a tale of two doctors

the other day, i went to my new dentist for the first time.

if you recall, dr. smiles, my dentist of nearly 20 years, was diagnosed with a brain tumour last year, and died this past february 12th.

thankfully, her former hygienist and i had stayed in touch, and so it was that i was sitting in the exam chair of her (the hygienist's) new practice on monday. because it was my first visit, i had to fill out the requisite paperwork and medical history, and my hygienist friend was reviewing it all as we chatted and caught up before my cleaning.

"hey," she said as she read. "your family doctor is dr. textbook?" (she used dr. textbook's real name, of course.)

i said yes.

"i used to play squash with her," said my hygienist friend.

i sort of rolled my eyes. "well, i'm in the market for a new family doctor."

when she asked why, i explained all about dr. textbook -- including the nickname -- and told her that, in addition to dr. textbook's complete lack of people skills, there's absolutely no connection there... that i'm pretty sure dr. textbook wouldn't know my name if we were to run into each other outside her office. my hygienist didn't really seem all that surprised.

"you know she was dr. smiles' family doctor, right?" she said. "and i remember dr. smiles saying, `that woman has no idea what she's doing.'"

i nearly fell out of the chair.

turns out dr. textbook was the one who (thankfully) first referred dr. smiles to an oncologist when she (dr. smiles) found a strange lump under her arm -- the one that turned out to be the breast cancer that would gradually metastasize and spread and, ultimately, kill her -- years ago.

so strange.

the world is truly a small, small place sometimes.

nevermind the irony of one of my favourite health-care providers being treated by my most useless one.

taxed

i just finished filing my 2009 income-tax return.

and, for the first time in my entire life, i had to record a net loss.

a loss.

as in, i didn't even register enough income to break even on my business-use-of-home expenses. not even one dollar.

i made less than half of the already-thin amount i earned in 2008.

it was, in a word, sobering.

i tried to make light of it as best i could, and to rationalize my way through this horrifying revelation, because my mother was sitting in the next room.

but i felt like a gigantic disappointment. and a big fat failure.

earthiness

earth hour happened tonight.

and, as i sat in my apartment on big red, listening to sarah vaughan by the flickering of assorted tea lights, i became very contemplative. i spent a good chunk of that hour thinking. about lots of things. about time. about life. it made me a bit sad.

i went to my bedroom window and stared out at the world for a little while, and noticed that plenty of people in neighbouring apartments and houses were obviously not hugging the planet. not even for an hour. it made me a bit sad.

when 9:30 rolled around, i kept the lights off, and kept sarah playing, and kept thinking.

H

a short trip to the library turned into a nearly two-hour walk this afternoon for two reasons:

1. the weather outside, though cold, was so wonderfully gorgeous that it practically demanded a nice, long walk.

and

2. i left the library and began a mental exercise that took another 90 minutes to complete, and i decided when i began that i wouldn’t go home until i was done.

lately, despite the clear blue skies and sunshine, my walks have been clouded with unsettling mental noise. no matter what my intent when heading out, it’s only a few blocks before the negativity soundtrack begins to play incessantly in my brain. it often starts with just a stray thought but, before i know it, my mind is trapped in a relentless loop of self-criticism, reminding me of all my problems, each of my failures, everything i’ve done wrong. and, no matter how often i try to hit the “stop” button or redirect my thoughts elsewhere, the soundtrack only fades out for a minute before it keeps right on playing.

sometimes, it’s not until i’m actually on the verge of tears as i’m walking that i snap out of my gloom spiral and realize what’s happening: that i’ve let the soundtrack play too long and too loudly. it’s embarrassing and frustrating, and i try to block that infernal playlist... but am often unsuccessful.

so, today, i was on my way home from the library when i realized it was too lovely a day not to extend my walk home. and, sure enough, a few steps later the soundtrack started up... but i stopped it.

angry at myself for doing it yet again, i decided to shut it off immediately and to come up with some kind of distracting mental activity so that my brain would be too occupied to focus on all the things wrong with my life and with myself. it’s so very easy, especially for me, to dwell on the lack or the loss or the leftover feelings, but hard to remember there are always good things present right alongside the not-so-good.

that’s when i had the idea to go through the alphabet and, letter by letter, mentally list all the good things in my life – people, places, things, feelings, whatever... stuff that makes me happy or stuff i like or just good stuff – that start with each letter, listing everything i could think of for one letter before moving on to the next.

i really didn’t think it would take me that long, but i was surprised that, as i went, i was coming up with more than just a handful of words... likely because i hadn’t factored in exactly how many seemingly insignificant things are actually good.

apples, babies laughing, cat whiskers, december... and on it went, each letter bringing unexpected results.

but one letter turned out to hold more meaning than the rest.

H.

H was a powerful letter. and, as i slowly began to realize H’s importance, i made a mental note to remember the words that were coming to mind:

heart
home
happiness
humour
hellos
help
horses
hounds
harps
hummingbirds
hamburgers
hot dogs
hot chocolate
health
holidays
hula hoops
halloween
honey
hoodies
honeycrisps
history
hats
heaven
hope
hugs
healing
i enjoyed all the letters, and the tiny reminders i was giving myself, but H was my favourite. i kept going, finishing off the alphabet just as i arrived at my apartment... repeatedly drifting back to H.

as i walked through my door and took off my jacket, i felt very satisfied.

because not only had i come up with all sorts of words but, for an hour and a half of walking, thinking of things i like meant the self-destructive soundtrack stayed completely, blissfully silent.

get your candles

earth hour is tomorrow.
saturday, march 27th.
8:30pm local time.
wherever you are in the world.
turn off your lights and non-essential electronic devices for one hour.
and hug the planet a little.

the funny thing about feelings

for a while, and i’ve mentioned this before, i’ve thought about launching an off-shoot blog called feelings: the blog.

i’ve written about feelings here in the past, but it always seemed like the wrong venue... especially given the jaunty sub-hed below the title above, and the occasionally darker emotions about which i've written. feelings often don’t fall under the “all things silly” banner and, even though they may spawn writing, they’re not exactly about writing or being a writer much of the time.

at first, it was more of a lark – what if i had a whole blog devoted to feelings? – but the urge to create that outlet has actually become greater as time’s gone on. i’m not sure why, it just has. there have been days when i’ve been out for a walk, trying to block out the negative soundtrack that often plays on a loop in my head as i go, and i’ve thought, “ugh, i should write about this and just get rid of it. i should have started that feelings blog!”

on those days, i realize if i’d built the blog already, i could just log in and write as soon as i got home. it would be so handy to have it all set up and ready to go when needed because, really, who wants to worry about choosing background colours and rewriting HTML code to format a blog template when a strong feeling suddenly wants to come out? it’s a bit like an emergency-preparedness kit: you put it together in advance so that you have it at the ready the instant you need it instead of scrambling around looking for bottles of water and flashlights and band-aids when the earthquake hits or the tornado blows through town.

but then the other half of my brain would promptly chime in, pointing out how self-absorbed and self-indulgent and eyeroll-worthy a feelings blog would be. “who the hell wants to read about you feeling sad or afraid or insecure? how lame and precious can you get? it'll be the online equivalent of a notebook of bad, angst-ridden teenage poetry... or, worse, leelee sobieski poetry. besides, you know what happens when you talk about feelings -- people flee!”

and, to some extent, that’s true. it is self-indulgent, and most people do scatter to the four winds when i bring up feelings... but maybe that’s okay in this context.

rather than having all my doubts and fears and insecurities and worries filling up every iota of space in my brain, and slowly eating away at it in the process, maybe – for my own sake – i need to put them somewhere else.

“but why in a blog?” i hear some of you say.

well, partly because i need to feel like i’m getting it out and away. that i’m in conversation with someone, even if that someone is just silently reading along, because it’s often in talking about things (or, for me, writing about them) that epiphanies can happen and understanding can emerge.

but i’m also going the blog route because i think many of the things i feel might, in some small way, be felt by other people. maybe the specific details or the circumstances or the colours of a situation are different, but the feelings are relatable. (or maybe not. who knows?) so there’s always a chance that someone else reading might think, “oh, you know what? i’ve been there, too. that’s happened to me. i’ve felt just like that.”

so, today, after much waffling, i broke metaphorical ground on feelings: the blog.

and, like the halting brrrrrrrrrpppt of a record-needle scratch, all the feelings that had been clamouring for attention for so long immediately froze, afraid to express themselves, as if overcome with a paralyzing case of performance anxiety.

frenzied

i've decided to enter the script frenzy fray.

it's an offshoot of NaNoWriMo, with this challenge being to write a 100-page screenplay in a month (april).

so, april 1st, i'll give it a shot.

curiouser and curiouser...

i think there are actually three people living in the apartment next door.

omar, the creepy guy. he lives there for sure.

the weird, hall-monitor guy who's always lived there. he's also there.

and, the latest development: an unidentified woman, whose voice i can hear through the wall.

did i mention it's a one-bedroom unit?

on the one hand, this could explain the in-and-out frequency and all the opening/closing doors. i know omar smokes, and i know weird guy doesn't like cigarette smoke, so omar could be going outside to smoke multiple times a day.

and three people coming and going from the same unit would obviously create more traffic than just one.

but what is going on over there? there's no way i could see omar and weird guy being friends, really, let alone roommates. and how does the unidentified woman figure into things???

what i was

not so long ago, i was a writer who made her living from writing.

i had my writing published, every single week, in a national magazine with a readership in the hundreds of thousands.

for years.

i interviewed celebrities and creative types, i reviewed films, i wrote about TV and movies and actors and musicians and whether reality shows were worthwhile entertainment.

and i was really good at it.

i worked hard, and i multitasked like a master. i had daily and weekly deadlines that i juggled with ease. i stayed late and went into the office on weekends. i kept track of everything that needed to be done, and then did it. my desk held spiral-bound steno pads filled with notes and contact names and phone numbers and email addresses. and it felt good.

more than that, i was together. i was an organizational machine. i was on the ball. on top of things. sharp as a tack. i knew what i was doing and i was more than confident in my abilities.

and i had fun.

i loved the writing part of my job and the people or projects about which i wrote. i enjoyed the energy of the process. i was part of a team and i had my place. my spot. my routine. as they say in the rodeo, i got ‘er done. and i had a job that a slew of folks would have jumped at if given the chance.

but my professional life hasn’t been like that for me for a while. assignments have all but dried up, and this blog is the most substantial amount of writing i’ve done in ages. i feel myself shriveling up in so many ways, creatively and intellectually.

as i worked on my portfolio yesterday, copying old articles and looking through the massive stacks of my clippings, i realized how good i had it and how much i miss it.

not just the regular pay cheque, but the work. the sense of accomplishment, of having done something and finished something day in and day out, even if it was just a really awesome 150-word blurb about Bring It On or a clever photo caption.

i never went to bed wondering what i’d do the next day; i knew.

i would work.

i was a writer who made a good living doing something she loved.

and i so want to be able to do that again.

some things about sunday

∞ Felicity reruns make for delightful sunday-morning TV. i loved that series, and think it remains one of the best-lit and most-underrated shows in recent memory.

∞ the garlic bread i had at lunch today was wet. as in: sort of crispy around the perimeter, but not toasted in the middle. just smeary and wet, with a ton of margarine. it was gross. but, being a cafeteria, there was no “send it back” option. i chose it. so i ate about four bites of crust and then abandoned the soggy effort.

∞ i have been trying to meditate, even if only for five minutes, before i go to bed each night.

∞ they’re shutting off the water in my building from 10am – 2pm tomorrow for some sort of plumbing-related maintenance. this means i have to find someplace else to be for at least four hours. i kind of wanted to stay in tomorrow, and just hibernate, but i’ll be heading out right after breakfast and returning well after lunch.

∞ have you ever had a “california cutie” mandarin orange? they are tiny, seedless, vibrant in colour, rich in flavour and absolutely delicious.

∞ i thought lefty might have disappeared a couple of weeks ago, when i had that day-and-a-half of intermittent pain. it was followed by relative internal quiet for nearly two weeks. but i think i was mistaken, as it appears to be acting up again. drat.

∞ sometimes, in moments of unexpected panic – like an hour ago, when there was sudden, loud banging coming from the apartment next door that made my heart leap into my throat – i think about the months after i left hell house. and i wonder what would happen if i once again had to pack my things into storage and move in with trixie. i actually started looking around my apartment and debating what i would get rid of if i absolutely had to. it was like Sophie’s Choice, but with furniture. (note: thankfully, the banging ended immediately after it started. it was the volume and the in-the-midst-of-silence of the noise that was so jarring. i blame PTSD.)

∞ earlier this evening, i watched the season finale of Celebrity Rehab. i’ve mentioned the series before, and i continue to find it surprisingly moving and compelling. sure, some of it is nothing more than exploitative TV, but hidden within its occasionally trashy package are moments of pure, often heartbreaking, emotion and revelation. i totally cried.

∞ i’m very much looking forward to seeing this.

∞ feelings: the blog may happen.

a slice of saturday

morning

• mini wheats.

• laundry.

• two cemeteries. two polar opposite ends of the city.

• multiple grocery stores. no cake.


afternoon

• panera. free slices of tomato-basil bread. meh soup.

• another grocery. this one, with cake.

• new soap for the shower.

• more laundry.


evening

• dad's birthday dinner. he behaved.

• birthday cake.

• sleepover at the chateau.

• homemade party nuts + Project Runway.

june is eleven weeks from now

yesterday, i found out from a fellow tenant that my super is out of the country until JUNE, so i have a while to go before i can get the scoop on what the hell's going on in the apartment next to mine. turns out, she left at the start of february for a four-month visit to colombia (where she's originally from) to decide whether she wants to move back there permanently. and i felt kind of queasy as soon as i heard this bit of news.

my super, who's amazing, was one of the reasons i chose this apartment. she's run the building for 20 years, and lives in it, so she's always had a vested interest in making sure it's clean, quiet and safe. she's done an excellent job on all three fronts and, as a single woman living alone, i've always felt extra-secure knowing that a tough little woman was in charge.

but now there's a chance she may retire. and leave. and that makes me nervous.

the hug

i have written about my dreamlife, and dreams, several times before. i’ve described how they occasionally offer me comfort or insight, and that i even find solutions or resolution within them once in a while.

i’ve written about the rare but profound love dreams and the powerful emotion they contain.

i’ve written about strange and symbolic dreams, with their confusing imagery and curious messages.

and i’ve written about outright nightmares that leave me shaken once i wake.

last night, i had a dream that, in terms of classification, wasn’t necessarily a love dream but would probably come closest to the feelings i experience in them.

and all it took was one hug.

it was a hug that i need in my real life, but one that may or may not ever come. so, i suppose, my subconscious conjured it for me it in my sleep.

it began filled with awkwardness and hesitation, with unspoken sentiments swirling around like leaves in a windstorm. both my hugger and me afraid of making the first move, so to speak. even though in my waking life i am almost always the one who cracks first and reaches out first, in my dream it was my hugger who offered a smile, then a word, then a shimmer of tears welling in her eyes. and, in that instant, as tears welled in mine, i knew everything was okay.

i took a few steps forward and we hugged. then just... stood there and held each other. not in a sexual way or a creepy way; a quiet, loving one.

and, in that embrace in my dream, i was overcome with deep feelings of acceptance and healing, of being forgiven, of being comforted and of offering comfort, of understanding and kindness, and of a gentle, soul-calming peace. i can’t articulate the feeling well enough to properly convey its potency, but it was as if it wrapped around every cell in my body until my heart felt like it might be glowing.

slowly, the metaphoric distance vanished and we both tightened the hug, as if to say, “good.”

and then i woke up.

the dream’s soothing warmth hung on briefly as i lay in bed staring at the ceiling, then the hug began to evaporate and, inch by inch, give way to the awareness of its absence in my waking life. and i felt a heaviness in my chest. it was a bit like going from feeling full to feeling hollow.

the more i turned the dream over in my mind, trying to remember every detail and savour the good feeling as long as possible, the more i began to realize that there might be more to its meaning than simply the power of a much-needed embrace from another. we are, after all, every person who appears in our subconscious, each one representing us to ourselves in some way.

yes, the hug from my hugger as it happened in the dream would be undeniably wonderful and healing were it to happen in my waking life, but perhaps in order to achieve that blissful state of peace and calm for real, the person from whom i most need forgiveness and acceptance and understanding is myself.

subway signs

i was on my way home from a screening tonight when i got on a subway, found a spot to stand and looked up.

staring me in the face was a big green ad.

in big white letters was written:

the answer is right in front of you.

i couldn't stop looking at the sign, and then i wondered if it was a sign.

a customer-service triptych: “hi, my tax package is missing...”

panel one: robot

my first call of the day was to revenue canada, to inquire after my MIA tax package. after wading through a few automated steps, i was immediately connected with “desirée.” desirée wasn’t her actual name, but i’ve decided it should be because of the breathy, computer-generated, synthetically soothing quality to her voice. make no mistake, she was a real human being, but she was speaking so clearly and calmly, and enunciating so well that she sounded like S1m0ne, the lead character in the movie where al pacino creates a movie star on his computer.

anyway...

desirée listened to my question, asked me several security questions to ensure i was whom i said i was, and then told me – as though reading from a script – that my package had, indeed, been mailed out. when i asked whether i should be worried that it hadn’t arrived, she suggested (again, in a robotic but pleasant monotone) that i could pick up a package at my local post office, or request (from revenue canada) that another one be mailed out.

“i think you misunderstand,” i said. “i’m not worried about not having the package in my hands, i’m worried about the possibility that it’s in someone else’s hands.” i cited the SIN number, and identity theft, and desirée suggested i call service canada to ask them whether it might be a cause for alarm, and to find out what, if anything, i might want/need to do.

“if you’d like, i can connect you directly,” said desirée in that strange, hypnotic tone.

“that’d be great, thank you,” i replied.

desirée hit a few keys on her phone and then connected me.

to a busy signal.

fin.


panel two: apathy

after getting the busy signal, i looked up the necessary service canada number myself and dialed it. shockingly (not really), no busy signal.

i went through i don’t know how many automated options, pressing one key after another in the hopes of funneling myself through the governmental maze to the correct department or individual. when i finally hit the final key, the one that would get me to where i needed to go, the recorded voice said the following:

if the line is busy, please hang up and try your call again later.

what?! if the line is busy? did i not just meander through a hundred menus to get here? and now there’s a chance i may have to hang up and try to retrace all those steps to try again?

i waited and mentally pleaded that i’d hear it was ringing.

thankfully, it rang.

unthankfully, i wound up talking to “althea,” who seemed kind of irritated from the get-go. (again, not her real name but one i feel suits her personality.)

i explained my situation, and that someone at revenue canada had suggested i call, and then waited for her words of wisdom.

“well, if you want, you can call the two credit agencies and get your credit report to see if anything’s wrong,” she said in a very blasé tone. “but, really, that’s kind of overkill.”

when i pointed out identity theft, and asked whether people stealing revenue canada packages was common, she said, annoyed, “i don’t work for revenue canada.”

oh. i see. this is how it’s going to go. got it.

i rephrased the question, and asked whether mail theft was a common M.O. for identity theft and she said, “oh yeah. it happens all the time.”

“it happens all the time?!” i replied, mildly panicked.

and althea then clarified that it would be a more constant stream of missing mail, or me having lost a wallet, that would lead to identity theft. “unless someone really wanted to target you specifically,” she added.

by now, i had lost hope that althea would: a) be of any help, or b) even understand what i was asking and why.

so i thanked her and said goodbye.

fin.


panel three: relief

once i’d bid adieu to althea, and with my fears still lingering, i decided to call revenue canada again, in the hopes of maybe being connected with someone not inhaling ether.

i dialed.

i waited.

i got “jake” this time around.

and he was a godsend. friendly, helpful, knowledgeable and relaxed.

he and i went through the same set of questions i’d been through twice already. he, too, suggested i pick up a tax package or order another one, and i feared we were veering down the same path i’d just traveled with desirée and althea.

“is there anything else i can help you with today?” he asked.

“well, jake,” i began. “you haven’t really said anything that makes me not worried about my missing package.” i went on to explain the SIN situation, and identity theft, and then it happened.

he gave me a solid answer.

jake told me that an identity thief would need more than just the limited information on my tax package to do anything. “they could even steal your tax assessment and it wouldn’t be enough.”

ahhhhhh. that was what i’d hoped to hear.

“there! now THAT makes me feel better! thank you!” i said.

fin.

WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!?!

so, i just heard some voices in the hallway outside my apartment.

it was a man and a woman, and i imagined perhaps omar was out there with one of his "dates."

i decided to go look through my peephole to see what was going on.

and what i saw blew my mind.

my FORMER next-door neighbour, the weird guy with the (welcomed) hall-monitor tendencies, was walking down the hall with a normal-looking woman (i.e., not a strung-out hooker), laughing and chatting... AND THEN THEY WENT INTO HIS APARTMENT.

the one next to mine.

the one where, i thought, omar the creepy guy had moved. because, AS OF THIS MORNING, omar was still coming and going FROM NEXT DOOR.

but, moments ago, my not-so-former-after-all neighbour was once again heading in. and without any indication that he, you know, no longer lives there.

he must still live there.

the mind reels. REELS, i tell you.

what the hell is going on????

[edited to add: to be clear, i'm not 100% who lives where. i keep hearing the door of the next-door unit opening and closing (and slamming), which is the only reason i suspect these guys are both coming and going from the same place, as i can't *see* the door from my peephole.]

should i be worried?

today, i realized that i never received my 2009 tax package from revenue canada.

evidently, everyone else in the country got theirs in january or february.

it’s now mid-march.

i’ve never not received one before. and i’ve received the previous two years’ packages at this address, so it’s not like there was any kind of interim address change between january 2009 and january 2010 that might result in a misdirected delivery.

because the forms come with a pre-addressed I.D. label (with your social insurance number printed on it) inside, i’m now a little panicked that my forms – and my SIN – have gone missing.

i’ve googled my ass off this afternoon, trying to see what the protocol is or whether this kind of MIA-package situation happens frequently (or even infrequently), but have come up empty.

what i have found are plenty of government and law-enforcement websites warning of identity theft as a result of stolen tax information.

so, you know, that was super-reassuring.

i’ll be calling revenue canada first thing tomorrow morning and, in the meantime, will try to convince myself that the package was, for whatever reason, never sent.

okay, let's be honest...

you know those people who, when asked what they would change about their lives if they could go back in time and do it all over again, immediately answer with, “i wouldn’t change anything! i’d do everything exactly the same!”?

i want to smack those people.

because i don't think they're being completely honest.

i believe there are precious few among us who are so enlightened or evolved or saturated with contentment that they have absolutely nothing in their past they’d want to alter or tweak or enhance or outright delete. for everyone else, i suspect there’s at least one thing, if not dozens – be they major or insignificant – that they’d change if they could.

a bad decision.

a wrong turn.

a poor choice.

a lost opportunity.

a forgotten dream.

a hurtful memory.

a broken heart.

a stubbed toe.

a cootie-laden shrimp cocktail.

a manila-envelope paper cut.

whatever.

something.

i know that regret is a wasted emotion, and that every action precipitates countless subsequent events (the butterfly and the tsunami, if you will), and that changing one thing can, in the end, change everything... not necessarily for the better. i get that. i know that the sum of our life experience, good or bad or otherwise, makes us who we are today, and i suppose if you totally love your life as it is you wouldn't want to risk tinkering with any of the variables, no matter how small, that got you there. understandable. and, i dunno, maybe it's considered weak or foolish or selfish to admit you'd want to change anything about the hand you've been dealt.

but, sometimes, when i think about my life, the points where i made mistakes or missteps or picked the wrong tine at the fork in the road, the moments when i hurt someone or lost something... they shout at me from my memory. or shove me until i trip and fall. or sneak up on me in the dark to see if they can make me cry, like merciless taunts from a stealth gang of schoolyard bullies.

and i can't help but think that being able to go back to change even a few of them wouldn't be such a terrible thing.

take one tablet and call me in the morning

young beatrix works in a magical land where, on occasion, unneeded office equipment and materials are left in a common area – let’s call it the surplus-liberation zone – for the taking. sometimes, the surplus-liberation zone includes things like furniture, beakers the size of small children, and electronics. YB once snagged me a sony VCR from that zone, in fact.

a while back, she emailed me to say she’d just found a tablet in the surplus-liberation zone. it’s the kind of fancy drawing tablet graphic designers and artists use with paint and photo software, and trix wanted to know if i might want it.

“yes! please! cool!” i emailed back.

and now i have myself a tablet. it’s pretty and compact and in very good condition. it came with a “pen” but no software, so i downloaded the necessary drivers from the manufacturer and it seems to work fine.

but, holy crap, is it ever hard to use. despite reconfiguring it to lower its sensitivity – when i first installed it, i could hold the pen a good 6” away from the trackpad and it would move my cursor – it’s still challenging to maneuver around the screen without inadvertently activating a hundred programs at the same time. or accidentally deleting what i just finished. or opening and closing boxes at random. i want to draw with it, and be all fancy and creative and do all the neat things that are limited when just using a mouse but, so far, i haven’t quite got the hang of it.

so, i’m going slowly. because having the universe drop great tools in your lap is one thing, but learning how to use them properly is another.

a windy thursday vignette

i was walking to the grocery store earlier, along a main street. it’s sunny and gorgeous again today, which makes the conditions ideal for a promenade, so out i went. on the to-get list: potatoes, carrots, crackers and apples.

anyway...

there was a little old man walking ahead of me on the sidewalk. he was short and trim, with white hair, a windbreaker and sneakers. clearly, this was his exercise for the morning and, though he wasn’t moving too quickly, he was making his way just fine.

then, unexpectedly, he casually stepped out into the middle of the road. there was a break in traffic, so it’s not like he was throwing himself in front of a car or anything, but the gesture seemed rather odd, especially given that we weren’t walking along some quiet, residential street. traffic would be heading his way shortly.

when he got to the middle of the road, he stopped. by now, i was wondering what the hell he was doing.

and, as i passed by him, perhaps 12 or 13 feet away and amid the traffic-free quiet, i heard him let out a very loud, very distinct fart.

ah.

well, there you go.

and on i went.

fin.

oh, look, it's wednesday

lately, i've felt like i have nothing to say. certainly nothing to write about. i've been spending a lot of time in my head and, frankly, i think everyone (me included) is tired of reading about that.

so, yesterday, i took myself out for a mental-health day. i went for a long, occasionally mucky walk at the toronto botanical gardens, and was surprised to see some areas were still fenced off for winter. the grounds weren't deserted, but it wasn't at all busy, which was nice.

i brought my camera and took photos of the brown. i watched ducks for a while, because i love watching ducks, and walked for about two hours in the sunshine and mild temperatures and thaw-induced slop.

then i took the bus back into town and went to moe's for hefty soft tacos. i had two. pinto beans instead of meat. plus a big serving of their complimentary nachos and salsa. i was actually surprised i finished it all and didn't feel overly full. evidently, my warm-day wanderings had made me hungrier than i realized.

i ended the day by going to a movie. ticket prices normally prevent me from seeing first-run films, but i hadn't been to a non-press screening in a long time, so i decided to suck it up and just go. (there's something special about seeing a movie because you want to see it, not just because you have to see it.) imagine my delight when i got to the cashier, asked for my ticket to An Education and was told it was half-price. score! the theatre was blissfully empty -- probably because it was a weekday afternoon and the movie's been out forever -- so i escaped contentedly with only seven or eight other people along for the ride.

when the film ended, i walked the half-hour home. i made myself a bowl of cereal, watched Lost and Parenthood, did a few sudoku puzzles and went to bed.

surprisingly, i didn't sleep soundly or deeply last night. but i figure the universe gave me a pretty good day, so that was fine.

the upside of down?

a couple of interesting articles have floated through my life in the past several days.

both deal with “negative” states of being and their effects on creativity. specifically, that depression can give rise to rumination and focus, leading to great works and problem-solving, and that self-doubt is an affliction suffered by most (if not all) artists.

both articles seemed curiously timed, in terms of when they popped into my consciousness, and both were helpful in different ways. while i may not agree with everything posited – for example, what about those people for whom depression and self-doubt and sadness become completely immobilizing? so that no work is produced? – reading about situations relevant to my own at the moment was strangely comforting.

you can read the new york times article on the upside of depression here. (you’ll need to be a registered user, but it literally takes two seconds and is free.)

and the wall street journal’s piece about self-doubt among creative types can be found here.

maybe it’s the “everybody hurts” message that made these stories resonate with me - knowing that plenty of people in the arts (and elsewhere) struggle with the same issues i sometimes find suffocating - i dunno. but i found the content of both to be some food for thought.

or more ruminating, as it were.

purple

ow... oh, i see... ow...

yesterday, i was a kind of a mess.

then i had a very helpful meeting with my nurse friend and calmed the f**k down.

i'm going to try not to worry about my creepy new neighbour unless he actually does something to merit legitimate worry.

and i've realized that the lack of security and stability i feel, both personally and professionally, is (clearly) beginning to adversely affect my overall well-being. more and more, i feel unmoored and panicked, and i am craving something solid and certain in my life.

to that end, i've actually started thinking about returning to full-time work. at the moment, it's the only thing i can think of that might bring some structure and purpose to my day-to-day existence, so that i might feel less like i'm completely spinning off my axis. it's still just a thought, but the more i examine what my life's become, the more i feel like it has no direction and that so much of me is just atrophying as time ticks on by.

anyway...

amidst all this tumult, or perhaps because of it, lefty has been freaking out.

it woke me up around 4am today, throbbing and pinging until i finally turned over lay on my back. it's been kicking me in the gut on and off all day since, sometimes suddenly and sharply so that i actually let out an audible noise when it hits. i'm not sure what's happening, but i'm choosing to believe that the pain i'm feeling is a result of lefty having a slow leak... which would mean that it's shrinking.

and that would be good.

the panicked room

the creepy guy in my building has moved into the apartment right next to mine.

it seems the weird guy who used to live next door is gone (who knew?) and, unfortunately, the creepy one now lives there.

i’ve seen this guy – let’s call him omar – coming and going from the building often. he’s lived here for maybe a year and a half or so, in a bachelor unit on the 10th floor, and we usually run into each other in the elevator. he always seems to be around; unlike the weird guy, whom i'd see maybe once every six months or so, i see omar at least once a week. he’s stocky and persian, maybe mid- to late-40s with a thick accent, and uncomfortably flirty with me.

he has always, always given me this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. like there’s something else to him, lurking below that friendly demeanor. i can’t explain it except to say i’ve always felt very glad he didn’t live on my floor or know my unit number.

shortly after he moved in, i would chat with his then-neighbour (a young woman) in the laundry room, and she lamented that he “smokes a lot, and drinks a lot” and that she didn’t like running into him in the hall. then, last year, i noticed he was bringing prostitutes into the building – and i mean the stereotypical tweaked-out-mess prostitutes you think only exist in movies or at hell house. once, one of them – reeking of cigarettes and looking like she’d been dragged out of an alley somewhere – was in the main-floor vestibule, trying to get into the building, but our super (god bless her!) was standing on the inside of the door threatening to call the police. i slipped past and heard the hooker say (to my super), “i swear to god i want to kill you right now.”

again, i thanked the heavens that omar lived four floors away from me, and i hoped that maybe he’d move out of the building altogether at some point soon. he was like a blemish on the tenant list of otherwise pleasant folks i'd encountered here.

but yesterday morning, as i was getting on the elevator on my floor, i heard a door open (and then someone locking it) down the hall and a mumbly male voice yell, “wait! i’m coming, too!”

so i held the door and, to my horror, omar appeared and got on.

it was like a giant weight plummeted inside me.

my head was spinning. how was this possible? which unit had he just come from? he locked the door, which meant he had KEYS. why was he now ON MY FLOOR??????

he said nothing to me as we rode down to the ground level, then wished me a “very nice day” as we headed out in different directions.

as i went for a walk, i began putting puzzle pieces together. there had been one sunday a couple of weeks ago when i’d seen omar putting out paint cans and rollers and the like to the garbage. there’d been an inordinate amount of noise coming from the apartment next to mine (formerly home to the weird guy) in the past few weeks, as well. just lots of banging and hammering and such... but i’d figured maybe weird guy was redecorating.

no.

it turns out what i heard was omar moving in and setting up house.

and i have literally been consumed by overwhelming anxiety and panic since making this discovery.

the moment he stepped onto the elevator with me, all my hell house traumas came screaming back into my consciousness. every cell in body suddenly reconnected with the same fear and dread that had overcome me for so many months... feelings that it took me a long time to resolve, even after fleeing HH. my brain began to race through scenarios and, when i arrived back home later, it was like the energy in the hallway and inside my unit had changed. like this amazing, wonderful apartment i have has suddenly been thrown into a dark and ominous shade, and where i once felt secure i suddenly feel nervous, jittery and afraid. before i went to bed last night, i twice checked that i locked the door, and i’ve caught myself slipping into similar HH-esque behaviours.

i’m sure some (or, perhaps, all) of this is just PTSD rearing its head, that my brain is blowing everything out of proportion, and that there probably won’t be any problems.

but, for now, i kind of want to cry.

because it's that kind of day

Courage doesn't always roar.
Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying,
"I will try again tomorrow.”
- Mary Anne Radmacher

post-bubble update

* the olympics are over, and life goes on.

* i spent a few hours this afternoon working on the narrative for a wedding ceremony my friend b-dub is performing later this week. writing about love in that context was a challenge, partly because i don’t know the couple getting married and partly because i wanted what i wrote to be tender and touching and lovely without sounding clichéd or lame. i think it turned out well and, if i’m lucky, it might even make a tear or two well up in someone’s eyes.

* it was beautiful and sunny and mild out today, so i went for an hour-long power walk. i came home sweaty and pooped, but felt good. then i set out to make a big fruit salad, picked up the giant orange i bought last thursday and realized -- to my horror -- that it had completely moulded over from the waist down. it was perfect when i bought it, and then totally green and white and semi-solid after a mere four days! what the hell? gross.

* tomorrow night, Parenthood debuts on NBC. i am excited, but have been (wisely) cautioned about letting my expectations get the better of me. still, a family drama with that kind of cast has my name written all over it and, for better or worse, i ♥ lauren graham.

* over the weekend, my mom and i test drove a new recipe for a bean and lentil soup. it was, in a word, BLAH. we made every effort to improve it and salvage it, but failed. and we shan’t be making it ever again.

* i bought a toaster-oven-sized mini roasting pan with a teeny rack for $2.64. it was REALLY on sale, and too cute (and cheap!) not to buy. this means i’ll finally be able to make marinated chicken breasts without them lying on a piece of foil on a little tray, where they kind of stew in their own marinade more than “bake.”

* my seven-year-old pen pal is fun and adorable.

* lefty continues to remind me of its presence.

* i saw this guy on ellen today. i’d never heard of him before, and found myself unexpectedly moved by his performance.