Write It Down

In the Meantime

2011-08-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

I am on a ferry boat, metaphorically speaking. The comfort of an established routine has been replaced by a propulsion of instability. I have maps, guidebooks, a vague idea of my destination, and short term plans for food and shelter. Beyond that, I'm a traveller in this transition period.

If there's one thing I know about travelling in unfamiliar territory--literally and metaphorically--it's that spontaneity and open-mindedness are just as (if not more) important than preparation and planning. If you fill up every hour of the day with a logistical plan of where to be at what time, you might miss the afternoon street dance battle between a group of young men in London, or the slide show of photos projected against the side of a building at dusk in Berlin. You would miss the alchemy of spontaneous assembly in the service of creativity, a cause, or some form of festivity. The popularity of flash mobs, and the various forms in which they come, is a testament to our need to stir up the daily monotony of our lives.

Being in transition is both uncomfortable and liberating. Part of me needs something I can count on--a routine to assist in the business of organizing and maximizing my time. On the other hand, it's been awhile since I've been so attuned to the world around me. I'm inundated with imaginary scenes of the future that lies ahead of me. Although I'm in a bit of a pickle financially, I have found a healthy perspective on the ebb and flow of wealth (beyond money) and the laws of giving and receiving.

When this ferry finally docks, I will see the destination in 3D. I will disembark and use my maps to guide me. At some point, no doubt, my navigational abilities will fail me. I may sustain some injuries, but instinct and intuition will steer me clear of cliff drops.

In the meantime, I pay close attention to life in suspension. What a rare place to be.

Calling All Non-fiction Writers

2010-12-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

A post on behalf of PRISM ... we're looking for non-fiction!

PRISM international has extended their Non-fiction Contest deadline to December 15, 2010 (post-marked).

That's right, friends! You've got just over one week to send in your memoir, literary journalism, rhetoric, personal essay, etc.

The Non-fiction Contest has an exciting $1500 Grand Prize. The entry fee is $28 for one story, and $7 for each additional story. All entrants receive a one-year subscription to PRISM international.

Check out the contest page for more details, and get that entry in the mail!

Emergence

2010-08-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

I'm the seasonal opposite of a bear. I seem to hibernate in summer (at least until my birthday comes around, at which time I emerge and demand attention). After years of judging myself for these periodic bouts of seclusion, I've decided that it's natural and necessary. Granted, I am one of the fortunate members of society that actually has the privilege of having the essentials for survival taken care of. That being the case, I struggle with falling into extremes (consumption, information overload, unhealthy food and lifestyle choices). I'm often out of balance, and these occasional periods of hibernation give me the space and time to find some equilibrium, or at least make a plan to move in that direction.

I'm currently housesitting at my sister and brother-in-law's place; their backyard is literally a forest and the house is built of cedar, brick, and glass. Despite my best intentions to use this time as a writing retreat, I have instead been wiling away my time on the Internet, baking sweets, and staying up until 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. watching movies or old Sex and the City episodes. It's as if I've translated "summer off from work and MFA program" to mean "I have permission to overindulge in all that requires the least effort for the most pleasure."

As with all bad habits and addictions, "the first step is admitting that you have a problem." So here I am, admitting it. I will also make a public vow to work on one writing project for at least two hours today. Small, attainable goals, right? A disoriented, hungry bear should not be provoked.

Resistance, I will beat you down one small, daily decision at a time. Talk to the hand, buddy!

To Procreate, or Not to Procreate?

2010-02-16T14:49:00.000-08:00

I recently read a controversial article by Anne Kingston in Maclean's called, The case against having kids. The question of whether or not to have children is pretty prevalent in my life lately. I currently have six friends who are pregnant, one who recently had a miscarriage, and a couple who are trying to conceive. I am 32 and have a partner, but I am still negotiating through my thoughts, emotions, and fears surrounding procreation. I know that deciding not to have children is a valid option for any woman or couple nowadays, but there is still a social stigma associated with this decision, or moreover, the potential reasons behind such a decision.

In the Maclean's article, Kingston refers to a growing collection of essays, literature, and cultural movements aimed at helping "child-free" individuals and couples feel validated and supported in their choice not to have children. British Columbia poet, Lorna Crozier, asserts: "Children were not a way of ensuring happiness or endowing my days with meaning. That hard task was mine alone." In a similar vein, author and analyst Corinne Maier writes: "Children are often used as an excuse for giving up on life without really trying. It takes real courage to say 'Me first.'" (from No Kids: 40 Good Reasons Not to Have Children). Maier's statement could easily be taken the wrong way, but I believe she is referring to those people who choose to sacrifice their personal goals in life for those of their children. I don't believe this ever has to be the case (at least I hope not, or I am definitely not cut out to be a mother).

There is also the issue of overpopulation and sustainability. The world's current growth rate of approximately 1.14% represents a doubling time of approximately 60 years. This is simply not sustainable for the human species. It's not sustainable as it is. When I listen to these kinds of statistics, it seems as though (if I decide that I want to raise a child) exploring the option of adoption would be the most responsible and ecologically sound decision. But adoption has it's own minefield of bureaucratic hoops to jump through and considerations of the child's racial and cultural background and the most sensitive way in which to handle the inevitable questions that will arise with regards to their origin.

All of this being said, I have also witnessed the miracle of motherhood, and this is something that Kingston's article does not discuss. I have seen my friends discover a form of love they didn't know was possible until this being passed through their bodies into the world. I have held my cousin's baby in my arms while she slept and was reluctant to let her go, and I have experienced the awe of watching her grow into a tall, spirited child that has no conscious recollection of her first year on earth--being breastfed, comforted, cooed at, loved, and protected. But none of this is enough--I need to feel the desire to be a mother in my bones, my cells, my heart. I need to know what the ticking "biological clock" feels like. I haven't felt it yet, and this is not a decision that I trust to be made with my head, or social and cultural expectations, or the pressure of an extended family that is ready to embrace grandparenthood.

No, this is my choice. I wholeheartedly agree with Kingston's assertion near the end of her Maclean's article, which concludes: "what any happiness appears to stem from is not children or their absence but rather the ability to make the choice." In order to be at peace with any decision I make in my life, I need feel that I had the freedom to make that choice. Ideally, I would also live in a cultural climate in which that choice was respected.

Are we there yet?

Ready to Leap

2010-01-15T21:34:00.000-08:00

I have heard this maxim from various sources over the years, and while I comprehend its wisdom, I can't seem to get up the cajones to enact the command: leap. The years accumulate and I don't get any closer to the goal.

So what is the goal? There's the rub. I don't think it's any one accomplishment (not that I don't have daydreams of winning the Griffin Poetry Prize, or accepting an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay). No, it's not about that. I want to live an interesting life. To be bold. To genuinely connect with people and contribute something valuable to the conversation. To live with a general sense of well-being, and when it's knocked off kilter, to call upon a deep well of inner strength in order to put myself right again. I want to find a location and a vocation that is in line with my calling.

I would love to feel (and truly believe) that the hours I spend alone writing, typing, deleting, retyping, researching, agonizing over, and loving words is something that I do to serve something greater than myself. The thing is, if I'm really honest, I do believe in the value of my potential contribution. It's my awareness of the diligence and self-discipline it will take to get me there that summons the demons of self-sabotage. Humility taken too far, like ego, can be a force of distortion and destruction.

I feel as though I have been on the precipice of leaping for some time now, but it will either take a momentous act of self-will or a gentle nudge from behind to push me over. I have to forget about the net. There is no net. There is no treacherous abyss of no return, either. It's endless space, endless possibility.

Leap.

Temporal Homes

2009-12-18T11:00:00.000-08:00

As winter settles in every year, I often think about the homeless. In particular, I am thinking about a homeless couple who settled into my neighbourhood for a week or so last spring. The woman was always reading a book as they asked for spare change outside of the liquor store, and they had an adorable dog that was always snuggled up beside them. Wherever they are staying this winter, I hope they are warm, healthy, and that their dog is still with them. Below is a snapshot of my impressions while they were sleeping across the street from my rental suite:

A homeless couple and their dog emerge from under their tarp and slowly begin to pack their blankets, pillows, books, and empty bottles into a shopping cart. The woman shakes the dust out of their blankets and fluffs the pillows before piling them on top of the loaded cart. She places a glass vase on top of the concrete wall that frames their sleeping quarters and inserts three red tulips, which emerged from somewhere inside the dismantled bedroom. As the man and woman make their way towards Cambie Street, they temporarily park their portable home near a colourful mural on 18th Avenue.

I stare at the vase full of tulips and wonder about the woman’s intention. Perhaps it is a thank you gift to the space for giving them shelter for the night. Maybe it is a claim of home. The couple only manages to sleep in the concrete nook for a week or so before someone in the neighbourhood calls to have them evicted from their makeshift home. Not long after, I witness an altercation between a resident and one of the regular bottle collectors, each defending their territory and butting heads over their mutual right to exist in the same space in their own way. It is like watching two worthy opponents in the boxing ring, throwing harsh words instead of jabs and hooks.

But the couple disappeared quietly. They left the transitory scent of tulips to waft over the smell of urine and garbage that permeates the liquor store parking lot.

Now

2009-11-29T12:19:00.000-08:00

"I will only drive down last week's road once in my life." --Carmen Joy King

Lately, I have been missing it. The moment. In fact, I have probably been missing it for most of my life. I know how it feels though, to be in it: a tickle up the length of my spine, a lightheaded sensation of giddiness, a sudden realization of fleeting happiness. It is an accumulation of all that was and all that will be, distilled down to the moment.

It's been awhile though. I was recently chatting with an old roommate of mine via Facebook and we spontaneously hacked out a plot line for a Reality Bites style film, but focusing instead on a bunch of friends fumbling through their early thirties: unexpected layoffs and financial crises; the isolation of single life; sexless marriages; the humbling responsibility of parenthood; passions relegated to hobbies; unstable mental and physical health. My friend and I were indirectly discussing our own group of friends and acquaintances, but we were also exploring the dangers of succumbing to the voice within that chides and discourages us from enacting real change in our lives when it is required. Too often, we resign ourselves to living out an "existence" rather than a "life."

I know that I have the ability to reinvent myself; I am my own agent, whether I believe it or not. At some point in the last few years, I forgot this reality and hit a concrete wall of lost opportunity. For a moment, I felt as though those opportunities were irretrievable. I lost a sense of the largeness of life--something that was second nature to me as a child, and again as a young adult. I put myself in a box.

As my dear friend Carmen Joy King points out, we can only drive down last week's road once. I like the immediacy of last week; it keeps me from looking too far behind. Last week just passed. This week is here. What am I doing right now that is not serving me? What part of my spirit, or my mind, or my body is stalled and needs a jump start?

I'm here, with a persistent heartbeat, fuelled with blood that propels me forward. I will only be here once.

Written in Skin

2009-11-21T14:18:00.000-08:00

"Lord my body has been a good friend / but I won't need it when I reach the end."
--Cat Stevens

We cannot shed our bodies, like clothes, at the end of the day. They're always with us ... until they're not. However, those of us who have been fortunate enough to enjoy relative good health and physical ability often take our bodies for granted. We assume they will always be there, like Stevens' "good friend."

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Having attended several funerals over the past few years, some of them the result of tragic, untimely deaths of friends and relatives, I have become more and more aware of a spiritual void in my life. When someone close to me dies, I find myself flailing without a filter, dodging a lot of thoughts and emotions that I can avoid facing on a normal day. I envy those who have some form of faith to turn to during these times. Words and rituals that offer solace.

Funerals rarely do this for me--at least traditional North American memorial services. We tend to wear primarily black and opt for summary, anecdotes, silence, a somber song, choked tears. I always feel the inappropriate urge to laugh, or scream, or chant, or dance, or moan. I desire a ritual around death that doesn't appear to exist in my immediate surroundings. I want to sing a dirge, but I don't know the words. I feel the need for something more authentic and of the earth than stark funeral homes, rows of mourners, caskets, and one-dimensional photos of the deceased.

The deceased. Passed away. I desire a new language for the dead. Something less gentle and polite, more in tune with the raw, heaving experience of loss. At the same time, there is also a place for silence. Something like the practice of the Liberal Friends of Quakerism, who gather in silent worship and speak only if/when they are moved to do so. I want to negotiate and understand quantum physics, the nature of energy transformation and the deceptive nature of solid material forms.

I believe I had a fleeting encounter with my grandmother after she died. I have had psychic readings and genuinely believed in them. I talk to the dead as if they can hear me. I talk to my own spirit (for lack of a better word) as if it exists outside of my body, an older and wiser entity than I. I realize that all of this could be a lie I tell myself. My own construction of comfort in the face of all that is unknowable.

In our chaotic and conflict-ridden world, I am grateful to have this freedom: to write these words without censorship, and to seek, articulate, and practice my own beliefs without persecution. Much like my body, this is something I have taken for granted most of my life.

Let this be an acknowledgement of gratitude, written in my skin.

Tales from the Dark Side

2009-10-31T12:04:00.000-07:00

Halloween, like so many other cultural celebrations, has emerged from ancient rituals associated with several different historical eras. According to History.com, the Celtic festival of Samhain (a celebration that acknowledged the blurring of worlds between the living and the dead) and the later Roman festival of Feralia (a commemoration of the passing of the dead), both took place at the end of October and serve as the origins of what is currently referred to as Halloween. Due to later Christian influences, November 1st was dubbed "All Saints' Day," a time to honour saints and martyrs. In Middle English "Alholowmesse" means All Saints' Day, and over time the Celtic Samhain festival began to be referred to as "All-hallows Eve" and eventually, Halloween.

We are tapping into a rich cultural tapestry each year on October 31st. It is a time when people, young and old, are permitted to transform and become something "other" than what they are. I believe this to be a fascinating and important ritual. As adults, we are given the rare opportunity to become anything from ridiculous, to cute, to bawdy, to grotesque, and for one day, friends and strangers alike laugh and nod and allow us this transgression. It is a day to inhabit our own personal angels and demons; we can be that which we wish we were, or that which we could never imagine being. What a gift it is to experience the "other," both within and without.

Tonight, I am going to be a Pink Lady from Grease fame. Past costumes include a gypsy, a forest nymph (one of my personal favs), a garbage bag (I had confidence issues in elementary school), a gigantic sock, a hippie (another fav), Cleopatra, Barbra Streisand in Hello, Dolly!, and the list goes on.

I have, of course, seen many versions of Michael Jackson wandering around this year. The cultural phenomenon of Thriller and the legacy of his life are acting as a resurrection of sorts. And is this not the heart of this ancient ritual? To blur the lines between the living and the dead and honour their contributions and their sacrifices?

I am eager to see what the inhabitants of Vancouver bring out of their closets, costume stores, and Value Village pillages on this ancient night of the dead. My black cat, Cleo, will sit in silhouette on the window ledge, watching numerous souls haunt the streets, perhaps perceiving more than me.

3 Questions for Steven Pressfield (part 3 of 3)

2009-10-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the final instalment of my Q&A with Steven Pressfield. He discusses the process of revision and how sitting down to do the work is really just a matter of will power, commitment and the strength to conquer RESISTANCE ...

MS: I always have trouble finding the motivation to revise my work (although I know this is just as important as the initial creative output). Do you have any tools or tips for approaching the revision process?

SP: Just will power, Melissa. Someone once said (and I agree): "There's no such thing as writing, only re-writing." To me, the revision process is not only very important, but fun. I'll do twelve or thirteen drafts on a book--and each one changes the original significantly. When I read someone's work that hasn't been strenuously edited and revised, I can see it. It's not good.

I read an article once, where the reporter was watching Barbra Streisand record a song. She did it over and over. The reporter was rolling his eyes. But he said in the end, "I couldn't tell the difference between Take Six and Take Seven, but I could tell the difference between Take One and Take Thirteen."

If you're having trouble finding the motivation to revise your work, my advice would be to regard that trouble as Resistance. In other words, it's internal self-sabotage. Thus you have to regard those thoughts as "not your own" and dismiss them. No matter how subtle or convincing those thoughts may be, recognize them at once as Resistance and don't give them credence for a second. Put on your professional writer hat and make yourself sit down and revise. The pool is icy when you first plunge in, but after a minute or two you'll be swimming with ease.

Pressfield explores these ideas further in his blog post: Writing Wednesdays #12: Self-Talk and Self-Sabotage. He offers an in-depth analysis of how Resistance manifests itself through the voices in our heads. Stop listening and change the channel! Fill up the static with your creative energy, in whatever way it manifests itself.

Thank you for these invaluable insights, Steven!

3 Questions for Steven Pressfield (part 2 of 3)

2009-10-15T14:09:00.000-07:00

I'm back with part two of my Q&A with Steven Pressfield. This week, he offers insights and suggestions for writers with regards to time management (and staying sane) while juggling multiple projects and responsibilities. If you do not currently have the luxury of devoting all your working hours to one project, Pressfield's suggestions may be just what the "Muse" ordered.

MS: Do you work on more than one project at once, and if so, how do you organize your time in a way that is productive?

SP: For years I only worked on one project at a time and treated it exactly like a job: a daily routine, a steady working rhythm that would let me build momentum over time, patience to view the overall project as a marathon and not a sprint--and thus take time pressure off myself. But in the last couple of years, opportunities have presented themselves where I am working on more than one at once. I don't really like it. It's hard. Really requires mental compartmentalization. I will literally block out blocks of time (and hold myself to it), where I'll work on Project X from ten to twelve, then cut it off and go from twelve to two on Project Y. The Muse doesn't seem to mind. She seems to be able to switch over without missing a beat.

But, obviously, it's harder to juggle multiple projects because it demands rigid time management. One thing I DON'T want to do is let one project languish, if I'm working on more than one. It's important, for me anyway, to "touch base" with a project every day, even if it's only for a short period. Projects are like children; they get lonely if you don't tuck 'em in each night. Then they can start causing trouble--and we don't want that!

Check back next week for the final installment of my Q&A, in which Pressfield discusses the process of revision and how to conquer resistance. Until then, take care of your children, fellow writers.

3 Questions for Steven Pressfield (part 1 of 3)

2009-10-08T13:28:00.000-07:00

Through a fortuitous connection via Twitter, I was given the opportunity to ask author and historian Steven Pressfield three questions about the writing process. I am going to post one question/answer per week, starting today. Read below for his thoughts on navigating form and genre. I have been grappling with this issue a lot lately with regards to story ideas and how to decide on the manner in which they should be told. Apparently I am not alone, as Pressfield reassures me in his answer below.

MS: Considering that you work in multiple genres, do you ever have trouble deciding what form a particular idea/story should take?

SP: I ALWAYS have trouble deciding what form a particular/idea story should take. In many ways, that's the hardest part. What's the theme? What's the point of view? If it's first-person, who's the person? If it's not, what angle is the story being told from? How does it start? How does it end? What's the tone of voice? What's the "voice," period?

I have no method for answering these questions. I just trust my instincts. I try to "feel" the story and let it tell me how it wants to be told. I'm not sure why, but for me a lot of the time I use intermediate characters--like young Hardy in "Bagger Vance" or Xeo in "Gates of Fire." Someone who is relatable-to by the reader and can serve as a "way into the story." But not always.

I'm not sure this answer is helping too much. Bottom line: each story is different, for all of us, and each one demands a response all its own. I don't think it ever gets easier.

Well, my fellow writers, let's keep asking those questions until the story reveals its nature and form to us. Stay tuned for question #2 next week! Pressfield will discuss the nature of a writer's workday and strategies for time and project management. Best on your words until then ...

He Sang, He Danced, He Stole the Show

2009-10-01T12:13:00.000-07:00

I just returned from the Jason Mraz concert in Vancouver and can't seem to stop smiling. Something about his incredible talent, positive energy, and generosity emanates outward and is infectious. He's one of those musicians that you cannot truly appreciate until you see him perform live. As one fellow concertgoer put it, while she walked behind me over the Cambie Street Bridge on our way home: "I knew I liked him, but I had no idea he was THAT talented." Here, here!

The depth and breadth of his vocal stylistic range (from reggae, to pop, to skat, to operatic) is a marvel to witness, but what impressed me most was the diversity of fans that Mraz has managed to gather around him. The audience consisted of individuals from a variety ethnic backgrounds and age ranges. From a young boy of seven attending his first concert, to an older man in his 40s or 50s singing along to his anthem-like track "I'm Yours" with the exuberance of a teenager, Mraz is an artist who knows how to bring people together.

Some of his lyrics reflect more serious themes, such as the struggle so many of us have with self-love and learning how to honestly look at ourselves and our actions. In "Details in the Fabric" (probably my favourite song by Mraz), he encourages us: "If it's a broken part, replace it / if it's a broken arm then brace it / if it's a broken heart then face it." Kind, but firm. He wants us to heal ourselves and live from a place of gratitude instead of victimhood.

I will sign off with an inspired charge by this wonderful musician (lyric taken from the same song): "Hold your own / know your name / and go your own way." I'll try my best, Jason. What will you do, dear reader?

Re-emergence

2009-09-25T00:11:00.000-07:00

After an embarassingly long absence, I have returned to my lonely blog. I have, in a sense, returned, to a former state of relative optimism (by what miracle I cannot say). Could it perchance be that I have finally committed to being a writer in earnest? The first few weeks of my MFA in Creative Writing at UBC have been, as one of my fellow students put it "a shit show," but in some hazy image of mid-autumn leaves and fog I forsee some kind of reprieve. Some form of becoming.

You know when you're feeling pretty self-satisfied and sitting on your laurels of imagined future accomplishment and constructed complacency, telling yourself that one day (when you stop escaping into movies every evening and swatting away the persistent little voice that patiently asks you why you're not doing what you were put on this earth to do) you will in fact be a [insert passion here]? Well, I've been doing that for [insert embarassingly long time here]. No more I say! And I say it again! Every morning ... until I act upon it.

The thing about finally committing to a course of action is that, for good or ill, it transforms your current state of being. You might lose people who don't want to see you change. You might not recognize your life at the end of this detour. Fate seems to be a matter of recognizing readiness. Shit storm? Bring it!

This gale's got nothing on me.

Book Review: Eat, Pray, Love

2008-01-09T14:38:00.001-08:00

Eat, Pray, Love is everywhere and everyone seems to have nothing but good things to say about it. Elizabeth Gilbert has done something extremely brave in this account of her journey towards self-realization by taking the reader through it all with her--the good, the bad, and the ... beautiful. She invites the reader to be her confidant, best friend, travel companion and silent partner in the difficult and courageous act of truly looking oneself full in the face and living honestly with what one finds there.

Eat, Pray, Love is a chronicle of Gilbert's travels through Italy, India and Indonesia, where she respectively pursues the arts of pleasure, devotion and balance. The book is structured around 108 tales that mirror the 108 beads of the japa mala, a traditional Indian prayer necklace. Gilbert grounds the reader in each place with intriguing insights and illuminations of the cities and villages in which she stays and sprinkles the tales with several colourful and fascinating characters. Most endearingly, she expresses herself with self-depreciating humour and wit throughout even the most heart-wrenching of her struggles. The book stands as a love letter to the human experience, as well as the earth on which we carry it out.

As Gilbert prepares to move on from Italy, she sums up her experience in this way: "... I will leave with the hope that the expansion of one person--the magnification of one life--is indeed an act of worth in this world. Even if that life, just this one time, happens to be nobody's but my own."

Here's to the myriad ways in which we can all exercise a similar kind of expansion in our lives.

Focus!

2007-12-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

I sit alone in the library blaring Counting Crows, considering what to do with my last day of work before the holidays. That's right! I wrote a blog once upon a time. I think my lack of motivation stems from the fact that this blog has lacked focus and therefore I have set a posting schedule for the new year:

1. Monthly book reviews (upcoming December review: Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert)

2. Monthly movie reviews (I would say weekly, but I really do have to cut back on my movie addiction to make time for writing).

I also plan to periodically post updates on the progress of my writing life with related news, events and (dare I say?) publications. I am currently participating in the Wired Writing Studio facilitated by The Banff Centre and for the first time in years I am actually excited about writing. Hell, I'm writing at work! I heard that J.K. Rowling was once fired from a secretarial job for writing stories on the company's dime (or shilling) ... perhaps this is the start of a glittering career writing best-selling young adult fantasy fiction?

Alas, I keep returning to poetry. My mentor assures me that considering the state of the world, we poets have a very important job. I have to agree. To listen to a master speak about the craft, check out this interview with Don Domanski (winner of the 2007 Governor General's Award for Poetry): http://www.cbc.ca/wordsatlarge/blog/2007/12/poet_of_the_month_don_domanski.html.

Random Encounters

2007-07-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

Random Encounter #1: I was taking my usual walk at lunch today and came upon a woman in the park who was surrounded by 7 children under 5 years of age rolling around on the grass (I'm hoping she ran a daycare, as opposed to having 2 sets of twins + 3 kids). Anyhow, three of the little tykes were crawling through this cylindrical tunnel that looked like an massive slinky covered in fabric. Resisiting the urge to join the young ones in their fun, I settled for smiling and saying hello to one of the little boys who looked to be about 2. Here's how it went:

Me: Hi!
2 year-old: Well, hello (smiling sweetly)
Me: How are you? (laughing)
2 year-old: I'm fine thank you, how are you?
Me: I'm well! (astonished, still laughing)

First off, who talks this way anymore? Secondly, what kind of 2 year-old has such polite manners and proper sentence structure? Okay, maybe he was 3. Nevertheless, it made my afternoon.

Random Encounter #2: A virtual encounter on Facebook. A big, buff man who looks like a champion kickboxer sends me a message wondering if I have any relatives in Fraser Lake. I reply that no, I do not know anyone from Fraser Lake, nor do I know him come to that. We have not had any further communication. Right.

Random Encounter #3: I was having post-work drinks and appies at Earl's and one of my colleagues' friends from salsa class stopped by our table and sat down next to me. He was a very artistic and passionate Spaniard and when I mentioned my failed attempts at learning to speak Spanish, he informed me that perhaps I was "too smart" and that learning a new language has nothing to do with logic, but "is an art, to be learned from the heart." I was rather alarmed and intrigued by this information and am now considering going back to my Spanish textbooks with a closed mind and an open heart. (I wonder what my grammatically correct little 2 year-old would have to say about this).

Recent/Upcoming Events

2007-06-23T18:25:00.000-07:00

Soul2Soul - Tim McGraw and Faith Hill
Eagerly anticipated, this concert did not fail to please. When the two country superstar lovebirds emerged from under the stage singing Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars, I knew I was in for a good night. 3 hours of Tim and Faith! Admittedly, there were a few moments of utter cheese and a flock of insane fans knocking people over for a mere touch their idols' outstretched hands. I was also a little perturbed by good ol' Tim tracing his hand across his crotch area as he sang "suntan line," but I can forgive overt sexuality from such a sexy bugger. The question must be asked, however, is he balding beneath that ever-present cowboy hat? Faith was gorgeous and singing those pipes for all they were worth, which one had to sit back and admire, even if a few of her songs are rather generic and uninteresting. A couple of beautiful, talented people that give one something to strive for (well, if you have a buried dream of being a lounge singer like myself, that is).

La La La Human Steps
My friend Lindsay and I are both ex-childhood dancers who still have latent dreams of becoming professionals. To appease this desire, we buy season tickets to Ballet BC's Dance Alive program and the occasional one-off dance performance that rolls into town. One such show was the latest brainchild of Edourd Lock (founder of La La La Human Steps) entitled, Amjad. What a visual and sensual feast, let me tell you! If you ever have a chance to see a show by La La La Human Steps (based out of Montreal) do check it out. (Note: programs are long and quite modern). The level of skill and originality of choreography will blow your mind. Highlights included and man dancing en pointe, film projections on circular screens and live music on stage that almost rivalled the dance. You'll feel very cultured and artsy amongst the creatively attired audience members. Wear a feather in your hat or something.

Coming up ... Year-end Party at Work
I will have to report the goings-on of the upcoming year-end party with my co-workers because a) staff parties are always interesting and/or ridiculous, and b) the Christmas party culminated in a group of teachers and admin staff playing "I Never ..." in the downstairs bar of the Hotel Vancouver. Does one really need to know the sexual proclivities of one's co-workers? Perhaps not, but it's oh so fun to gossip about. Stay tuned!

Spring Break Surgery

2007-03-20T14:19:00.000-07:00

Well, the title is a touch misleading, but I'm a Leo and have a flair for the dramatic. I just had a minor surgery done to remove a strange and unbecoming lump that has been growing between my ribs for a good seven years now. Here is an account of my ordeal ...

I arrive at the clinic at 9 a.m. sharp on the first day of my week off from work and before I know it, I'm lying on the bed, shirtless and freezing. Good ol' Dr. Irvine tries to relax me by asking what I do for a living as he presses the knife down into my abdomen. I reply with a little yelp of pain and demand more local anesthetic. Not an auspiscious beginning.

When I am sufficiently numb, I lie there with my eyes averted for 15 minutes of yanking and cutting that has me growing increasingly nervous and nauseous. It literally feels like Irvine is trying to pull out my lung. I feel little trickles of moisture (blood) rolling down my side and begin to imagine my ribs laid bare in the open air and a monstrous lump being extracted. He begins throwing out comments such as, "well this is certainly different" and "take a deep breath so we can release it from your ribs." Not very encouraging. Nonetheless, I start to feel oddly fascinated by the idea of being given a little glimpse into the tireless, organic machine beneath my skin. How it is mine, yet possesses a will of its own that is separate from me.

Once the lump is finally out and I am all stitched up, Irvine holds up the little culprit for me to see and I stare without emotion at the gelatinous, deflated little cyst I have been harbouring in my chest for the better part of a decade. It was full of old blood, he said. Well, whatever was coursing around in there, I release you.

I leave the clinic a little dizzy and shaky and Wade is waiting there to deliver me back to my cozy couch for several hours of cuddling, napping and Lord of the Rings. Just what the doctor ordered. Well that and some polysporin.

The Big Move

2007-02-13T16:12:00.001-08:00

After a week and a half of general fatigue and recurrent nausea, I have moved into my new place. It is another basement suite, as predicted. However, it’s in a cute little house with a pitched roof just blocks from my favourite cafes and consignment stores on Main Street. How could I refuse?

Big life changes are not something that I do all that well. I’m a little like my cat that way—I scout out my territory and lash out at those who disrupt or infringe upon it unless they are invited. I’m also a little perturbed about how much stuff I have managed to accumulate and am both amused and annoyed by my lack of filtering skills. Why, for instance, do I still have all of my lecture notes from university Art History and English classes? Am I planning on re-enacting a night of cramming for the final exam? How about the old scrawled high school notes passed between various girlfriends? Certainly they are nostalgic and amusing, but NECESSARY? Then there are the tougher ones … sentimental yet obsolete gifts and items from old lovers that will never again be displayed and rarely looked at. For some reason, I am not able to toss these into the trash or “Donation” box. I’m going to be one of those old ladies with an attic full of such items that my grandchildren will one day rifle through as they muse about their crazy granny’s youth. Yes, that thought makes my crowded storage room seem a little more tolerable.

Here is a list of Melissa’s Moving Tips (compiled mainly from what I did wrong) for anyone who is planning to move anytime soon:

~ Pack well ahead of time and label your boxes. Believe me, the several boxes of “Miscellaneous” items that were thrown together at the last minute are the bane of my redecorating experience.

~ Remember to eat. Seriously, it’s been a big problem. Many packaged dinners at 11:00 p.m. lately.

~ If you have a cat, make sure there is a safe spot in the new place for him/her to run and hide before you transport the poor soul to your new home. In Cleo’s case, her memories of panting, crying and attacking the cage door were quickly alleviated by a few hours of refuge under my bed.

~ And finally, accept help from family and friends when it’s offered. My mantra while growing up was, “I’ll do it myself!” This one cannot be done by oneself. Phew!

Thank you to everyone who helped to “replant” me in Vancouver.

Basement dweller

2007-01-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

I have lived in one basement suite or another for over a decade now. Here are some standard issue circumstances of the basement dweller ...

~ The people living upstairs are elephants, no matter how light-footed they believe themselves to be.

~ Unless you control your own heat, you will freeze. I've been known to sport sweaters in the height of summer after a descent into the subterranean icebox. Heat rises people.

~ The fridge is most likely several decades old, boasting a freezer (which doesn't actually keep your food frozen) that either grows into an impenetrable mountain of ice, or else drips all over your pickles and mayo.

~ The bathroom is built for Bilbo and Frodo.

~ Stove? What stove?

All this being said, it's not as if I have made much of an effort to change my situation. In fact, I am currently looking for a new place to live and will undoubtedly move into my fourth basement suite. Perhaps I have an affinity for caves. Or maybe it's an aversion to paying an exorbitant amount of money for a bit of walled-in space that floats above the ground. I want to be close to the earth, even if it means I need to walk around with blankets about my shoulders and take an ice pick to the freezer to make room for the frozen fruit.

On the continued search for a place to call home, I'm happy to continue living beneath someone else's.

First cars and childhood homes

2007-01-03T10:47:00.000-08:00

Time is a funny thing. It speeds, it slows, it stops, it starts.

I just sold the little Honda Civic Hatchback I had owned for the past 10 years. I bought it when I was 19 and had the landscape of my 20s spilling out in front of me: an uncharted territory. This little Honda carried me down the West Coast to California and up through the heart of BC to a midsummer music festival in Smithers. It took me west to the Islands, east to the Interior and was ever a Trooper (as I so lovingly named her).

It is interesting how objects become material witnesses to our lives. Just over a year ago, my parents sold the house I lived in throughout my childhood and adolescence. I was about 5 years old when we moved into the old character house on Georgia Street and it's the closest definition of "home" that I have come up with so far in my life. The last time I was in the house, I walked from room to room and paused for a moment in each one to allow 20+ years worth of memories flood my mind ... the bedroom in which I lost my virginity, the stale smell and slanted ceilings of the attic, the basement full of my father's dusty old books and LPs, the wood-burning fireplace and bay windows of the living room that hosted so many Christmases, the details on the kitchen walls - pencil marks charting the growth of two daughters, the wooden door worn away by the dogs, scratching to get outside. Memories are virtual, but it's difficult not to be nostalgic about the objects that hold them.

I had much the same sense of nostalgia as I prepared to pass my little Honda onto it's next owner. It was my vehicle - literally and figuratively - from childhood to adulthood. Nevertheless, as I approach my 30th birthday, I am beginning to realize that home cannot be simply described as a place, or a decade's worth of living encapsulated in one's first car. For me, life exists somewhere in between memories and dreams ... and is defined by the people that populate both of these.