pools, new home gadgets, it’s endless. And it literally is.

Materialism breeds more materialism. The more stuff that gets bought, the more accessories it needs and the more fixing it requires. To the point basically a lot of people I listen to on a daily basis are servants to their stuff. I picture the servants all dressed up in black and white sitting around the servants' table in the kitchen of the maison bitching and moaning about how awful it was to work for their masters today. I don't find I have a seat at this servants' table. Sometimes I catch myself feeling lonely. When really I should be glad I don't have anything to contribute to this mindless slapping of gums. I'm glad. Maybe I have zero to say because I don't have a house, car or any other materialistic master (aside from maybe computers). But even if I did, I don't think I would discuss this "stuff" to the point of exclusivity.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting, working for, and getting enjoyable stuff. Even I want some stuff! But I’m talking about people for whom the getting of the stuff is all there is. Listen to them talk. There’s your first clue. If they do manage to talk about personal relationships, listen closely. It’s usually in relationship to stuff.

(Note: That’s stuff they can’t take with them when they go.”) Which doesn’t seem to bother most of them as they don’t have a concept that one day they will “go”. And they certainly don’t have a concept of where they’ll “go to”. Which, I suppose, stands to reason since they aren’t “going” anywhere in their lives, other than materialistic consumption and acquisition, so why would they go anywhere in their deaths. Death being a concept they would not apply to themselves. This is the only explanation I can come up with to explain these people who seem to have so little concern for leaving something behind. For creating a legacy, other than the kids they popped out – which aren’t legacies, but are in fact just more stuff. No interest in scratching the glass of infinity with a message that says,

“I was here.”

All they’re going to leave behind is their stuff.

I’ll Always Remember

He ran through the rain to give me the lunch I’d left behind. To kiss me and tell me he loved me. This certainly doesn’t happen every day. In fact, I didn’t think it would EVER happen in my life. Which makes me appreciate it happening even more. No matter what else happens, this has to be a good day.

Who Could Have Ever Predicted?

Who could have ever predicted I’d get the storage tubs purchased from Wal*Mart home to find that they are all broken at the hinges? Thus requiring two trips to Wally World in one day? (I declined to make the second trip since being in a Wally world twice in one day is a soulless fate I wouldn’t want for an enemy- let alone myself.) That I’d be able to "snap out of it" and have the head space, positivity and sheer will to want to clean out all the junk in my closets that were required to initiate getting the Wal*Mart bins in the first place?

Who could have ever predicted that I’d be riding from west to east with a view of downtown Ottawa emerging in front of me, in a virtual car with an ailing fig tree and orange tree in the back seat?

Who could have ever predicted that I’d look at my music and say, "Where the F. did I leave off?" and starting to work again. As my friend added, like a voice-over in a classic movie, "There’s something to be said for getting yourself off your ass." That I’d be that prepared to forgive myself my procrastinatings and set backs. That I’d be willing to honour where I’m at personally and creatively. That I’d have the opportunity and gratitude to acknowledge the opportunity to say with a smile and a wink, "I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve been doing while I havn’t been producing records."

Who could have ever predicted that I would later be carrying along Bank St. a total of 3 high heeled shoes (not four) and a pair of jogging pants to my friend for her nudie photo shoot, along with the same orange tree, as my skirt started to fall down to reveal I had no panties on? (How Cheap- but done with such Class!)

Who could have ever predicted that after all the careless and cruel rejections from (in retrospect) immature, uncommunicative, snore-fest eliciting guys who’s "crank I didn’t turn", I would then sit with a guy, who’s hotter and more worldly than all of these previous average-joe suburbian raskals, (and who’s crank I do turn) and eat cat fish for the first time.

And this was just one day. Yesterday!

It is often difficult to notice this as one sits in a sterile office cubicle in the sky, but :

Life is an Adventure.

One never knows what will happen. For good or for bad. Or for Ugly!

It is true (and somewhat haunting too) what Dr. Phil says:

"One year from now you life will either be better or worse than it is today. But it won’t be the same."

I can confirm to anyone who’s thinking of giving in, cow towing, or otherwise going tits up:

When one perserveres (an I do mean perserveres) through the ugly times, Life, God, the Universe, (however one chooses to term it) will reward the person with some goodies, some adventures, some love.

Who would have ever predicted that this morning one of the most persnickety office workers I’ve encountered in a good while would say to me, "By the way, not many people could pull off wearing the colour of eye shadow you’ve got on. But you do it."

A new day of adventure has begun...

IN MEMORY OF ALL OF THOSE WHO’VE WALKED OUT OF OUR LIVES

I've concluded human interactions are typified by ackward introductions and cutting walkings away. It so important to enjoy the often all to brief goodness of knowing someone that goes on between these beginning and endings. Beginings and endings that seem to be as predictable and inevitable as the rising and setting of the sun.

Human relationships are so beautifully difficult. It is hard to hold onto anyone in this world. It takes two people to have a relationship. That must be noted. So far it's been other people's issues not my own that causes them to disappear from my life. (Even though most of them tried to conveniently pin it on me). This realization has not usually made it easier to see the people go.

Still, I've been forgiving myself for trying I did in the friendships/ relationships I've had that ended terribly. Increasingly I'm finding the bravery to say that I would have still picked up the telephone the first time to call these now departed souls, even if I'd known how ugly the final hanging up would be.

French Saying:
Les choses que tu resistes, persisterons.
Les choses que tu embrasses, effacerons.

Translation:
What you resist, persists.
What you accept, erases.

MM

Translation:
Mackenzie MacBride

FIGHT THE ZERO

Well. It is two months away from my birthday today. I like birthdays. They indicate success. I am still on the journey.
("I am still in the game.") This is why I celebrate monthly birthdays. For me they are the 20th of every month. A reminder to enjoy every day's good moments.

I recently put up a string of patio lanterns on my balcony. They really brighten up my downtown view. I've been in my apartment for going on 2 years. Why didn't I think of this before? I've had patio lanterns on other balconies in the past. (Never mind that they were the stick in the ground kind which I won from a radio contest. They worked.)

I didn't think of it before now because I was taking care of the basics. And I mean the basics. Stuff most people never have to think about. The work that is invisible to most people as it is what I had to do to get to ground level. To Zero. The place most people started from. So why would they consider the work those of us who start in the negative numbers have to do to get to Zero?

So yes. My mind was "St. Elsewhere". What a great experience to have the 1% brain functioning free to conceptualize putting up some lights. Next I hope to replant my Peace Lily Plant. One of my favourite gifts ever from one of the dearest people ever. I've got the pot and the special dirt. Soil I suppose the manufacturer wants me to call it. So therefore I call it "the dirt."

One of my quotations from the Winter of 2004 was "Fight the Zero". Meaning: Resist stagnating. Resist being like everyone else. Stop "Keeping up with the Jones". Resist being a number. The joy to life is not in the "status quo". Make a contribution. Be remembered for something special. Put a scratch on the glass of infinity that says:

"I was here."

The Bus Stops of Life

There is a bus stop in downtown Ottawa, Ontario, Canada where I find myself almost everyday. Waiting for some bus or other. People watching. And certainly being people watched! Thousands of people living out thousands more stories pass through there everyday.

I actually can’t stand this bus stop. Concrete is all around. It is such a contrast from the greenery and nature that surrounded me in the past. People most often seem grim and down on their luck. At the very least they are impatient. Impatience breeds more impatience. It is infectious. I can’t wait to get out of there each time. I close my eyes.

Recently I reflected on two of "my stories" that involved this bus stop:

December 15, 2003: I was in a lot of physicial and emotional pain. I had just been deeply hurt by a barage of mean and accusatory words from someone very special to me. Amidst the miscommunications and fear based decision making there had been the old faithful declaration that we would “never speak again”. To me it was a huge loss for both of us. I had to drag myself down the street. Crying and sobbing. My dear friend Angie was there to prop me up literally. I did not want to go on. I was consumed by grief.

March 15, 2004: I sat across the street from this bus stop at a fancy Asian restaurant with the same special someone having one of the best times of my life. Laughing and talking. Healing scars. Transcending our tendancies to gravitate into misery. Participating in happiness with each other.

Great Realization: With the assistance of the passage of time, one single place can be the backdrop for vastly different perspectives, events, lows and highs.

Ofcourse, Murphy’s Law, my life is sure to take some more tumbles. So, next time I feel like GIVING UP I will remember this bus stop. If I had given up in December, 2003 I would never have known the joys of 2004. When a person holds on through the hard times they can arrive at a place where they “get the goodies”.

Perserverance in a word.

See you at the bus stop.