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Sunday, January 14, 2007
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Visual Agnosia
Visual agnosia is the inability of the brain to make sense of or make use of some part of otherwise normal visual stimulus and is typified by the inability to recognize familiar objects or faces. - the People's Resource: Wikipedia
Visual agnosia is related to aphasia, which is a symptom of migraines. I get migraines.
Last night I was at a show, a late night talk show, suffering from some of my aura symptoms - a creeping, weird headache, not terrible, but enough to be a drag. And, as my boyfriend pointed out repeatedly and with a hint of disgust, I was "really out of it." Nonetheless, I tried to enjoy the show.
The hosts pointed out a white board where their myspace site's address was written. I tried, I mean, I REAAAAALLY tried to make sense of it. I read it over and over again, trying to memorize it, since I hoped to look it up on the internet when I got home. This is what I could make out:
"Seeezah - a - bleemen." I read it as many ways as I could, breaking up the syllables where I could, and that's the best I could do. Seezeh, a-bleemen. "What the hell is that?" I thought. Why would they pick such a difficult name to remember? How am I ever going to remember that?
A few moments later, one of the hosts mentions the myspace site again. "Remember to leave us a comment at double you double you double you dot sizeable men dot com." Sizeable. Men. That's what the damn thing said. www.myspace.com/sizeablemen
Well that made much more sense than seezeh-a-bleemen.
I recovered my senses sometime the next day, to the extreme relief of my annoyed boyfriend. He sometimes can be impatient with stupidity. It is at those times that I remind him that he once argued that there couldn't possibly by more Vitamin C in spinach than in oranges, since Vitamin C tablets all taste like orange, and not spinach...
Perhaps we are well suited to each other after all.
- Falcon
Visual agnosia is related to aphasia, which is a symptom of migraines. I get migraines.
Last night I was at a show, a late night talk show, suffering from some of my aura symptoms - a creeping, weird headache, not terrible, but enough to be a drag. And, as my boyfriend pointed out repeatedly and with a hint of disgust, I was "really out of it." Nonetheless, I tried to enjoy the show.
The hosts pointed out a white board where their myspace site's address was written. I tried, I mean, I REAAAAALLY tried to make sense of it. I read it over and over again, trying to memorize it, since I hoped to look it up on the internet when I got home. This is what I could make out:
"Seeezah - a - bleemen." I read it as many ways as I could, breaking up the syllables where I could, and that's the best I could do. Seezeh, a-bleemen. "What the hell is that?" I thought. Why would they pick such a difficult name to remember? How am I ever going to remember that?
A few moments later, one of the hosts mentions the myspace site again. "Remember to leave us a comment at double you double you double you dot sizeable men dot com." Sizeable. Men. That's what the damn thing said. www.myspace.com/sizeablemen
Well that made much more sense than seezeh-a-bleemen.
I recovered my senses sometime the next day, to the extreme relief of my annoyed boyfriend. He sometimes can be impatient with stupidity. It is at those times that I remind him that he once argued that there couldn't possibly by more Vitamin C in spinach than in oranges, since Vitamin C tablets all taste like orange, and not spinach...
Perhaps we are well suited to each other after all.
- Falcon
I am a Natural Blonde
Favourite Blonde Moment #2
...So I'm driving my car, a little white Suzuki Swift hatchback, and I'm approaching my apartment on my street. At this time, I didn't have a parking spot behind my building. I had to find a spot on the street like anyone else, and on Friday and Saturday nights around this neighbourhood it could get pretty tough. So I'm driving up my block, getting closer, looking for a spot. And I see a little white Suzuki Swift parked right out front of my apartment. "Oh thank God!" I pause. "I've found a GREAT spot!"
Now think about it for a moment. If I had parked my car there, where the hell did I think I was right now?
- Falcon
...So I'm driving my car, a little white Suzuki Swift hatchback, and I'm approaching my apartment on my street. At this time, I didn't have a parking spot behind my building. I had to find a spot on the street like anyone else, and on Friday and Saturday nights around this neighbourhood it could get pretty tough. So I'm driving up my block, getting closer, looking for a spot. And I see a little white Suzuki Swift parked right out front of my apartment. "Oh thank God!" I pause. "I've found a GREAT spot!"
Now think about it for a moment. If I had parked my car there, where the hell did I think I was right now?
- Falcon
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Scat Chat 3
MY FAVOURITE BLONDE MOMENT
Once I lived in a big house with a boyfriend and another couple. The house was so big that each couple had its own main bathroom, plus there was a third small water closet on the main floor. This one we considered "public." We all used it pretty regularly.
One day I was in the "public" bathroom for a quick pee. I stood up afterwards and turned around to flush. Like most people, I suppose, I felt it necessary to check my work before discarding it. I'm not sure what I'm looking for - probably colour and intensity; "am I hydrated enough? am I getting enough Vitamin B?" At any rate, I turned around, hand on the handle about to flush, when I spot a burnt match floating in the bowl.
"Holy crap!" I practically jumped out of my skin. "Where the hell did that come from?" I had a small moment of panic as I imagined how I might have squeezed a burnt match out of my kidney. A moment later I realized one of my housemates had of course lit one to purify the air, and dropped it in.
Sometimes, I am THIS blonde.
- Falcon
Once I lived in a big house with a boyfriend and another couple. The house was so big that each couple had its own main bathroom, plus there was a third small water closet on the main floor. This one we considered "public." We all used it pretty regularly.
One day I was in the "public" bathroom for a quick pee. I stood up afterwards and turned around to flush. Like most people, I suppose, I felt it necessary to check my work before discarding it. I'm not sure what I'm looking for - probably colour and intensity; "am I hydrated enough? am I getting enough Vitamin B?" At any rate, I turned around, hand on the handle about to flush, when I spot a burnt match floating in the bowl.
"Holy crap!" I practically jumped out of my skin. "Where the hell did that come from?" I had a small moment of panic as I imagined how I might have squeezed a burnt match out of my kidney. A moment later I realized one of my housemates had of course lit one to purify the air, and dropped it in.
Sometimes, I am THIS blonde.
- Falcon
Scat Chat No. 2
SELF-CONGRATULATORY EXERCISE.
I have recently noticed an annoying habit of mine. It seems that when I have finished my business on the indoor convenience (toilet, for those of you who don't sprinkle your everyday banter with phrases from Victorian novels - another annoying habit of mine) I am COMPELLED to check on my work before flushing. I suppose I could say that it's what the doctor recommends, after all, the state of your stool is often a very telling sign of your current state of health. However, I am forthright enough to admit that this is not why I do it. I am not checking for colour and consistency, or evidence of blood, generally. I have no idea what I'm looking for, and mostly the incident passes without much notice. On occasion, however, I have shocked myself. I have turned around, about to flush, and have caught myself issuing an "Oh my!" at the results.
Sometimes I amaze myself. "Did THAT come out of ME? Good grief! It's the size of a full grown anaconda and yet it passed in under a second and I hardly felt a thing!" Sometimes I can work up a sweat for hardly any results at all. "Is that it? Good lord I thought I earned that one." And sometimes you hardly notice it happened at all but the proof is in the pudding, as it were.
The other day I went the one step too far. I turned to look at what had felt like a pretty uneventful passing, and was shocked to see the length and breadth of my work, already sliding toward the inevitable passage. I gasped, "Good work!" and then I caught myself. What? What exactly am I patting myself on the back for? Good work? Completing a significantly researched and well-written 3000 word essay; performing a one hour monologue with perfect timing; washing the car by hand; these are worthy of the term "Good work." One smooth solid poop is just a necessary function that will come whether or not you put too much effort into it. Perhaps that was it - I was congratulating myself on my own effortlessness. I had eaten well, and processed efficiently, and now the reward was this smooth firm painless fast moving cylinder. Good work, indeed. Keep it up.
- Falcon
I have recently noticed an annoying habit of mine. It seems that when I have finished my business on the indoor convenience (toilet, for those of you who don't sprinkle your everyday banter with phrases from Victorian novels - another annoying habit of mine) I am COMPELLED to check on my work before flushing. I suppose I could say that it's what the doctor recommends, after all, the state of your stool is often a very telling sign of your current state of health. However, I am forthright enough to admit that this is not why I do it. I am not checking for colour and consistency, or evidence of blood, generally. I have no idea what I'm looking for, and mostly the incident passes without much notice. On occasion, however, I have shocked myself. I have turned around, about to flush, and have caught myself issuing an "Oh my!" at the results.
Sometimes I amaze myself. "Did THAT come out of ME? Good grief! It's the size of a full grown anaconda and yet it passed in under a second and I hardly felt a thing!" Sometimes I can work up a sweat for hardly any results at all. "Is that it? Good lord I thought I earned that one." And sometimes you hardly notice it happened at all but the proof is in the pudding, as it were.
The other day I went the one step too far. I turned to look at what had felt like a pretty uneventful passing, and was shocked to see the length and breadth of my work, already sliding toward the inevitable passage. I gasped, "Good work!" and then I caught myself. What? What exactly am I patting myself on the back for? Good work? Completing a significantly researched and well-written 3000 word essay; performing a one hour monologue with perfect timing; washing the car by hand; these are worthy of the term "Good work." One smooth solid poop is just a necessary function that will come whether or not you put too much effort into it. Perhaps that was it - I was congratulating myself on my own effortlessness. I had eaten well, and processed efficiently, and now the reward was this smooth firm painless fast moving cylinder. Good work, indeed. Keep it up.
- Falcon
Scat Chat
PUBLIC POOP
Does anyone else do this?
It used to be that I would not sit on a public toilet seat, since my mother had instilled in me the mortal fear of picking up unspecified germs from flesh to seat contact. God only knows what you would come home with. Probably tuberculosis. At least that's how my mom made it sound. Later on, as an adult, I read reports that the average public toilet is actually cleaner than your desk. Public toilets get regularly disinfected - sometimes as much as every 15 minutes. You can see this in some public toilets where they keep a record posted on the back of the main door that the maintenance person has to sign when they've completed their duties. It can see a little obsessive. Every 15 minutes? What could happen in 15 minutes that could cause such significant damage? On the other hand, better not to ask, but just be secure in the knowledge that you are discharging waste into a sterile receptacle that, statistically speaking, is safer to lick than the desk you normally park your sandwich on.
So it's not my fear of germs and infection that keeps me hovering over the toilet seat these days. Part of it is the built in knee jerk response to all those years of training, sure. But if I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'll have a rest. What keeps me squatting these days is pure vanity. In the manner of those horrible women's magazines that encourage you to keep fit and exercise even if you don't have time to go to the gym - "You always have time for a work out. Why not do squats for five minutes while you're waiting for the coffee to perk?" - I actually hover because I consider it an opportunity to get a little quad workout. Seriously. Sometimes I hover just a bit longer so that I can really feel the burn. It's absurd to think that it is really doing anything, but I suppose I also have it locked into my brain that, "every little bit helps." That putting on my socks by extending my leg straight out in front of me while I'm standing counts as a gentle "head to knee" yoga stretch in the morning; that balancing on one leg while the other is raised in order to tie my shoelaces instead of just crouching; that these activities will somehow counter the severe bloating effects of last night's Chinese food take out and ice cream sundae binge (the cruel brainchild of my boyfriend who still has the metabolism of a 19 year old basketball player). Nonetheless, "every little bit helps." And yes, if I happen to be wearing high heels while I am crounching over the public toilet, that counts as a "calf stretch."
As if this isn't bad enough, as if this doesn't seal my reputation for impotent vanity, if I am unlucky enough to be possessed of an urgent need to not only pass water but in fact to void my bowels, there is the extra challenge of the cubicle. For whatever reason, I have accepted the fact that we all, as human beings, have a need to relieve our bladders. This is self-evident. Apparently I do not hold the same views toward bowel voidance. It seems I truly believe that this is only performed by people who generally behave in poor taste, as in, "a laaaady doesn't poo!" However, sometimes this lady does have to poo. And if I am in a public toilet and the rest of the washroom is unoccupied I feel the heart pounding pressure to make sure my task is completed before someone else enters the suite. However, on those occassions when that is impossible to arrange; when the primal need is more urgent than the ability to wait for the crowd to clear; when someone is in the stall RIGHT NEXT DOOR and is sure to overhear my actions and KNOW that I are not truly a laaaady but some uneducated and unlucky boor; on those occasions while I am HOVERING on my tippy toes flexing my quads and desperately holding it in; then I hang on for the perfect time. Sometime after I hear my neighbour pulling paper off the roll and the shuffling sounds of clothes being re-arranged I will hear my cue. My golden opportunity comes when my neighbour finally flushes. The bay doors open, as it were, and I drop my cargo, the sound of water contact mercifully camoflaged by the swirling waterfall next door. With any luck at all, I can get it all in one go.
On occasions when the person in the washroom is hovering too long at the sink, I just pray that my fibre intake has been more than adequate that day so that the proceeding drop makes smooth and silent contact like an Olympic diver entering the water; like a nuclear submarine descending to avoid enemy discovery. On a good day, it's "Grey Lady Down." On a bad day, however, it's more like "Cannonball Run." Enough said.
This self-consciousness, I wonder, is this primarily a female phenomenon? Do men ever worry about how other might perceive the plop? I doubt it, since men only use the stalls when they need to do a No.2. There would be no mystery as to why you were in there.
I suppose that's why I try to disguise the sound. To preserve the "mystery." What am I doing in there? Just having a run of the mill everyday pee? Or checking text messages from the CIA on my cel phone? Who knows? It's a MYSTERY.
We all have to preserve a sense of mystery in order to feel, you know, important. No point in letting everyone in on all my secrets. Must preserve the illusion of shit-lessness. After all, I am a laaaady.
- Falcon
Does anyone else do this?
It used to be that I would not sit on a public toilet seat, since my mother had instilled in me the mortal fear of picking up unspecified germs from flesh to seat contact. God only knows what you would come home with. Probably tuberculosis. At least that's how my mom made it sound. Later on, as an adult, I read reports that the average public toilet is actually cleaner than your desk. Public toilets get regularly disinfected - sometimes as much as every 15 minutes. You can see this in some public toilets where they keep a record posted on the back of the main door that the maintenance person has to sign when they've completed their duties. It can see a little obsessive. Every 15 minutes? What could happen in 15 minutes that could cause such significant damage? On the other hand, better not to ask, but just be secure in the knowledge that you are discharging waste into a sterile receptacle that, statistically speaking, is safer to lick than the desk you normally park your sandwich on.
So it's not my fear of germs and infection that keeps me hovering over the toilet seat these days. Part of it is the built in knee jerk response to all those years of training, sure. But if I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'll have a rest. What keeps me squatting these days is pure vanity. In the manner of those horrible women's magazines that encourage you to keep fit and exercise even if you don't have time to go to the gym - "You always have time for a work out. Why not do squats for five minutes while you're waiting for the coffee to perk?" - I actually hover because I consider it an opportunity to get a little quad workout. Seriously. Sometimes I hover just a bit longer so that I can really feel the burn. It's absurd to think that it is really doing anything, but I suppose I also have it locked into my brain that, "every little bit helps." That putting on my socks by extending my leg straight out in front of me while I'm standing counts as a gentle "head to knee" yoga stretch in the morning; that balancing on one leg while the other is raised in order to tie my shoelaces instead of just crouching; that these activities will somehow counter the severe bloating effects of last night's Chinese food take out and ice cream sundae binge (the cruel brainchild of my boyfriend who still has the metabolism of a 19 year old basketball player). Nonetheless, "every little bit helps." And yes, if I happen to be wearing high heels while I am crounching over the public toilet, that counts as a "calf stretch."
As if this isn't bad enough, as if this doesn't seal my reputation for impotent vanity, if I am unlucky enough to be possessed of an urgent need to not only pass water but in fact to void my bowels, there is the extra challenge of the cubicle. For whatever reason, I have accepted the fact that we all, as human beings, have a need to relieve our bladders. This is self-evident. Apparently I do not hold the same views toward bowel voidance. It seems I truly believe that this is only performed by people who generally behave in poor taste, as in, "a laaaady doesn't poo!" However, sometimes this lady does have to poo. And if I am in a public toilet and the rest of the washroom is unoccupied I feel the heart pounding pressure to make sure my task is completed before someone else enters the suite. However, on those occassions when that is impossible to arrange; when the primal need is more urgent than the ability to wait for the crowd to clear; when someone is in the stall RIGHT NEXT DOOR and is sure to overhear my actions and KNOW that I are not truly a laaaady but some uneducated and unlucky boor; on those occasions while I am HOVERING on my tippy toes flexing my quads and desperately holding it in; then I hang on for the perfect time. Sometime after I hear my neighbour pulling paper off the roll and the shuffling sounds of clothes being re-arranged I will hear my cue. My golden opportunity comes when my neighbour finally flushes. The bay doors open, as it were, and I drop my cargo, the sound of water contact mercifully camoflaged by the swirling waterfall next door. With any luck at all, I can get it all in one go.
On occasions when the person in the washroom is hovering too long at the sink, I just pray that my fibre intake has been more than adequate that day so that the proceeding drop makes smooth and silent contact like an Olympic diver entering the water; like a nuclear submarine descending to avoid enemy discovery. On a good day, it's "Grey Lady Down." On a bad day, however, it's more like "Cannonball Run." Enough said.
This self-consciousness, I wonder, is this primarily a female phenomenon? Do men ever worry about how other might perceive the plop? I doubt it, since men only use the stalls when they need to do a No.2. There would be no mystery as to why you were in there.
I suppose that's why I try to disguise the sound. To preserve the "mystery." What am I doing in there? Just having a run of the mill everyday pee? Or checking text messages from the CIA on my cel phone? Who knows? It's a MYSTERY.
We all have to preserve a sense of mystery in order to feel, you know, important. No point in letting everyone in on all my secrets. Must preserve the illusion of shit-lessness. After all, I am a laaaady.
- Falcon
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
The Pagan and The Tiger
I read an article in the paper about an 18 year old woman in Bangladesh who was fishing for shrimp with her 25 year old husband when he was attacked by a Bengal Tiger. The hungry tiger grabbed the man by the knee and was dragging him off into the woods, but the young woman beat the tiger off with just the oar from their rowboat. For ten minutes she whacked away at the starving tiger until it finally gave up and limped into the woods.
B looks up at me and says, "Would you do that for me?"
I tell him you never know how you're going to react in a situation until you're in it.
-------
I drive B up to the Christian Centre where he's meeting his mom for Sunday service. She is in town for a few days and would like him to join her for the sermon. They are Charismatics in this church.
At the last minute I decide to go in with B. I want to be a good sport, I don't want to be that person who's "too cool" or looks down on everybody who's different from them. Besides, from the parking lot of the converted community hall, we can hear the strains of the live Christian Rock band floating on the bright summer air. Seems pretty harmless. How bad can it be?
The one thing I should have taken seriously before going in, is the fact that traditionally I get panic attacks in church.
Seriously. I love the architecture of traditional churches, Catholic churches, the Cathedral at Notre Dame, etc. When they're empty. When I can be alone to commune with my god, who is the one who inspired the craftsmen and artisans to materialize their vision of god in stone and wood. I understand what guides the spirit of the artist to make manifest the world through pictures, and carvings, and words, and music. This is the only god I understand. However, put people in a church - make the church "awake" through whatever type of organized program, and it's like a raw electric wire in my hand. I vibrate in a very uncomfortable way, my breath quickens, the walls close in, my heart beats in my ribcage like it would like to escape. I picture myself a bird up in the rafters, beating desperately against the roof and the walls, desperate to get out where I belong, into the free air. I will beat my wings against any restriction, until I am senseless, until I die from it, unless I get out.
That's usually how I respond to church services. So maybe it was a mistake for me to go in. But I was optimistic. I'm with friends, after all. They will protect me. Maybe it will be different this time. All those other times, I was just being silly, and really, I should be more mature.
We walk into the large open community hall where the children dance with scarves at the back of the room to the soft rock strains from the stage up front. There is also a table set up for coffee - how civilised! Everyone who greets us has a big friendly smile and a handshake. "Welcome!" B's mom is at the back of the congregation. She beams and waves us over. She is excited to see her son whom she has missed this past year and a half.
Mostly the congregation faces the front, swaying to the band. Several are moved by The Spirit. They raise their hands like antennae to channel the power of Jesus. They sing along with the band. The words to the song are projected on a screen - how modern! No dry paper photocopies of The Old Rugged Cross here. Instead, a new song starts with a rumbling one note baseline. It sounds like "With Or Without You." Okay, I can get behind that. That's a fairly spiritual song, I figure. But no, it's a new song that just sounds like the old one. B concurs, "Yeah, Christian Rock today sounds like U2 twenty years ago. Twenty years from now it will sound like Nirvana." The singing goes on for an incredibly long time, but that's okay, I'm not feeling too weird. The word "tread" is spelled wrong in the lyics to one song. "Where you go, I have tred..." Tred? You mean Trod? This occupies me for a while, the English student in me coming out to correct spelling and grammatical mistakes that don't really matter, not to the people here. Which reminds me that I should probably try to pay attention. Be respectful.
"Rain down on me... (rpt 8x)
"Rain down on
"These dry bones... (rpt 8x)"
"Repeat chorus (8x)"
The song turns quiet, returning to the rumbling one note U2 baseline. The drummer stands up from his kit and walks to the microphone. Everyone is quiet. He looks over the audience, making eye contact, gathering his listeners, and when he is ready, he starts his monologue.
"There is something very special happening here today." He pauses and smiles a small saintly grin. "Can you feel it? I can feel it. Can you feel the prescence of the Spirit, building here, in the room? Ohhhh, it's a beautiful prescence," he emphasizes, with the enthusiasm of a collector describing an antique roadster. "Just beautiful." Some of the others acknowledge the beautiful prescence in the room. He builds the expectation in his listeners with this rhetoric for a while, until we come to the main point.
"Who here has come today, in the prescence of this Beautiful Spirit, with head held low? Head bowed not out of reverence, or out of awe, but out of shame, full of feelings of unworthiness? Put your hand up now, if you have come here defeated. Don't be afraid."
A dyed blond teenage girl, slumping in that "I don't matter" kind of teenage way, sitting in the row in front of me, next to a bunch of her spirit-filled fauxhawk camo-wearing friends, timidly puts up her hand, but just barely. She keeps her elbow tucked into her side protectively, and her raised hand touches her own shoulder.
"Who here is in need of healing? Don't be afraid. Put up your hand."
The timid dyed blond girl is obviously in need of healing. I can't see her face, but I imagine it. Too much black eyeliner and mascara, luminous skin, full cheeks; she is beautiful in her youth and fragility, but not one of the pretty girls at school. Someone who desperately wants to belong by being different. "Fuck you, I can like punk music and believe in the healing power of Jesus at the same time if I want to. Let's see you be original. Let's see you believe in anything other than being popular, you pretty, slutty bitches. Who needs you." Her fingers still reach tentatively for acknowledgment.
"Reach out, brothers and sisters," encourages the drummer on the microphone. "Reach out and lay hands on those in need of assistance. Reach out and heal those in need of restoration of the Spirit. Lay your hands on them."
Yes. We've come to the Laying on of Hands. Now here's the thing. I know this works. Why? Because humans need contact. Humans need to be touched, to be held. There is a great deal of healing power in a simple hug, in one hand placed on a shoulder. We are not generally comfortable with human contact in our society. Some prudish Victorian isolationism leads us to be very uncomfortable with simple human contact unless it is with someone of our immediate family, or we pay for it. Perhaps we feel we don't deserve it, and so we don't take advantage of this natural resource - the hug - unless we feel someone owes us, or we can fairly recompense the hugger with money. We're okay with paying for sex for comfort, or paying for a professional massage for our health, but we can't ask a stranger for a hug.
I look at the dyed blond girl in front of me. I could reach out and touch her shoulder, but I would have to take a step closer. B and his mom would notice me. I can't bear to be noticed. She needs love. She needs comfort. I can heal her. But I don't. I am unworthy too. More so because this is not where I belong. I believe that the others believe, which makes what they are doing as true as anything else. But I can't become one of them. I don't deserve to heal her.
The voice over the microphone gets quiet again. "Is there anything, anything that you need here today? Because I really feel that, with this beautiful prescence in the room that we are summoning right now, I believe that there is nothing that you could ask that He would not grant. Ask Jesus, for today He will not deny you anything. Do you need to be healed? Ask Him. Do you need salvation in your home? Ask Him. Do you need forgiveness? Just ask. He is willing today to give his gifts. Ask now..."
An image of Jesus as Santa Claus jumps into my head. A Saviour in a red suit, inviting devotees to sit on his knee. "Ho, ho, ho, my child, ask and you shall receive. Ask now, while I am yet in a giving mood..."
I shake the image out of my head like erasing an Etch-a-Sketch. Pay attention. The dyed blond teenager in front of me continues to crumple gently, fingers only straining upward.
I move closer to B, to whisper to him, "Um... uh, she uh, she needs help over here." B shrugs and half smiles and stays where he is. I point, like a retriever, hinting "over HERE."
Ha. I think. I guess that answers that. I guess I wouldn't fight off a Bengal tiger to protect someone who needed me. I guess I would just point to them, and whisper to nobody in particular, "Uh, um, I think they need help over here."
B's mom gently nudges him from the other side, but B will not move forward. He is not like me, he does not abstain out of fear or feelings of unworthiness. He just doesn't buy in. He would not save me from the tiger either. He would stop to think, "Yeah, but what's in it for me?" or, "Maybe this will be a lesson to you - don't let tigers get so close. Pay attention next time."
It's B's mom who turns out to be the hero. She smiles gently, steps forward and puts her hand solidly on the girl's shoulder. She looks up at her healer. B's mom beams down at her gently. "It's okay," she's saying with her soft smile and bright eyes, "You're okay. I'm with you." She stays until the tiger slinks away into the woods.
The relief in this moment is interrupted as I look around to others, standing further away from the group, who also have their hands raised. What about them? No one will come to them, but they hold their hands up, gently curved little satellite dishes ready to catch any waves of Spirit that may float on the air toward them.
As the sermon up front becomes more intense, and the believers in the audience up their intensity too, I start to feel that creeping panic under my ribcage.
"Do you believe?!" comes the voice on the microphone.
"Do you believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins?"
Um, uh, I don't know. I believe that Jesus was a very good man who had a few (no pun intended) fatal flaws and who suffered a very bad thing. A martyr, yes, but a supernatural being? No. The Son of God, yes, but only insofar as we are all Children of God. Thoughts start to spin in circles in my head, whirring like helicopter blades cut loose and cutting randomly. The walls close in and I am there, up through the billowy white draperies suspended from the ceiling, beating my wings against the roof. Let me free, let me free.
Something on the air slips next to me in the community hall. I feel an invisible hand on my shoulder. "Shhhh-shhh-shhh...It's all right. Don't let it bother you. Come with me." The congregation breaks for coffee. I slip out the front door while the others socialize and smile and shake hands. Outside the sun is warm and bright and the air carries with it the same atoms it carried billions of years ago and they mix with my atoms, also billions of years old, just in new combinations. My shoes are off and I am on the grass, running down the hill, running across the field, running toward the trees. The wind rustles the leaves in a comforting manner. They seem to say, "Shhhshhh-shhh...It's a beautiful day. Be calm."
B looks up at me and says, "Would you do that for me?"
I tell him you never know how you're going to react in a situation until you're in it.
-------
I drive B up to the Christian Centre where he's meeting his mom for Sunday service. She is in town for a few days and would like him to join her for the sermon. They are Charismatics in this church.
At the last minute I decide to go in with B. I want to be a good sport, I don't want to be that person who's "too cool" or looks down on everybody who's different from them. Besides, from the parking lot of the converted community hall, we can hear the strains of the live Christian Rock band floating on the bright summer air. Seems pretty harmless. How bad can it be?
The one thing I should have taken seriously before going in, is the fact that traditionally I get panic attacks in church.
Seriously. I love the architecture of traditional churches, Catholic churches, the Cathedral at Notre Dame, etc. When they're empty. When I can be alone to commune with my god, who is the one who inspired the craftsmen and artisans to materialize their vision of god in stone and wood. I understand what guides the spirit of the artist to make manifest the world through pictures, and carvings, and words, and music. This is the only god I understand. However, put people in a church - make the church "awake" through whatever type of organized program, and it's like a raw electric wire in my hand. I vibrate in a very uncomfortable way, my breath quickens, the walls close in, my heart beats in my ribcage like it would like to escape. I picture myself a bird up in the rafters, beating desperately against the roof and the walls, desperate to get out where I belong, into the free air. I will beat my wings against any restriction, until I am senseless, until I die from it, unless I get out.
That's usually how I respond to church services. So maybe it was a mistake for me to go in. But I was optimistic. I'm with friends, after all. They will protect me. Maybe it will be different this time. All those other times, I was just being silly, and really, I should be more mature.
We walk into the large open community hall where the children dance with scarves at the back of the room to the soft rock strains from the stage up front. There is also a table set up for coffee - how civilised! Everyone who greets us has a big friendly smile and a handshake. "Welcome!" B's mom is at the back of the congregation. She beams and waves us over. She is excited to see her son whom she has missed this past year and a half.
Mostly the congregation faces the front, swaying to the band. Several are moved by The Spirit. They raise their hands like antennae to channel the power of Jesus. They sing along with the band. The words to the song are projected on a screen - how modern! No dry paper photocopies of The Old Rugged Cross here. Instead, a new song starts with a rumbling one note baseline. It sounds like "With Or Without You." Okay, I can get behind that. That's a fairly spiritual song, I figure. But no, it's a new song that just sounds like the old one. B concurs, "Yeah, Christian Rock today sounds like U2 twenty years ago. Twenty years from now it will sound like Nirvana." The singing goes on for an incredibly long time, but that's okay, I'm not feeling too weird. The word "tread" is spelled wrong in the lyics to one song. "Where you go, I have tred..." Tred? You mean Trod? This occupies me for a while, the English student in me coming out to correct spelling and grammatical mistakes that don't really matter, not to the people here. Which reminds me that I should probably try to pay attention. Be respectful.
"Rain down on me... (rpt 8x)
"Rain down on
"These dry bones... (rpt 8x)"
"Repeat chorus (8x)"
The song turns quiet, returning to the rumbling one note U2 baseline. The drummer stands up from his kit and walks to the microphone. Everyone is quiet. He looks over the audience, making eye contact, gathering his listeners, and when he is ready, he starts his monologue.
"There is something very special happening here today." He pauses and smiles a small saintly grin. "Can you feel it? I can feel it. Can you feel the prescence of the Spirit, building here, in the room? Ohhhh, it's a beautiful prescence," he emphasizes, with the enthusiasm of a collector describing an antique roadster. "Just beautiful." Some of the others acknowledge the beautiful prescence in the room. He builds the expectation in his listeners with this rhetoric for a while, until we come to the main point.
"Who here has come today, in the prescence of this Beautiful Spirit, with head held low? Head bowed not out of reverence, or out of awe, but out of shame, full of feelings of unworthiness? Put your hand up now, if you have come here defeated. Don't be afraid."
A dyed blond teenage girl, slumping in that "I don't matter" kind of teenage way, sitting in the row in front of me, next to a bunch of her spirit-filled fauxhawk camo-wearing friends, timidly puts up her hand, but just barely. She keeps her elbow tucked into her side protectively, and her raised hand touches her own shoulder.
"Who here is in need of healing? Don't be afraid. Put up your hand."
The timid dyed blond girl is obviously in need of healing. I can't see her face, but I imagine it. Too much black eyeliner and mascara, luminous skin, full cheeks; she is beautiful in her youth and fragility, but not one of the pretty girls at school. Someone who desperately wants to belong by being different. "Fuck you, I can like punk music and believe in the healing power of Jesus at the same time if I want to. Let's see you be original. Let's see you believe in anything other than being popular, you pretty, slutty bitches. Who needs you." Her fingers still reach tentatively for acknowledgment.
"Reach out, brothers and sisters," encourages the drummer on the microphone. "Reach out and lay hands on those in need of assistance. Reach out and heal those in need of restoration of the Spirit. Lay your hands on them."
Yes. We've come to the Laying on of Hands. Now here's the thing. I know this works. Why? Because humans need contact. Humans need to be touched, to be held. There is a great deal of healing power in a simple hug, in one hand placed on a shoulder. We are not generally comfortable with human contact in our society. Some prudish Victorian isolationism leads us to be very uncomfortable with simple human contact unless it is with someone of our immediate family, or we pay for it. Perhaps we feel we don't deserve it, and so we don't take advantage of this natural resource - the hug - unless we feel someone owes us, or we can fairly recompense the hugger with money. We're okay with paying for sex for comfort, or paying for a professional massage for our health, but we can't ask a stranger for a hug.
I look at the dyed blond girl in front of me. I could reach out and touch her shoulder, but I would have to take a step closer. B and his mom would notice me. I can't bear to be noticed. She needs love. She needs comfort. I can heal her. But I don't. I am unworthy too. More so because this is not where I belong. I believe that the others believe, which makes what they are doing as true as anything else. But I can't become one of them. I don't deserve to heal her.
The voice over the microphone gets quiet again. "Is there anything, anything that you need here today? Because I really feel that, with this beautiful prescence in the room that we are summoning right now, I believe that there is nothing that you could ask that He would not grant. Ask Jesus, for today He will not deny you anything. Do you need to be healed? Ask Him. Do you need salvation in your home? Ask Him. Do you need forgiveness? Just ask. He is willing today to give his gifts. Ask now..."
An image of Jesus as Santa Claus jumps into my head. A Saviour in a red suit, inviting devotees to sit on his knee. "Ho, ho, ho, my child, ask and you shall receive. Ask now, while I am yet in a giving mood..."
I shake the image out of my head like erasing an Etch-a-Sketch. Pay attention. The dyed blond teenager in front of me continues to crumple gently, fingers only straining upward.
I move closer to B, to whisper to him, "Um... uh, she uh, she needs help over here." B shrugs and half smiles and stays where he is. I point, like a retriever, hinting "over HERE."
Ha. I think. I guess that answers that. I guess I wouldn't fight off a Bengal tiger to protect someone who needed me. I guess I would just point to them, and whisper to nobody in particular, "Uh, um, I think they need help over here."
B's mom gently nudges him from the other side, but B will not move forward. He is not like me, he does not abstain out of fear or feelings of unworthiness. He just doesn't buy in. He would not save me from the tiger either. He would stop to think, "Yeah, but what's in it for me?" or, "Maybe this will be a lesson to you - don't let tigers get so close. Pay attention next time."
It's B's mom who turns out to be the hero. She smiles gently, steps forward and puts her hand solidly on the girl's shoulder. She looks up at her healer. B's mom beams down at her gently. "It's okay," she's saying with her soft smile and bright eyes, "You're okay. I'm with you." She stays until the tiger slinks away into the woods.
The relief in this moment is interrupted as I look around to others, standing further away from the group, who also have their hands raised. What about them? No one will come to them, but they hold their hands up, gently curved little satellite dishes ready to catch any waves of Spirit that may float on the air toward them.
As the sermon up front becomes more intense, and the believers in the audience up their intensity too, I start to feel that creeping panic under my ribcage.
"Do you believe?!" comes the voice on the microphone.
"Do you believe that Jesus Christ died for your sins?"
Um, uh, I don't know. I believe that Jesus was a very good man who had a few (no pun intended) fatal flaws and who suffered a very bad thing. A martyr, yes, but a supernatural being? No. The Son of God, yes, but only insofar as we are all Children of God. Thoughts start to spin in circles in my head, whirring like helicopter blades cut loose and cutting randomly. The walls close in and I am there, up through the billowy white draperies suspended from the ceiling, beating my wings against the roof. Let me free, let me free.
Something on the air slips next to me in the community hall. I feel an invisible hand on my shoulder. "Shhhh-shhh-shhh...It's all right. Don't let it bother you. Come with me." The congregation breaks for coffee. I slip out the front door while the others socialize and smile and shake hands. Outside the sun is warm and bright and the air carries with it the same atoms it carried billions of years ago and they mix with my atoms, also billions of years old, just in new combinations. My shoes are off and I am on the grass, running down the hill, running across the field, running toward the trees. The wind rustles the leaves in a comforting manner. They seem to say, "Shhhshhh-shhh...It's a beautiful day. Be calm."
Sunday, July 09, 2006
I Am This Shallow
I am sitting in the kitchen, ostensibly reading the weekend paper, while he bustles around me, clearing away breakfast dishes, washing pots, and characteristically ranting about something - Politics, or Gay Marriage, or the Persian Empire - something Important anyway. It is very hot in the kitchen, and he is barefoot and shirtless (this will become important later on in the story).
I put on my "serious face," the one that says, "I hear you and I understand the point you are trying to make, and am formulating a considered response." I look up occasionally with an appropriate, "hmmmm..." or "hah," or "right right, yeaaaah..." And then I catch myself. Wait a minute - I'm not even listening! I have no idea what he just said or what I said back or why. I am completely running an automated response. Because what I am ACTUALLY doing is staring at him, at his shirtlessness, at his curved muscles as he lifts and shifts and moves, and I am thinking, "he is sooo pretty."
I am this shallow.
I put on my "serious face," the one that says, "I hear you and I understand the point you are trying to make, and am formulating a considered response." I look up occasionally with an appropriate, "hmmmm..." or "hah," or "right right, yeaaaah..." And then I catch myself. Wait a minute - I'm not even listening! I have no idea what he just said or what I said back or why. I am completely running an automated response. Because what I am ACTUALLY doing is staring at him, at his shirtlessness, at his curved muscles as he lifts and shifts and moves, and I am thinking, "he is sooo pretty."
I am this shallow.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Three Brains are No Better Than One
So as you know, everyone has three brains. What? You didn't know this? It's true. Apparently evolution thought it was best to do a series of add-ons onto the brain as circumstances dictated, rather than scrap a whole brain and start from scratch. And so it is that we, as humans, have had at least two Extreme Brain Makeovers in our journey from the primordial mud til now.
The result is three levels of brain:
1. The primitive reptile brain that controls very base mechanical things like breathing, self-preservational impulses, like hunger, and rudimentary desires like killing.
2. The layer over this, the cortex, is our animal or mammal brain. Basically, anything your cat can feel, you can feel too.
3. The final layer stretched over the cortex are your frontal lobes, or neo-mammalian brain. These lobes are why you see the world the way you do, and not like your cat does. Apparently our human brain has evolved so that we can take in all the vast visual information that the world is constantly shooting out at us, send it to our frontal lobes which then decide which aspects of what we are seeing are important and interprets what they mean, and then send that information back up to our conscious self. It's the reason humans have such things as "inattentional blindness," which is the ability not to see something that's right in front of us, merely because our subconscious mind has decided that it's not important enough to bug our conscious mind with. That's the reason why early South Americans never saw the Spanish galleons on the ocean's horizon - there was no reason to. Face it, there's enough going on without having to know exactly how many toothpicks hit the floor. Life gets too confusing without a filter. At least that's how evolution sees it.
Also, our human brain, while taking away some of the individual trees, gives us instead an ability to see the whole forest. We have built-in Big Picture thinking. This is also why we are at liberty to have so many more neuroses than animals do. Our big lobes are obsessed with ordering the world and finding patterns in things, which all amount to a sense of Meaning. Or not. Which is our source of frustration and neurosis. How much easier would life be, if we only had our animal brain still.
So maybe you're not conscious of these divisions of mind. Or maybe, like me, you are, and it's making life even more confusing for you. This has all been the preface to my current crisis, which I will outline here.
CRISIS OUTLINED BELOW
Okay, so I'm seeing This Guy. Yes, apparently he is my boyfriend. This is what he has been telling his friends, and so this is what I am starting to tell my friends too. Now don't ask what all these labels mean - "boyfriend," "girlfriend," "relationship," etc. I don't have a clue, and neither does he, and whenever we talk about it, it just gets even more confusing. Apparently you can put two really smart people together in a room to talk about the obvious, and nothing but chaos emerges out of the ruins of semantics. Whatever. For the sake of argument, we'll pretend that everyone has a definition of "boyfriend," "girlfriend," relationship," and "love," that is more or less consistent.*
* Footnote: This is a big problem with big human brains, by the way. Animal brains don't give a crap about definitions; things just are what they are and so why obsess about it. Does my cat care whether I am biologically his "mother" or whether I am more of a best friend, or a caretaker, or what any of those things mean or imply about our relationship, present or future? No. My cat just likes it when I'm around and he can sit on my lap. It makes him Happy. And what's wrong with that?
With that in mind, let's say that I have a boyfriend, and that it's This Guy. Let's even say I love him, and he loves me. Whatever that means. Again, let's not get hung up too much on semantics, cause then we wind up with forty seven different words for snow, and it's all just the same semi-frozen water anyway.
Sounds good so far, doesn't it?
Yes. Well. It does. It feels good too. Except for the times it feels scary. See, I'm at an age now where my animal brain (remember that from the top of the page?) is coming into open conflict with my human brain, and I don't know who to trust anymore.
What's the source of this conflict?
To be blunt: I'm afraid of kids.
Well, my human brain is afraid of kids. My animal brain has been more or less silent on the subject for the last 35-odd years. But now, the animal brain rears its ugly head. Somewhere buried under my carefully tended and cultivated Identity and Ego, are these strange foreign impulses. My human self is terrified of children, terrified of what they would mean to my identity, my future, my bankbook, my carefree lifestyle, my ambition, my life-work, my sex drive, my body, my soul. But also just terrified of them in general, as tiny people whose impulses I don't understand, and whose fragility and dependence are frightening. You know. No biggie.
My animal brain, on the other hand, doesn't think these things through. Doesn't see The Big Picture, like my human brain does. My animal brain just knows it feels good when The Guy is around. Particularly when he is around naked. Animal brain reeeeally likes the way he smells. Animal brain feels things in ways that seem completely foreign to Human brain, and because Animal brain is becoming so loud about it lately, I can actually sense Animal brain responding to chemical signals in The Guy.
This becomes a problem only because here's Human Brain, making its Big Picture calculations, and doing what it does - obsessing over things like, "how will this relationship ever really work out?" and "maybe I should just give him up now, while I still feel happy," and "maybe he's too young/neurotic/unreliable/unfeeling cylon for me, and maybe I need somebody different in my life," - and then there's Animal Brain, who is simply and powerfully attracted to something in him, something invisibly underneath the surface.
A friend once described hearing her future husband's voice for the first time. She said the sound, "vibrated her ovaries." Now that's pure Animal Brain response.
I can't help noticing how my own Animal Brain is responding primally to something chemical in The Guy. Something about him vibrates my ovaries (and has, co-incidentally enough, since the first time I heard his voice. Truthfully, it still happens EVERY time I hear his voice). And that's a very disturbing realization for Human Brain to make.
Is that all that Lust is? Just a manifestation of Animal Brain, and therefore an uncomfortable intrusion into our Big Picture Human Brain world? Is Animal Brain therefore stupider - or smarter - than Human Brain?
Even worse - is what I perceive to be my intellectual (and therefore very human) attraction to The Guy all just an illusion? Is it all just smoke and mirrors created by chemical signals sent out to confuse my Human Brain long enough for my Animal Self to curl up under his ribcage and nest there long enough to make a genetic match?
Is my Animal Self out to destroy my Human Self? And who will win? Can they ever just get along? Is Human Desire and Aspiration futile against Animal Lust?
These and other questions to be continued...after my reptile brain stops panic mode. Fight or flight! Fight or flight! I can't decide! Help, other Humans! Help!
Chasing her own tail,
- Falcon
The result is three levels of brain:
1. The primitive reptile brain that controls very base mechanical things like breathing, self-preservational impulses, like hunger, and rudimentary desires like killing.
2. The layer over this, the cortex, is our animal or mammal brain. Basically, anything your cat can feel, you can feel too.
3. The final layer stretched over the cortex are your frontal lobes, or neo-mammalian brain. These lobes are why you see the world the way you do, and not like your cat does. Apparently our human brain has evolved so that we can take in all the vast visual information that the world is constantly shooting out at us, send it to our frontal lobes which then decide which aspects of what we are seeing are important and interprets what they mean, and then send that information back up to our conscious self. It's the reason humans have such things as "inattentional blindness," which is the ability not to see something that's right in front of us, merely because our subconscious mind has decided that it's not important enough to bug our conscious mind with. That's the reason why early South Americans never saw the Spanish galleons on the ocean's horizon - there was no reason to. Face it, there's enough going on without having to know exactly how many toothpicks hit the floor. Life gets too confusing without a filter. At least that's how evolution sees it.
Also, our human brain, while taking away some of the individual trees, gives us instead an ability to see the whole forest. We have built-in Big Picture thinking. This is also why we are at liberty to have so many more neuroses than animals do. Our big lobes are obsessed with ordering the world and finding patterns in things, which all amount to a sense of Meaning. Or not. Which is our source of frustration and neurosis. How much easier would life be, if we only had our animal brain still.
So maybe you're not conscious of these divisions of mind. Or maybe, like me, you are, and it's making life even more confusing for you. This has all been the preface to my current crisis, which I will outline here.
CRISIS OUTLINED BELOW
Okay, so I'm seeing This Guy. Yes, apparently he is my boyfriend. This is what he has been telling his friends, and so this is what I am starting to tell my friends too. Now don't ask what all these labels mean - "boyfriend," "girlfriend," "relationship," etc. I don't have a clue, and neither does he, and whenever we talk about it, it just gets even more confusing. Apparently you can put two really smart people together in a room to talk about the obvious, and nothing but chaos emerges out of the ruins of semantics. Whatever. For the sake of argument, we'll pretend that everyone has a definition of "boyfriend," "girlfriend," relationship," and "love," that is more or less consistent.*
* Footnote: This is a big problem with big human brains, by the way. Animal brains don't give a crap about definitions; things just are what they are and so why obsess about it. Does my cat care whether I am biologically his "mother" or whether I am more of a best friend, or a caretaker, or what any of those things mean or imply about our relationship, present or future? No. My cat just likes it when I'm around and he can sit on my lap. It makes him Happy. And what's wrong with that?
With that in mind, let's say that I have a boyfriend, and that it's This Guy. Let's even say I love him, and he loves me. Whatever that means. Again, let's not get hung up too much on semantics, cause then we wind up with forty seven different words for snow, and it's all just the same semi-frozen water anyway.
Sounds good so far, doesn't it?
Yes. Well. It does. It feels good too. Except for the times it feels scary. See, I'm at an age now where my animal brain (remember that from the top of the page?) is coming into open conflict with my human brain, and I don't know who to trust anymore.
What's the source of this conflict?
To be blunt: I'm afraid of kids.
Well, my human brain is afraid of kids. My animal brain has been more or less silent on the subject for the last 35-odd years. But now, the animal brain rears its ugly head. Somewhere buried under my carefully tended and cultivated Identity and Ego, are these strange foreign impulses. My human self is terrified of children, terrified of what they would mean to my identity, my future, my bankbook, my carefree lifestyle, my ambition, my life-work, my sex drive, my body, my soul. But also just terrified of them in general, as tiny people whose impulses I don't understand, and whose fragility and dependence are frightening. You know. No biggie.
My animal brain, on the other hand, doesn't think these things through. Doesn't see The Big Picture, like my human brain does. My animal brain just knows it feels good when The Guy is around. Particularly when he is around naked. Animal brain reeeeally likes the way he smells. Animal brain feels things in ways that seem completely foreign to Human brain, and because Animal brain is becoming so loud about it lately, I can actually sense Animal brain responding to chemical signals in The Guy.
This becomes a problem only because here's Human Brain, making its Big Picture calculations, and doing what it does - obsessing over things like, "how will this relationship ever really work out?" and "maybe I should just give him up now, while I still feel happy," and "maybe he's too young/neurotic/unreliable/unfeeling cylon for me, and maybe I need somebody different in my life," - and then there's Animal Brain, who is simply and powerfully attracted to something in him, something invisibly underneath the surface.
A friend once described hearing her future husband's voice for the first time. She said the sound, "vibrated her ovaries." Now that's pure Animal Brain response.
I can't help noticing how my own Animal Brain is responding primally to something chemical in The Guy. Something about him vibrates my ovaries (and has, co-incidentally enough, since the first time I heard his voice. Truthfully, it still happens EVERY time I hear his voice). And that's a very disturbing realization for Human Brain to make.
Is that all that Lust is? Just a manifestation of Animal Brain, and therefore an uncomfortable intrusion into our Big Picture Human Brain world? Is Animal Brain therefore stupider - or smarter - than Human Brain?
Even worse - is what I perceive to be my intellectual (and therefore very human) attraction to The Guy all just an illusion? Is it all just smoke and mirrors created by chemical signals sent out to confuse my Human Brain long enough for my Animal Self to curl up under his ribcage and nest there long enough to make a genetic match?
Is my Animal Self out to destroy my Human Self? And who will win? Can they ever just get along? Is Human Desire and Aspiration futile against Animal Lust?
These and other questions to be continued...after my reptile brain stops panic mode. Fight or flight! Fight or flight! I can't decide! Help, other Humans! Help!
Chasing her own tail,
- Falcon
Monday, May 15, 2006
Suicidal Comedy
Once again, I can't claim this as my own, although I'd like to. This is straight from The Guy's mouth.
He says, "I've been thinking of writing a song that starts with, 'whenever I want to kill myself...' or uh, 'when I need a reason not to kill myself, I uh...' well, that's as far as I've got."
Well, when you think of a reason not to kill yourself, Guy, let me know. We really do like having you around.
Woof woof.
- Falcon
He says, "I've been thinking of writing a song that starts with, 'whenever I want to kill myself...' or uh, 'when I need a reason not to kill myself, I uh...' well, that's as far as I've got."
Well, when you think of a reason not to kill yourself, Guy, let me know. We really do like having you around.
Woof woof.
- Falcon
Painful Past
So he says to me the other day, he says, "I was talking to a friend of mine about the upside of relationships, and the thing is, I can't find one. As far as I can see, there is no upside to being in a relationship."
"Really." I say, and continue as if I'm speaking to a bright kid who is new to this country. "Hmmm... that's funny, cause for me, I find there are a lot of benefits to us spending time together. For me the upside is a) companionship, b) affection, c) sex, d) emotional support, e) a reason to make a fruit salad from scratch in the morning, f) someone to cozy up to while watching Battlestar Galactica, g) a reason to learn something new, like what the hell basketball is all about, etc. etc. For me, there are a great many upsides to a relationship."
"Hmmm..." he says. "That's the funny thing. I mean, those are all upsides, definitely. And really, there is no downside to hanging out with you. But that's why it's not like a real relationship."
What the hell happened to that boy? That's what I wonder.
- Falcon
"Really." I say, and continue as if I'm speaking to a bright kid who is new to this country. "Hmmm... that's funny, cause for me, I find there are a lot of benefits to us spending time together. For me the upside is a) companionship, b) affection, c) sex, d) emotional support, e) a reason to make a fruit salad from scratch in the morning, f) someone to cozy up to while watching Battlestar Galactica, g) a reason to learn something new, like what the hell basketball is all about, etc. etc. For me, there are a great many upsides to a relationship."
"Hmmm..." he says. "That's the funny thing. I mean, those are all upsides, definitely. And really, there is no downside to hanging out with you. But that's why it's not like a real relationship."
What the hell happened to that boy? That's what I wonder.
- Falcon
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Family Affairs
What would we do without Family? After all, without family, we would never be forced to spend excruciating amounts of time with people we don't understand, who have completely different values and with whom we have nothing in common. How would we ever learn Tolerance? How would we ever be able to tolerate strangers if we hadn't already learned to tolerate relatives?
- Falcon
- Falcon
Recurring Nightmare
I often have this fear of being called up on Judgement Day, not to account for my various romantic "sins," but to account for every piece of crap I have failed to recycle purposefully and have instead consigned to the Landfill Graveyard. There I am, at the Pearly Gates, and St. Peter is carrying a clipboard making black ticks next to my name:
St. Peter: "So... I see in 2005 you threw out 15 cassette mixed tapes and 21 computer disks..."
Me: "I can explain that! I mean, I haven't listened to those mixed tapes in 20 years, and what was I going to do? Tape over them? The quality's crap! I don't even have a cassette player anymore. Same with the computer disks. Those were from the old Mac Classic I had back in 1992. I've had three other computers since then, and the one I have now doesn't even read disks. Sure, I could have gone to an internet cafe to have them wiped and then donated them to the Women's Shelter, but seriously, wouldn't they just throw that crap out anyway? Who needs blank 3.5 inch disks anymore?"
St. Peter: There is also the case of those 3 pairs of underwear and 2 pairs of socks.
Me: Oh, come on. Those socks were worn through.
St. Peter: I have one word: darning. It's bad enough that you don't cook, and instead heat up soup from cans that you deposit into recycling bins that alleviate your conscience but don't come near to solving the problem of rampant consumerism, but to top it off you won't even spend the 10 minutes necessary with a needle and thread to prolong the life of a pair of socks that will take a thousand years to biodegrade. Shame. Shame! And the underwear too!
Me: But the underwear had holes in the crotch.
St. Peter: ONE hole. Big deal. Did it still cover your ass? Yes. It was pure vanity that made you throw them away and buy 5 more pairs for $20 at that La Senza sale. And vanity is a sin.
Me: (crying) Yes! You're right. I am vain. But that new underwear was so cute! And unstained!
St. Peter: Would you rather be have stains in your panties, or ON YOUR SOUL??!!!
And so it goes.
Sigh.
- Falcon.
St. Peter: "So... I see in 2005 you threw out 15 cassette mixed tapes and 21 computer disks..."
Me: "I can explain that! I mean, I haven't listened to those mixed tapes in 20 years, and what was I going to do? Tape over them? The quality's crap! I don't even have a cassette player anymore. Same with the computer disks. Those were from the old Mac Classic I had back in 1992. I've had three other computers since then, and the one I have now doesn't even read disks. Sure, I could have gone to an internet cafe to have them wiped and then donated them to the Women's Shelter, but seriously, wouldn't they just throw that crap out anyway? Who needs blank 3.5 inch disks anymore?"
St. Peter: There is also the case of those 3 pairs of underwear and 2 pairs of socks.
Me: Oh, come on. Those socks were worn through.
St. Peter: I have one word: darning. It's bad enough that you don't cook, and instead heat up soup from cans that you deposit into recycling bins that alleviate your conscience but don't come near to solving the problem of rampant consumerism, but to top it off you won't even spend the 10 minutes necessary with a needle and thread to prolong the life of a pair of socks that will take a thousand years to biodegrade. Shame. Shame! And the underwear too!
Me: But the underwear had holes in the crotch.
St. Peter: ONE hole. Big deal. Did it still cover your ass? Yes. It was pure vanity that made you throw them away and buy 5 more pairs for $20 at that La Senza sale. And vanity is a sin.
Me: (crying) Yes! You're right. I am vain. But that new underwear was so cute! And unstained!
St. Peter: Would you rather be have stains in your panties, or ON YOUR SOUL??!!!
And so it goes.
Sigh.
- Falcon.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Definition
I was talking about my friend, who I affectionately refer to as The Busker, because that's how I met him.
Another friend responded: "A busker? What is that? Isn't that just a homeless person who can sing?"
- Falcon
Another friend responded: "A busker? What is that? Isn't that just a homeless person who can sing?"
- Falcon
These Boots Were Made for Licking
News for the day:
Nick Lachey is suing Jessica Simpson for support in their divorce case, proving once and for all what we all knew: that deep down he was always her bitch.
Advice for Nick: They're accepting applications at Starbucks. Pick one up while you're looking for your dignity.
I'm not being sexist. If the situation was reversed, I'd tell her the same thing. Healthy childless people in their mid-twenties should not be suing for support, no matter how fabulously wealthy their over-rated spouse is. But that's just my opinion...
Woof Woof,
- Falcon
Nick Lachey is suing Jessica Simpson for support in their divorce case, proving once and for all what we all knew: that deep down he was always her bitch.
Advice for Nick: They're accepting applications at Starbucks. Pick one up while you're looking for your dignity.
I'm not being sexist. If the situation was reversed, I'd tell her the same thing. Healthy childless people in their mid-twenties should not be suing for support, no matter how fabulously wealthy their over-rated spouse is. But that's just my opinion...
Woof Woof,
- Falcon
Saturday, December 31, 2005
A Christmas Story
Ah, the holidays. Is there any better time to be in a confused non-relationship?
Christmas started with me phoning The Busker, who I had invited to keep me company at my friend C's for dinner, since he had absolutely no plans with any of his relatives in or out of town. Which already should have tipped me off. Nevertheless, he picked up the phone when I called to see what time I should pick him up, and his response was, "Oh, did I say yes to that? I thought I said no..."
The conversation that followed:
Me: "You said it couldn't hurt. Which I took as a yes."
He: "Oh. I thought it meant no. Well. I got invited to a bunch of dinners and I turned them all down, and I guess I figured this one would just disappear too."
I'm a little miffed, which means I don't talk a lot, and let him stick his foot further and further up his mouth.
"Well, I was kinda looking forward to not getting dressed and watching basketball all day. I guess I have to brush my teeth for this, eh?" He became more enthused when I agreed that a) he could finish watching basketball first, b) I would drive, c) he didn't have to talk to anyone and he was welcome to sit in a corner and play guitar all night and d) we didn't have to stay long. Now I know what you're thinking. Why bother? Just let him sit unwashed at home. Well, I could go on my own, but then I'd be stewing about it to my host and hostess all night. And that wouldn't be fair to them.
Oh and there's more. I was bringing my hosts a present and a bottle of wine, and I bought something for The Busker, because I figured he'd like it, even though I knew perfectly well he didn't buy anything for me because he "hates the commercialism of Christmas." Oh yes, and he has vowed never again to care about a woman. Whatever. (To quote his review of the movie King Kong: "And THAT'S what happens when you care about a woman.")
So I head over around 3, moderately pacified by The Busker's admission that, "It's not that I don't want to see you, it's the other people I'd rather not see." Anyway, I walk in tarted up and wearing my super sexy vintage Tragic 80s Hooker White Rabbit Coat (my gift to myself) and toss him a plastic bag with my few thoughtful gifties with an "I don't care if you don't like Christmas, I do, it makes me happy to give people things, so don't whine about it just shut up and enjoy it. It's no big deal anyway," attitude. Now, doesn't that give you the warm fuzzies already?
Well, turns out the gift goes over pretty well. I bought him a bottle of his favourite wine, and two small glasses (technically they're decorative votive candle holders, but they look similar to the tea glasses I have that he loves to drink red wine out of. He's got a whole manifesto on why you should drink wine out of stemless glasses. He has a manifesto about everything). At any rate, the glasses were a cheap find at Winners, less than $6 total, just in case he decided something expensive would involve too much responsibility - you know, having to take care of them and making sure your drunken rocker roommates don't accidentally knock them off the counter when they're doing a few lines by the sink. At any rate, he loves the glasses. Go figure. He insists we have a glass of coffee and Bailey's to break them in. All good. He even likes the fact that they're small enough to travel with, so when he finally travels the world as a famous rock star, he can stuff them in his backpack and haul them along.
Next is a smallish box to unwrap. He does and immediately sees the bubble wrap. "Hey! How did you know I love bubble wrap?" He's serious. Apparently it's one of his favourite things. He even wants to have a suit made out of the stuff. He plays with the bubble wrap for a while until he finally notices there was a CD in the box. He looks closely at it - "No way!" he says. "Aw, you're wonderful!" he whispers as he takes Christmas with the Chipmunks out of its case. Yes, this is his favourite Christmas album, and has been talking about wanting to track a copy down somewhere. Turns out for $8.99 Chapters will not only sell you the CD but ship it to your house. Who knew?
So now we're ready to roll. We get to the house and immediately our hostess puts everyone at ease. The Busker is handed a beer, and from here on in it's clear sailing. We have a great time, and C's dad (the only other guest) is a hoot. The turkey is perfect, the dinner is awesome, the wine flows, the conversation flows, everyone's laughing and having a great time - even The Busker. For someone who didn't want to talk to people at all he's holding his own in the loud drunken bantering around the table. And he's become quite enamoured with the menagerie - the house is home to two fair sized dogs and three cats, and two other large lab-like dogs were guests for the week. I have to admit, the animals were awesome.
Later, in the living room, C asks The Busker to make her guitar sound pretty, and he does such a good job that her (now very happily drunken) French Canadian dad keeps interrupting whenever he stops singing, urging, "No more talking! Play! Play!" Even though C has told us that her dad likes to go to sleep early, every time he gets up and leaves the room he comes back with another glass of wine. Around 11 pm he starts lobbying for a game of Trivial Pursuit. We are all very drunk, and fairly tired, but agree to a simple round of asking the questions out of the box until someone gets one question from each category right. Our host wins - easily. He's on the news... he knows a lot. C's dad doesn't get a single question of his own right, but successfully answers a couple of mine for me. Finally, around 1:30 am, Dad retires for the night - although he'll be up at 5:30 for the long day long drive back home. The Busker hasn't made any indication of wanting to leave despite his earlier hesitations, and now nobody's in a condition to drive, so C manages to find homes for us strays and puts us to bed.
There's coffee and bread and cheese (and Nutella) and oranges in the morning, and everyone's in a happy lazy day mood. When a discussion on relationships starts up, The Busker announces, "I've decided I need to marry a rich woman. I want to be a kept man." He looks at me and says, "Hey, if you start making serious money, I mean sure, you'll do, otherwise, you know, whatever, I dunno, I guess we can just keep doing this, whatever, thing, for now." Awww. Now isn't that what every girl wants to hear? How romantic. Although to be fair, this is the closest thing to a proposal I've ever had. Who knew that to find love all I had to be was rich? (and not in life experience either, but just in cold hard cash) Boy have I been going about things the wrong way.
Busk and I leave around noon, I drop him off at his place, and in the gray crisp hungover Boxing Day light, in that quiet moment between the end of the conversation and the beginning of the car door opening, he even smiles, looks sideways at me and thanks me for a "really great Christmas." Well there you go. A job well done. That's all I want. Now I can go to sleep happy.
- Falcon
Christmas started with me phoning The Busker, who I had invited to keep me company at my friend C's for dinner, since he had absolutely no plans with any of his relatives in or out of town. Which already should have tipped me off. Nevertheless, he picked up the phone when I called to see what time I should pick him up, and his response was, "Oh, did I say yes to that? I thought I said no..."
The conversation that followed:
Me: "You said it couldn't hurt. Which I took as a yes."
He: "Oh. I thought it meant no. Well. I got invited to a bunch of dinners and I turned them all down, and I guess I figured this one would just disappear too."
I'm a little miffed, which means I don't talk a lot, and let him stick his foot further and further up his mouth.
"Well, I was kinda looking forward to not getting dressed and watching basketball all day. I guess I have to brush my teeth for this, eh?" He became more enthused when I agreed that a) he could finish watching basketball first, b) I would drive, c) he didn't have to talk to anyone and he was welcome to sit in a corner and play guitar all night and d) we didn't have to stay long. Now I know what you're thinking. Why bother? Just let him sit unwashed at home. Well, I could go on my own, but then I'd be stewing about it to my host and hostess all night. And that wouldn't be fair to them.
Oh and there's more. I was bringing my hosts a present and a bottle of wine, and I bought something for The Busker, because I figured he'd like it, even though I knew perfectly well he didn't buy anything for me because he "hates the commercialism of Christmas." Oh yes, and he has vowed never again to care about a woman. Whatever. (To quote his review of the movie King Kong: "And THAT'S what happens when you care about a woman.")
So I head over around 3, moderately pacified by The Busker's admission that, "It's not that I don't want to see you, it's the other people I'd rather not see." Anyway, I walk in tarted up and wearing my super sexy vintage Tragic 80s Hooker White Rabbit Coat (my gift to myself) and toss him a plastic bag with my few thoughtful gifties with an "I don't care if you don't like Christmas, I do, it makes me happy to give people things, so don't whine about it just shut up and enjoy it. It's no big deal anyway," attitude. Now, doesn't that give you the warm fuzzies already?
Well, turns out the gift goes over pretty well. I bought him a bottle of his favourite wine, and two small glasses (technically they're decorative votive candle holders, but they look similar to the tea glasses I have that he loves to drink red wine out of. He's got a whole manifesto on why you should drink wine out of stemless glasses. He has a manifesto about everything). At any rate, the glasses were a cheap find at Winners, less than $6 total, just in case he decided something expensive would involve too much responsibility - you know, having to take care of them and making sure your drunken rocker roommates don't accidentally knock them off the counter when they're doing a few lines by the sink. At any rate, he loves the glasses. Go figure. He insists we have a glass of coffee and Bailey's to break them in. All good. He even likes the fact that they're small enough to travel with, so when he finally travels the world as a famous rock star, he can stuff them in his backpack and haul them along.
Next is a smallish box to unwrap. He does and immediately sees the bubble wrap. "Hey! How did you know I love bubble wrap?" He's serious. Apparently it's one of his favourite things. He even wants to have a suit made out of the stuff. He plays with the bubble wrap for a while until he finally notices there was a CD in the box. He looks closely at it - "No way!" he says. "Aw, you're wonderful!" he whispers as he takes Christmas with the Chipmunks out of its case. Yes, this is his favourite Christmas album, and has been talking about wanting to track a copy down somewhere. Turns out for $8.99 Chapters will not only sell you the CD but ship it to your house. Who knew?
So now we're ready to roll. We get to the house and immediately our hostess puts everyone at ease. The Busker is handed a beer, and from here on in it's clear sailing. We have a great time, and C's dad (the only other guest) is a hoot. The turkey is perfect, the dinner is awesome, the wine flows, the conversation flows, everyone's laughing and having a great time - even The Busker. For someone who didn't want to talk to people at all he's holding his own in the loud drunken bantering around the table. And he's become quite enamoured with the menagerie - the house is home to two fair sized dogs and three cats, and two other large lab-like dogs were guests for the week. I have to admit, the animals were awesome.
Later, in the living room, C asks The Busker to make her guitar sound pretty, and he does such a good job that her (now very happily drunken) French Canadian dad keeps interrupting whenever he stops singing, urging, "No more talking! Play! Play!" Even though C has told us that her dad likes to go to sleep early, every time he gets up and leaves the room he comes back with another glass of wine. Around 11 pm he starts lobbying for a game of Trivial Pursuit. We are all very drunk, and fairly tired, but agree to a simple round of asking the questions out of the box until someone gets one question from each category right. Our host wins - easily. He's on the news... he knows a lot. C's dad doesn't get a single question of his own right, but successfully answers a couple of mine for me. Finally, around 1:30 am, Dad retires for the night - although he'll be up at 5:30 for the long day long drive back home. The Busker hasn't made any indication of wanting to leave despite his earlier hesitations, and now nobody's in a condition to drive, so C manages to find homes for us strays and puts us to bed.
There's coffee and bread and cheese (and Nutella) and oranges in the morning, and everyone's in a happy lazy day mood. When a discussion on relationships starts up, The Busker announces, "I've decided I need to marry a rich woman. I want to be a kept man." He looks at me and says, "Hey, if you start making serious money, I mean sure, you'll do, otherwise, you know, whatever, I dunno, I guess we can just keep doing this, whatever, thing, for now." Awww. Now isn't that what every girl wants to hear? How romantic. Although to be fair, this is the closest thing to a proposal I've ever had. Who knew that to find love all I had to be was rich? (and not in life experience either, but just in cold hard cash) Boy have I been going about things the wrong way.
Busk and I leave around noon, I drop him off at his place, and in the gray crisp hungover Boxing Day light, in that quiet moment between the end of the conversation and the beginning of the car door opening, he even smiles, looks sideways at me and thanks me for a "really great Christmas." Well there you go. A job well done. That's all I want. Now I can go to sleep happy.
- Falcon
Monday, November 21, 2005
Adventures in "Dating Down"
People are talking about it. "Dating down," which is the phenomenon of women dating men who are a "step down" financially or professionally from them. The question is, does it ever really work, or will women always deep down expect their men to be more successful than they are?
Well, it's a funny question for me, since my priorities have always been upside down. In one article there is a reference to a woman dating a professional dog-walker, and I think we are supposed to look down at this guy as someone without ambition and languishing in a nowhere job. But my first thought is, "Hey! That sounds like a great guy! Flexible hours, loves animals, he'll have plenty of time to hang out in Cafe Beano drinking coffee and he'll let me pet the dogs!" Doesn't sound like dating down to me.
In contrast to some women, I am also backwards because I am automatically suspicious of guys with jobs/fancy cars/money. I am always attracted to the guy who lives in his van, because he's living a more "authentic" life. I know it's crazy, and it's just as prejudiced as the gal who only dates rich guys. I'm sure there are guys with jobs/money/cars/houses that are fascinating and passionate creative people too. I just have my doubts.
To whit, I had this conversation the other day. Recently I've been "spending time" with a guy who plays gigs for a living. I've known him for 2 years. He's bright, creative, and a bit of a misfit. For about a year, we'd run into each other every few months, and maybe coffee or drinks might lead to something else, or maybe it wouldn't, and that was all well and good. The past 2 months we've been spending more time together regularly, seeing each other a couple of times a week. I was surprised when he left a toothbrush over at my place about a month ago. But he likes to cuddle on the couch while we watch episodes of HBO's Rome miniseries, he buys the wine when he comes over, he takes me out for coffee, we go out for breakfast and movies, he kisses me goodbye etc. He stayed at my place while I was working in out of town last week and when I came home he had dinner on the table etc. So fair enough, the next day I decide to do a little check in. "Uh - just a quick check-in. Are we dating?" Can open. Worms everywhere.
The only reason why I brought it up is because I wondered if I should invite him over after his gig that night, and was wondering if I should buy him a Christmas present. Well it turns into this enormous deal. Here's a sampling of some of his ramblings:
"Honestly, I don't think I see us together in ten years, so maybe we should just stay friends." Ten years? Good grief who knows what's going to be going on ten years from now. I was thinking maybe we try it out for a week and see if we can make it to Christmas.
"Once you're boyfriend and girlfriend you're essentially MARRIED, even if it's for a week or whatever, and I'm just not ready to be in a serious committed relationship right now."
Whuh the fuh? Is that what I asked? I just want to know if I should buy you a sweater, dude!
This is my favourite.
"If I wasn't so GOOD LOOKING and CHARMING, you'd never settle for a guy like me."
That's a lot of assumptions right there. Again, assuming that I'd prefer someone in the oil patch who'll chain me down to a monster house in the suburbs, where I'll suffocate, and who I'll never see because he's working his ass off to sustain this lifestyle, and won't understand that I mostly work nights. Musician Dude is assuming I'd prefer that over someone who doesn't mind that I like to go on the road four months out of the year and whose lifestyle is as erratic as mine, and is often available to go to movies in the afternoon. Not to mention that it's making assumptions about exactly HOW "good looking and charming" he is. He has no lack of confidence, that's for sure.
So we're not dating, apparently. So he hauls his four guitars and piles of recording equipment out of my place, and is then SURPRISED when I ask for my apartment keys back (from house-sitting), which he's already attached to his keychain. Then after he's gone, I notice that he's STILL left a crapload of stuff behind. Practically a second wardrobe plus about $80 on the fireplace mantle. So I fume for two days and then call him up yesterday for coffee, so I can drop by and bring over the THREE BAGS full of stuff he left behind. Once again, he seems surprised. "Oh, uh, thanks. Really, I didn't need any of that stuff right away..." Yeah, but I needed it out of my house. Cause if we're not dating, it means I might bring someone else home one night, and there'd be an AWKWARD EXPLANATION about the collection of men's shoes in my closet. Just saying.
Anyway, that's my adventure in "dating down." This musician is also the one, by the way, who comes up with the outrageous statements randomly. Here's my favourite: "Gypsies have evolved so that they can get stabbed more times than any other race and heal faster than regular people. You can stab a gypsy like, 8 times, and he'll still go to work the next day. They've just physically adapted because they've spent the past few hundred years stabbing each other." Cue the running soundtrack of me in the background going, "Roma - uh, the word is - they like to be called - Roma, the current term is Roma - gypsy implies - well it's derogatory - just say Roma, just say it..."
Perhaps there is novelty in "dating up." Can you find a fulfilling partnership with someone who has regular hours, when you don't? Won't I feel uncomfortable spending time with someone in a restaurant I can't afford? And even more uncomfortable and embarrassed when he has to pick up the cheque all the time? After all, it's one thing to pick up the cheque just to be nice, it's another to do it because otherwise your date will have to be washing dishes in the kitchen all night. I have fears about "dating up." Won't he expect me to have a real job at some point too? Or can such a relationship be a new spin on an old tradition of patronage a la the Renaissance? As in, if you support my artistic ventures, I promise to dedicate all my work to you, and on top of that I'll sleep with you. Is that legitimate? Or is that a little too much like whoring? Is there anything wrong with whoring? Mabye not. Questions questions questions. No answers. Maybe I read La Dame Aux Camelias one too many times, and now dating rich men seems too much like whoring, and dating poor men is the closest thing to love there is. Maybe I think too much.
- Falcon
Well, it's a funny question for me, since my priorities have always been upside down. In one article there is a reference to a woman dating a professional dog-walker, and I think we are supposed to look down at this guy as someone without ambition and languishing in a nowhere job. But my first thought is, "Hey! That sounds like a great guy! Flexible hours, loves animals, he'll have plenty of time to hang out in Cafe Beano drinking coffee and he'll let me pet the dogs!" Doesn't sound like dating down to me.
In contrast to some women, I am also backwards because I am automatically suspicious of guys with jobs/fancy cars/money. I am always attracted to the guy who lives in his van, because he's living a more "authentic" life. I know it's crazy, and it's just as prejudiced as the gal who only dates rich guys. I'm sure there are guys with jobs/money/cars/houses that are fascinating and passionate creative people too. I just have my doubts.
To whit, I had this conversation the other day. Recently I've been "spending time" with a guy who plays gigs for a living. I've known him for 2 years. He's bright, creative, and a bit of a misfit. For about a year, we'd run into each other every few months, and maybe coffee or drinks might lead to something else, or maybe it wouldn't, and that was all well and good. The past 2 months we've been spending more time together regularly, seeing each other a couple of times a week. I was surprised when he left a toothbrush over at my place about a month ago. But he likes to cuddle on the couch while we watch episodes of HBO's Rome miniseries, he buys the wine when he comes over, he takes me out for coffee, we go out for breakfast and movies, he kisses me goodbye etc. He stayed at my place while I was working in out of town last week and when I came home he had dinner on the table etc. So fair enough, the next day I decide to do a little check in. "Uh - just a quick check-in. Are we dating?" Can open. Worms everywhere.
The only reason why I brought it up is because I wondered if I should invite him over after his gig that night, and was wondering if I should buy him a Christmas present. Well it turns into this enormous deal. Here's a sampling of some of his ramblings:
"Honestly, I don't think I see us together in ten years, so maybe we should just stay friends." Ten years? Good grief who knows what's going to be going on ten years from now. I was thinking maybe we try it out for a week and see if we can make it to Christmas.
"Once you're boyfriend and girlfriend you're essentially MARRIED, even if it's for a week or whatever, and I'm just not ready to be in a serious committed relationship right now."
Whuh the fuh? Is that what I asked? I just want to know if I should buy you a sweater, dude!
This is my favourite.
"If I wasn't so GOOD LOOKING and CHARMING, you'd never settle for a guy like me."
That's a lot of assumptions right there. Again, assuming that I'd prefer someone in the oil patch who'll chain me down to a monster house in the suburbs, where I'll suffocate, and who I'll never see because he's working his ass off to sustain this lifestyle, and won't understand that I mostly work nights. Musician Dude is assuming I'd prefer that over someone who doesn't mind that I like to go on the road four months out of the year and whose lifestyle is as erratic as mine, and is often available to go to movies in the afternoon. Not to mention that it's making assumptions about exactly HOW "good looking and charming" he is. He has no lack of confidence, that's for sure.
So we're not dating, apparently. So he hauls his four guitars and piles of recording equipment out of my place, and is then SURPRISED when I ask for my apartment keys back (from house-sitting), which he's already attached to his keychain. Then after he's gone, I notice that he's STILL left a crapload of stuff behind. Practically a second wardrobe plus about $80 on the fireplace mantle. So I fume for two days and then call him up yesterday for coffee, so I can drop by and bring over the THREE BAGS full of stuff he left behind. Once again, he seems surprised. "Oh, uh, thanks. Really, I didn't need any of that stuff right away..." Yeah, but I needed it out of my house. Cause if we're not dating, it means I might bring someone else home one night, and there'd be an AWKWARD EXPLANATION about the collection of men's shoes in my closet. Just saying.
Anyway, that's my adventure in "dating down." This musician is also the one, by the way, who comes up with the outrageous statements randomly. Here's my favourite: "Gypsies have evolved so that they can get stabbed more times than any other race and heal faster than regular people. You can stab a gypsy like, 8 times, and he'll still go to work the next day. They've just physically adapted because they've spent the past few hundred years stabbing each other." Cue the running soundtrack of me in the background going, "Roma - uh, the word is - they like to be called - Roma, the current term is Roma - gypsy implies - well it's derogatory - just say Roma, just say it..."
Perhaps there is novelty in "dating up." Can you find a fulfilling partnership with someone who has regular hours, when you don't? Won't I feel uncomfortable spending time with someone in a restaurant I can't afford? And even more uncomfortable and embarrassed when he has to pick up the cheque all the time? After all, it's one thing to pick up the cheque just to be nice, it's another to do it because otherwise your date will have to be washing dishes in the kitchen all night. I have fears about "dating up." Won't he expect me to have a real job at some point too? Or can such a relationship be a new spin on an old tradition of patronage a la the Renaissance? As in, if you support my artistic ventures, I promise to dedicate all my work to you, and on top of that I'll sleep with you. Is that legitimate? Or is that a little too much like whoring? Is there anything wrong with whoring? Mabye not. Questions questions questions. No answers. Maybe I read La Dame Aux Camelias one too many times, and now dating rich men seems too much like whoring, and dating poor men is the closest thing to love there is. Maybe I think too much.
- Falcon
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Spooooky Hallowe'en Movie!
This is scary stuff. Read on, if you DARE...
Well, I'd heard that it was slow, boring, and hilariously self-indulgent, and included an actual blow job by a celebrity. I was not disappointed! The Brown Bunny is, at 90 minutes, about 83 minutes too long. It's actually an excessively long AADAC ad, which could have been easily trimmed to 3 minutes, plus the extra four for Chloe Sevigny's Oscar calibre blowjob. In fact, the size of Vincent Gallo's, um, talent, is the most surprising and interesting thing in the whole movie. Too bad you have to wade through the rest of it to get there. Although now that we are living in the DVD age, I recommend just going to scene selections and watching "Fidelity" (where V.G. proves he is the Cock of the Walk) and then "Resolutions" (the 3 minute denuouement which explains the rest of the movie).
You really don't need to see anything else. It's mostly just shot-through-the-dusty-windshield-road-trip-while-Gordon-Lightfoot-sings stuff. If anyone has actually been on a road trip to oh, say, Grand Prairie, or Fort McMurray, you've already been through this movie. And the magic of film means that it feels JUST as long.
Beyond that, Vincent Gallo is like some kind of K-Fed prototype, with his greasy hair and dead-eyed stare throughout. As he drives across the country, you can actually smell the stale, salty goat-like aroma of a guy who's been in his van in the same clothes for too long, and hasn't brushed his teeth since two gas fill-ups ago. The movie is blessedly short on dialogue though, and what remains is almost chokingly funny, in a "I can't believe this dialogue sucks harder than Chloe Sevigny in the last scene" way. There are also plenty of jumbo-Pinter sized pauses, mostly because Gallo/Gallo's character, in a display typical self-indulgent twenty-something guy behaviour, almost never asks anyone a question. He just stares dead-eyed at them until they shift their posture, glance uncomfortably away, and finally have to say something to him, presumably to make sure he's still breathing. In a few scenes where he approaches one woman or another, the gals stick around to wait for a response much longer than I would expect. In fact, I'm watching them squirm under his watery-glazed glance and thinking, "Don't go in the truck! He's going to kill you!" Surprisingly, they are not as alarmed as I am, and have lives terrible enough that the preferred alternative is spending more time talking to this guy.
As Chloe shows up in the hotel suite at the end, and talks to her unresponsive ex, she runs to the bathroom every so often to take a hit off something. Hey, I don't blame her. I would get cranked up too if I had to keep talking to Vince. And probably made the blowjob scene easier to shoot. Oh sorry, of course, Chloe's "character" was getting super high, not Chloe herself... It's so easy to get the two confused (not a slag at Chloe, more a slag at the film and its context. I'm serious. You wouldn't see me doing that stuff on film no matter how famous I thought it might make me, unless I was good and ready for it. In other words, fully loaded. In other words, cranked to the gills. In other words... ah there are so many other words.)
At any rate, that's my movie review. Not a good movie, but am glad to have experienced it, only so that I can now legitimately participate in the "Vincent Gallo! What the fuh? Who does this guy think he is?" debate. Although you have to give props to this whining, pseudo-art-house megalomaniac - he did manage to get a hot B-list star to let him film her, in excruciatingly close-up classic porno shot detail, giving him the "respect" he so desperately wants from the rest of the film community.
Two woofs out of five,
- Falcon
Well, I'd heard that it was slow, boring, and hilariously self-indulgent, and included an actual blow job by a celebrity. I was not disappointed! The Brown Bunny is, at 90 minutes, about 83 minutes too long. It's actually an excessively long AADAC ad, which could have been easily trimmed to 3 minutes, plus the extra four for Chloe Sevigny's Oscar calibre blowjob. In fact, the size of Vincent Gallo's, um, talent, is the most surprising and interesting thing in the whole movie. Too bad you have to wade through the rest of it to get there. Although now that we are living in the DVD age, I recommend just going to scene selections and watching "Fidelity" (where V.G. proves he is the Cock of the Walk) and then "Resolutions" (the 3 minute denuouement which explains the rest of the movie).
You really don't need to see anything else. It's mostly just shot-through-the-dusty-windshield-road-trip-while-Gordon-Lightfoot-sings stuff. If anyone has actually been on a road trip to oh, say, Grand Prairie, or Fort McMurray, you've already been through this movie. And the magic of film means that it feels JUST as long.
Beyond that, Vincent Gallo is like some kind of K-Fed prototype, with his greasy hair and dead-eyed stare throughout. As he drives across the country, you can actually smell the stale, salty goat-like aroma of a guy who's been in his van in the same clothes for too long, and hasn't brushed his teeth since two gas fill-ups ago. The movie is blessedly short on dialogue though, and what remains is almost chokingly funny, in a "I can't believe this dialogue sucks harder than Chloe Sevigny in the last scene" way. There are also plenty of jumbo-Pinter sized pauses, mostly because Gallo/Gallo's character, in a display typical self-indulgent twenty-something guy behaviour, almost never asks anyone a question. He just stares dead-eyed at them until they shift their posture, glance uncomfortably away, and finally have to say something to him, presumably to make sure he's still breathing. In a few scenes where he approaches one woman or another, the gals stick around to wait for a response much longer than I would expect. In fact, I'm watching them squirm under his watery-glazed glance and thinking, "Don't go in the truck! He's going to kill you!" Surprisingly, they are not as alarmed as I am, and have lives terrible enough that the preferred alternative is spending more time talking to this guy.
As Chloe shows up in the hotel suite at the end, and talks to her unresponsive ex, she runs to the bathroom every so often to take a hit off something. Hey, I don't blame her. I would get cranked up too if I had to keep talking to Vince. And probably made the blowjob scene easier to shoot. Oh sorry, of course, Chloe's "character" was getting super high, not Chloe herself... It's so easy to get the two confused (not a slag at Chloe, more a slag at the film and its context. I'm serious. You wouldn't see me doing that stuff on film no matter how famous I thought it might make me, unless I was good and ready for it. In other words, fully loaded. In other words, cranked to the gills. In other words... ah there are so many other words.)
At any rate, that's my movie review. Not a good movie, but am glad to have experienced it, only so that I can now legitimately participate in the "Vincent Gallo! What the fuh? Who does this guy think he is?" debate. Although you have to give props to this whining, pseudo-art-house megalomaniac - he did manage to get a hot B-list star to let him film her, in excruciatingly close-up classic porno shot detail, giving him the "respect" he so desperately wants from the rest of the film community.
Two woofs out of five,
- Falcon
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
My Identical Twin
Wow. It's been a while since I posted. Either nothing interesting has happened in the past two months, or I have been hibernating. Both are true, actually.
I have no idea how to become a more productive individual. I am so consistently a) lazy b) paralyzed by fear c) trapped under the weight of my own self-loathing :-)
If I could get out from under that, I would be Jonathan Safran Foer by now. Who is my identical double by the way. Well, except for the nine year age difference, and the fact that he's a dark haired dark eyed Jewish man, and I'm a blond, blue-eyed dutch girl. And he has the life I covet - a successful New York writer, while I am a little-known Canadian playwright living on a prairie for some reason. How did I wind up on the prairie? (note to self: Must do something about that one day. Like my plan to move to Halifax for no apparent reason other than the fact that I've never been there, which seems like as good a reason as any...)
But I swear, we have the same brain. And we're both sort of neutrally attractive and kind of androgynous.
I love him. No, seriously. If he wasn't already married to another writer - coincidentally named NICOLE - I would totally hunt him down and love him. You know, in the nicest most non-threatening way.
- Falcon
I have no idea how to become a more productive individual. I am so consistently a) lazy b) paralyzed by fear c) trapped under the weight of my own self-loathing :-)
If I could get out from under that, I would be Jonathan Safran Foer by now. Who is my identical double by the way. Well, except for the nine year age difference, and the fact that he's a dark haired dark eyed Jewish man, and I'm a blond, blue-eyed dutch girl. And he has the life I covet - a successful New York writer, while I am a little-known Canadian playwright living on a prairie for some reason. How did I wind up on the prairie? (note to self: Must do something about that one day. Like my plan to move to Halifax for no apparent reason other than the fact that I've never been there, which seems like as good a reason as any...)
But I swear, we have the same brain. And we're both sort of neutrally attractive and kind of androgynous.
I love him. No, seriously. If he wasn't already married to another writer - coincidentally named NICOLE - I would totally hunt him down and love him. You know, in the nicest most non-threatening way.
- Falcon
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Blue Mountain Day Four: Rain Continues
I spend 12 hours in a trailer with no heat, as the rain turns the earth to mud, and a damp chill runs through our little encampment.
I am into hair and makeup at 6:30 am as they want to shoot the reverse shot of the unfinished scene as soon as they can. As soon as they film this establishing shot - me, watering flowers, looking up at Andreas in the wagon, Anne running past me towards her husband - I can go. The shot will be in the can. I'm told this is very important as it establishes everyone in the household. I am vital to this scene!
We never get there.
I am officially considered part of the actors now and so I can hang out in the ladies' trailer, which is a step up from sitting outside under a tarp. Nonetheless, there is something wrong with the power hookup to the trailer so it is very cold. The Unhappy Costume Lady pins up my skirt so it doesn't drag in the mud, and I'm given a parka. We light tea candles to keep warm.
Eventually the ladies have to go down to set and I am alone with my thoughts, my magazine, my crossword puzzle, my script for the solo show I'm performing in Edmonton, my research reading for the job I'm quitting.
As I run into Andreas over hot chocolate at the craft table, he insists I move to the men's trailer - "there's no one in there," he explains, and the heat works. You can't sit in the cold! It's not human!"
He is trucked off to set and I figure I might as well keep warm. Hey, it is toasty in the men's trailer. Lucky bastards. I sit at the winnebago's kitchen table and read the paper. Eventually a German man I haven't seen before comes in. I look up, smile. He looks confused. Then decides not to question it and goes to lie down in the back. I go back to the paper. Eventually Andreas comes back, and sits across from me, reading the German equivalent of Time while I work on my crossword puzzle - no chance the Germans will want that from the Globe. But I'm content. Andreas chuckles - he is reading an article about a place in the Middle East where camel racing is so competitive that they get children to ride the camels - being so light they don't slow the animals down. And others go further and drive their camels with remote controlled robot jockeys perched on top of the humped beasts. Very strange. More unknown German men come through, stop briefly when they see me, then continue on their way. I smile and say hello, but they are less interested in cutting my food than Andreas is.
There are delays and things rearranged all day. The rain doesn't stop and so they have to film a scene inside a church, where they were going to shoot outside of it. The church is empty so the crew has to spend several hours dressing it first before they can cram everyone in there and shoot. There are piles of extras today, all huddled under tarps or in the drafty church up on set. When lunch is called I wander down to craft services. I am instructed to go ahead in the line. I get into a little bit of a "No, no, YOU first," competition. But the extras know their place, and the crew shuttles me ahead of them, out of the rain.
After lunch the ladies have reconvened in the girls' trailer. One of the set guys has found a space heater and it's starting to warm up in there. One of the A.D.s comes down and asks if I can return on Saturday morning between 9 and 12 to finish shooting the scene I am waiting for. Saturday between 9 and 12 is exactly when I am teching my solo show in Edmonton.
It becomes a point of stress - I feel a bit like I am between a rock and a hard place. They hadn't checked my availability til now, and I'm unavailable. I don't want to hold up a multi-million dollar German movie for my little show that might make $3000 if I'm lucky... but on the other hand, I don't want to get up on stage in my own country and look like an asshole because I don't know what I'm doing - I have only this time to set the lights and see the stage before I perform in Edmonton.
As if I don't feel bad enough, the producer, a small dark woman named Winka, comes into the trailer. "It's very important!" she says, and smiles like she's talking to a child. "Make it vork!" She leaves.
Sonsee and Anne are very supportive. "I'd be mad as hell if I were you," says Sonsee. Both of these beautiful delicate flowers have a tough-as-thorns side. I like them a lot. I think I will try to be more like them - more assertive, and more physically beautiful. Or maybe I'll just call my agent and let her sort this all out and keep warm in my parka.
The ladies are called back down to the set, and I am alone again. I see Andreas briefly as he is herded back into the truck. He smiles, "I will see you soon!" He waves, the car door closes, and the truck drives off. That is the last time I will see him. An anti-climactic ending and not one I would have written had I a choice. I had pictured perhaps a hug, or a thank-you, or an email exhange, or a "next time you're in Europe," or an invitation for dinner, or at least a last long wistful glance from those hazel soap star eyes. Even a hearty handshake would have done. Some kind of closure.
On Saturday, as I am teching my show in the Legion in Edmonton, and my director is setting the lights with the technicians, I stand on the stage and imagine Andreas on the plane back to Homburg, back to his sick dog, back to shooting in a couple of days for one of his two television series he stars in, one as a helicopter captain in the army... He is friendly to the flight attendants, and overly helpful to his neighbours. The lights dim in the cabin, and as the plane begins its long journey over land and ocean, he puts on headphones, sits back, and closes his eyes.
I hope the dog is waiting for him.
- Falcon.
I am into hair and makeup at 6:30 am as they want to shoot the reverse shot of the unfinished scene as soon as they can. As soon as they film this establishing shot - me, watering flowers, looking up at Andreas in the wagon, Anne running past me towards her husband - I can go. The shot will be in the can. I'm told this is very important as it establishes everyone in the household. I am vital to this scene!
We never get there.
I am officially considered part of the actors now and so I can hang out in the ladies' trailer, which is a step up from sitting outside under a tarp. Nonetheless, there is something wrong with the power hookup to the trailer so it is very cold. The Unhappy Costume Lady pins up my skirt so it doesn't drag in the mud, and I'm given a parka. We light tea candles to keep warm.
Eventually the ladies have to go down to set and I am alone with my thoughts, my magazine, my crossword puzzle, my script for the solo show I'm performing in Edmonton, my research reading for the job I'm quitting.
As I run into Andreas over hot chocolate at the craft table, he insists I move to the men's trailer - "there's no one in there," he explains, and the heat works. You can't sit in the cold! It's not human!"
He is trucked off to set and I figure I might as well keep warm. Hey, it is toasty in the men's trailer. Lucky bastards. I sit at the winnebago's kitchen table and read the paper. Eventually a German man I haven't seen before comes in. I look up, smile. He looks confused. Then decides not to question it and goes to lie down in the back. I go back to the paper. Eventually Andreas comes back, and sits across from me, reading the German equivalent of Time while I work on my crossword puzzle - no chance the Germans will want that from the Globe. But I'm content. Andreas chuckles - he is reading an article about a place in the Middle East where camel racing is so competitive that they get children to ride the camels - being so light they don't slow the animals down. And others go further and drive their camels with remote controlled robot jockeys perched on top of the humped beasts. Very strange. More unknown German men come through, stop briefly when they see me, then continue on their way. I smile and say hello, but they are less interested in cutting my food than Andreas is.
There are delays and things rearranged all day. The rain doesn't stop and so they have to film a scene inside a church, where they were going to shoot outside of it. The church is empty so the crew has to spend several hours dressing it first before they can cram everyone in there and shoot. There are piles of extras today, all huddled under tarps or in the drafty church up on set. When lunch is called I wander down to craft services. I am instructed to go ahead in the line. I get into a little bit of a "No, no, YOU first," competition. But the extras know their place, and the crew shuttles me ahead of them, out of the rain.
After lunch the ladies have reconvened in the girls' trailer. One of the set guys has found a space heater and it's starting to warm up in there. One of the A.D.s comes down and asks if I can return on Saturday morning between 9 and 12 to finish shooting the scene I am waiting for. Saturday between 9 and 12 is exactly when I am teching my solo show in Edmonton.
It becomes a point of stress - I feel a bit like I am between a rock and a hard place. They hadn't checked my availability til now, and I'm unavailable. I don't want to hold up a multi-million dollar German movie for my little show that might make $3000 if I'm lucky... but on the other hand, I don't want to get up on stage in my own country and look like an asshole because I don't know what I'm doing - I have only this time to set the lights and see the stage before I perform in Edmonton.
As if I don't feel bad enough, the producer, a small dark woman named Winka, comes into the trailer. "It's very important!" she says, and smiles like she's talking to a child. "Make it vork!" She leaves.
Sonsee and Anne are very supportive. "I'd be mad as hell if I were you," says Sonsee. Both of these beautiful delicate flowers have a tough-as-thorns side. I like them a lot. I think I will try to be more like them - more assertive, and more physically beautiful. Or maybe I'll just call my agent and let her sort this all out and keep warm in my parka.
The ladies are called back down to the set, and I am alone again. I see Andreas briefly as he is herded back into the truck. He smiles, "I will see you soon!" He waves, the car door closes, and the truck drives off. That is the last time I will see him. An anti-climactic ending and not one I would have written had I a choice. I had pictured perhaps a hug, or a thank-you, or an email exhange, or a "next time you're in Europe," or an invitation for dinner, or at least a last long wistful glance from those hazel soap star eyes. Even a hearty handshake would have done. Some kind of closure.
On Saturday, as I am teching my show in the Legion in Edmonton, and my director is setting the lights with the technicians, I stand on the stage and imagine Andreas on the plane back to Homburg, back to his sick dog, back to shooting in a couple of days for one of his two television series he stars in, one as a helicopter captain in the army... He is friendly to the flight attendants, and overly helpful to his neighbours. The lights dim in the cabin, and as the plane begins its long journey over land and ocean, he puts on headphones, sits back, and closes his eyes.
I hope the dog is waiting for him.
- Falcon.
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