I want to write something happy…

for you who stumble across this blog, and for me to write from a genuinely happy place, an unforced happiness. I want to write something happy, because there is so much misery in the world, and I don’t want to contribute to the pile. I want to tell stories that are redemptive, but I know I can’t always do that. Sometimes there is no happy healing ending, sometimes it’s just painful, and then maybe later, after some of the pain has run it’s course, there is relief, some brightness, something touching and beautiful, sweet, funny, and warm.

Random thoughts

Monday- August 10- Sitting in Waves at Pender and Main. Got some slime on my fingers from grabbing the underside of the counter, I think it was honey. Amazing what happens when your away from something long enough. I’ve become a total germaphobe. I used to walk around barefoot at the corner of Main and Hastings, wash people’s feet with my bare hands. Feet that had been walking in pissed, bloodied, and feces soaked pavement in the same socks for weeks in the rain. Feet that belonged to bodies and souls of people living with AIDS, HIV, HEP-C, TB and/or Cancer. I have said many times since those days that I was possessed by some other force during that time. I had no regard for my own body. I responded constantly to whatever anyone needed. I did the same as a child. Always responding to need. I still do, but much less.

I have experienced things in the past few weeks that I don’t remember being able to do or feel. Sit for 20 minutes in a form of meditation and not move. I felt a trust in something greater than myself, a universe, a plan, and that whatever happens to me in the next while is what is best for me. I have also said – I want to be free, and I meant it, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I’m not a very trusting person, so these experiences have felt unusual. I don’t trust that people won’t hurt me, physically or emotionally, or that when I say I will get what I need or what is best for me that it isn’t tainted by the thought that what is best for me might be that I end up harmed in some way or dead. I live with alot of fear. I guess that’s what the desire for being free is- to live without fear. Not to be without concern, or caution, but to not be crippled by it. I have been.

Thursday August- 13-I hear things on the radio some days that are so horrible I’m not sure how to process them. I imagine if I am at least able to hear it without turning it off or getting really triggered, then I am healing. I was trying to imagine what it might be like for the journalist who just had to read that broadcast about bodies being disintegrated in a pool of acid- drug war violence. Where does he put it, or does he just turn off, that’s what it sounds like- 10 seconds on the bodies in acid, and another 10 on increased taxes. To say this is madness is a joke. Of course it is. It’s made so normal, so matter of fact, that we kill people every day, for money. I always feel like a naive young girl at this point. Someone could step in and say” Of course dear, this is the way the world is, we are a kill or be killed kind of people, and more so since we have developed things to fixate on that make us feel so powerful, even though we have destroyed cultures, people, land, and food supplies to generate this power, it doesn’t matter anyway, we won’t be around forever, so who cares.” That’s where I get stuck- who cares? How did the people who submerged the dead bodies in acid feel when they were dropping them in there? when they were killing? Or are they like the journalist, did they just shut off, do the job, and then go for lunch. Or did they throw up? It has to go somewhere, no matter how often we shut off, not care, only look out for our own interests. The impact, the pain, the violence, the trauma it stays with us. It may not sit in our brain somewhere, but I can speak from personal experience that while the brain may not be able to handle what it’s seen or done, the rest of the body will hold it. In my right eye I’ve absorbed so much trauma, that it makes my eye sore, and vibrate when I’m triggered. We can ignore, shut off and disassociate into the comfort of our complacency and not see each other, and I may be naive, but I’m not foolish enough to think that just because I stick my fingers in my ears or cover my eyes- that maybe it didn’t happen, that none of this is real, or that I can tell myself it doesn’t matter because It’s not happening to me. It’s not, and it is. I am of this world and in this world, a fact that can not be escaped.

???

The title sets the tone, but today I don’t know what my title is, I just know that I want to write. I spoke with my Mom this morning, she sounded a little better than she has in a few weeks. Morton’s death and her general depression have made her pretty much immobile. She started talking about writing a book again. I hope she does, she has started some version of a book many times. I just want her to get in to something, and writing, as I have been grateful to find, has helped me more than I ever thought it would. I come here when I have no where else to go, when I don’t know where I am, lost, overwhelmed, sad, anxious, and some times I can sort things out, that I couldn’t have through a phone call with a friend. I hope she makes her book, or at least finds some love in writing, that it could become her place to go when she feels lost.

So many changes ahead. I gave my notice on my apartment this past weekend. I’ll be leaving September 1st. I’m going to get rid of my phone. I have held on to the same phone number for 11 years, I chose it apart from the others the phone company gave me, because the last 4 digits were the amount, plus a dollar of the first big chunk of money I had raised for a project. As of September 1st I can be reached through e-mail and then possibly a cell phone, not sure yet. I like the idea of unloading old things, getting rid of my phone number, and this place that I’ve never been really happy in. It has been a home for me for the last 3 and half years. It has been a productive place, a place of isolation, a place where I started to write, where I fumbled through learning how to edit films, wrote papers, watched too many youtube videos and learned to like myself better. I am ready to leave.

I laid in bed the other day telling myself that I need to let go, let go of this place, let go of everyone I hang on to, let it all go, and I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I don’t want to hang on to people anymore, afraid that I’ll be left alone, I am alone. I cringe at the thought of needing and wanting somebody else so much that I dissappear. I’ve been there most of my life, and always trying to be seen. I am alone, and my home is inside me, and I am filled with memories of every tone, smell, and colour that a memory can have. My memories are filled with people that let me go, and that I let go of, of people that have harmed me and that I have harmed, people who cared about me and that I cared about, people I have worked for and with, my memories are filled with images that have made me sick and moved me to tears and laughter. It is all inside me, and in that way I’m never alone.

I applied for an internship in New York. I should find out next week if I’m going. I don’t feel attached either way. I just know that in September things will be different.

Jealousy

It’s happening. documentary exposure jealousy. Early in the term last year. I sat with Michelle, one of my teachers and she said something that got well hammered into my head. There will be people around me that will do really well, get in to festivals, get films produced by the NFB, etc. Be happy for them, and stick with the story you want to tell. don’t get distracted. These words stuck, until yesterday. I saw on a facebook update that one of my classmates got in to a NY and LA film festival. I felt myself wanting to press the like option on the update, or make a comment. I couldn’t do it. It felt phoney. All I could think of was that he go in to 2 festivals with his film and probably more. It’s really good, of course he got in. It has a personal, but more general life message about it. Mine is awkward and very personal. I don’t doubt the appeal of what I made. I just don’t want to care so much. What matters was that I was proud of it, and of course that other people liked it, I didn’t just make it for me. I’m feeling less confident right now. I just sent off this application to Maysles Films in NY that felt messy, and awkward. The story concepts were awkward to me, and the dvd cover was frayed from my own bad cropping, there were 2 typos in one of the reference letters. I had 3 letters. They only asked for 2, so I held back one I felt I should have sent, the one without typos, the more subtle one. I also spent money mailing it when I could have e-mailed it. I drove myself crazy sending this thing off, and now I don’t even really care.

I’m starting again, the me bullying. It’s when I’m left alone with myself for too long. We start to get in to it. I have to remember from this last experience that getting to the story I want to tell is an awkward process, sometimes it may be less so, when the story is clearer, less personal. I want to be happy for him, genuinely. He is a sweet and talented person who got in to 2 festivals. I want to be happy for him, when my head clears, when it feels genuine. This is the part where I remind myself that I’m doing the right thing, what I’m supposed to be doing. to not get easily discouraged, to not let the jealousy get me, distract me, and eventually I will be less jealous. I already am.

this one is all about awkward feelings…

Some lines just feel to obvious to write, like “I had so many thoughts running through my head”, of course I do, that’s why I do this, so I can feel a little less crazy. I went to see this film a few weeks ago, which made no sense since I don’t have money for rent or food, but I’ll go see a documentary about a monk that was imprisoned for 33 years, just in case I run in to this person. The 2nd to last person I had any serious physical contact with in the last 4 years, we made out, we didn’t play sports. I try and sound so careful and I just sound weird. I get ready to go see this film. I put on my yellow pillowcase skirt with the blossoms and branches on it that I just sewed, needs a slit, because I can’t bike in it, and I wanted to bike there, didn’t happen, couldn’t ride, and didn’t feel like I had the time to change clothes, and the outfit seemed more important. I get on the bus, and It’s the usual hell. Some drunk guy leering at me, talking to himself, people guzzling their beverages, and this one woman who was practically yelling on her cell-phone. I get off, finally. I figure if there are no seats, it’s fine I wasn’t meant to see it. I got there, plenty of seats, no sign of the 2nd to last person I made out with 4 years ago. Not a big surprise.

The theatre is filled with mostly white people, and some young Tibetan musicians performing on stage. I am feeling extra weird, like I shouldn’t be there, and then feeling like I needed to get something from this. I listen to the story of this man, Palden Gyatso who endured 33 years of torture for the right to pray, amongst other things, but quite simply to practice his faith, and he did. Even while he was having electric prods shoved in his mouth that destroyed all his teeth, or being forced to crawl on his knees over glass and small stones, being hung naked upside down, and beaten with a series of brutal instruments. He practiced his faith while he was starving and thirsty. He no longer had family, his father and brother had been beaten to death, and his step-mother had also endured beatings, his mother died the day after he was born. I kept wondering what was the matter with me, why wasn’t I feeling any strong emotions for him and why was I critiquing this film? That’s not what I was there to do, but I felt it happening while I was watching every scene. From the lisping European torture expert, to the overly dramatic music telling me when I was supposed to feel fear, terror or sadness. He had me twice, when he spoke of his first meeting with the Dalai Lama and telling him his story, and the soft breath he took in when his suffering was acknowledge by his spiritual leader. The other is when he told the story of licking his teeth to gather saliva and giving that saliva to his good friend Lobsang and feeding him like a parent feeding a child. I see him cry for the first time, I get a small sense of the weight of his sadness in this moment. The Dalai Lama doesn’t come across as a clearly sympathetic figure. I have heard him at public talks and he has been much more effective, for me anyway, when he’s not speaking in English, his meaning seems to get lost otherwise, not uncommon, we often express ourselves best in our own language. The other part that I had trouble with was the demonizing of China, it felt too simple. virtuous and peaceful Tibetans along with their western allies facing down the G-dless Chinese.

I felt like this man, Palden Gyatso, didn’t get the telling he deserved. Something didn’t sit right with me when I was watching it. Like if the story was told in a different way would more people see it? Would it have made a difference to the situation in Tibet? Could it have been more healing for him? and why didn’t I like him more, I wanted to. I wanted to appreciate this film, because it is an important story. The title Fire under the Snow is a powerful image in my mind. The title is based on Palden Gyatso’s book. I think the problem was that I didn’t have faith. I didn’t have faith that anything is going to really change.

What I appreciate about buddhism is that asking questions, seeking deep truths are a great part of the practice. Questions of ourselves, and each other. I often feel like there is no room to question when there has been severe trauma and suffering, like somehow it would take away or deny the suffering or the trauma to question it. I see it in situations where there is poverty and abuse. We don’t question the wealth, because they earned it apparently, and if there poor, well, bad shit happened. There is no tidy end here, so It ends here, with more questions.

Morton Rosen

My mother has loved 3 men in her life. Her father, her boyfriend from high school and Morton Rosen. They are friends, they have been for the last 10 years. He turned 91 on May 17th and died yesterday June 20th. He has been like family, the kind of family that you like other people to meet. He laughed easy, he teased my mom regularly and lovingly, never taking her too seriously, or himself. Morton never married or had any kids. Not completely sure why, but he never seemed like someone who is full of regrets. He had a pretty good time while he was here. Always full of great stories about gold panning, battling a bear, living close to avocado trees, travelling, and doing all kinds of work, meeting all kinds of people, and making himself laugh as much as anyone, more of a snicker actually. In the last 10 years he was spending time with my Mom, I had never seen her so comfortable with anyone, maybe because for the first time in her adult life, she felt accepted and safe with a man.

My friends that have met Morton, love him, he was hard not to love. I think I aspire, as do many people I know, to be more like Morton, to shrug things off, to laugh easy, and to still be flirting in to my 90’s. When he went in to the hospital a few months ago, his walls were bare and there were no flowers, so I brought him some photos to put on the bulletin board in front of his bed, so he could see me, my friend Marge and my Mom. I hadn’t gone to see him since they moved him to the Louis Brier Hospital. I felt bad. I said I would come by the weekend after his birthday and I never did. I will miss him, very much. I will miss him more than my own father, because he gave us a great gift, late in our lives, my mom and me.

Dear Mayor and Council,

I came to council chambers this morning, not completely sure why. I think I wanted to look at all your faces, and those of your staff. I’ve spent the last few years projecting my hate on to this city as if it were an ex-lover that had “done me wrong”. I was hating it for a number of reasons. The 16 years I’ve spent watching people die and suffer in the Downtown Eastside while more feasibility studies, conferences and reports were produced, and the rest of the city whined about how the neighbourhood makes Vancouver look bad. I started to hate you because of this beautiful place that I along with 1600 other people signed a petition to save, and a smaller group of us fought through court systems, bureaucracy and finally bulldozers and lost in favour of 4 beige faux heritage duplexes that look like all the rest of the junk out there that’s supposed to make us look like we appreciate old things.

Speaking of old things, there is also the Pantages, another reason why I’m pissed. Maybe it’s that no one actually knew what do with a developer that genuinely wanted to do a good thing, and not have to have his ass kissed for it. Maybe he was just decent and a business man, that wanted to find a way to make it work. They put together business plans did community outreach that would rival any effort City staff has made in years. They wanted to give jobs to people, and I know this is a hard one for people to believe, but poor people want work, not more studies or reports. It was about the density in the beginning, it wouldn’t have cost you a dime. Instead, your controlling, destructive and uninspired staff, put them through 38 months of hoops and basically screwed them around to the point that the theatre will be coming down shortly.

Today, I came down to hear about Woodwards. I was part of the first protest around the building on May 6 1995 and have maintained a connection to the project through campaigns for affordable housing, protests with each new developer that wanted to take it on, Woodsquat, and various community art projects I was asked to do, by the community, the City and finally from Westbank. I came today, because I wanted to bare witness to the bullshit once again. Always trying to do the right thing, or think were doing the right thing. Woodwards has been flawed from the beginning. There was alot of optimism in the early days, but because the community could never buy it on its own, they would always be dealing with you, your staff, and developers that like to have their ass kissed and act like there doing the community some big favour. While they make all the sweet agreements at the beginning, they eventually found their way along with your help to squeeze out of just about every commitment they made to the project; grocery stores and affordability to non-profits for example. So now we have W2. Trying to find a way to cover their costs by running a cafe, sounds good. No, why don’t we have JJ Bean instead, let W2 sink and leave the space open for people who can pay. Why not, we seem to do this frequently, put people through the City of Vancouver bureaucracy torture test, and see if they survive, or if they cry Uncle.

I am angry because I care about the city I live in, and the people I know and love who are trying to survive here, trying to make it a better place, a truly livable place, and they are being quashed at every turn. I gave up on Council changing very much over the last few years, left, right, middle, doesn’t seem to matter, you all seem to lose your will, your sense of honesty, and your ability to say what’s in your heart. Maybe because you have so many people to please. You along with your staff have turned this city into a passionless marriage, where we are polite, things seem safe, but we all know they aren’t. It is only getting worse here. More violent, more addiction of all kinds, most expensive rents in the Country, more homelessness, and an abominably low level of support for its artists. I’ve spent the last 720 words telling you what makes me mad, what I think is wrong with the city, it’s staff, and you, our elected council. We’re not much better as citizens, but we do try, as I imagine you do, to make this place work. I think If I wanted to ask you anything, I would want you to learn how to listen again, to be good for your word, like in the case of the Pantages and Woodwards. Just because we elected you it doesn’t mean you know what is best, nor does your staff, and when they are messing up like they have repeatedly, they need to be called on it, and fired if necessary. I want you to fight for us; as hard as we are willing to fight to make Vancouver truly livable, to make it a real passionate marriage where we’re not afraid to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done, because we know the marriage is worth it.

small town mayor

Written after the November 14th 2008 election
Not sure why I wanted to post it other than it was sitting in drafts for this long and didn’t feel like deleting it. Our new council has proven to be a mixed bag of some bold choices, safe ones, and some disturbing ones. They aren’t as lousy as the last council, but that’s not saying much. I did have some hope for this crew, as seen below. They inevitably are trying to please a whole city, or maybe just developers. I guess I just don’t really believe that this system works, because it doesn’t work for everybody, and we should have a system that works for everybody, it can be done, I know it can, it’s just way harder to do. Read on if you still feel like it. Have a good day.

In the last year I have thought alot about what it would take to make Vancouver less fucked up. Two things- a kick in the head, and  bold, creative leadership from our City Council.  It seems as if we might be getting one of those.   I have described Vancouver as a small town in conflict with the part of herself that is a social-climbing, hedonistic, gold-digging, pathetic, pushing 40, party girl. Well maybe not quite like that. I am 41 after all.  Gregor Robertson is a farmer, and a Mayor.  He makes juice, rides his bike, has hippy activist roots.  He is our small town Mayor.  He looks like this city, or how it used to look, before it abandoned it’s tie-dye for beige( although he does wear alot of beige).  I’m not being sentimental, i’m just conscious that there was a time in this city where people seemed to have more fun, inspiring movements were growing, and there was some boldness being shown. We have been devastatingly complacent about the issues of dying women at the hands of serial killers, overdose deaths, homelessness and our epidemic HIV infection rates. We have been because we have moralized their deaths and their life situations.  The tie- dye set believed in peace and love, and freedom.  Not about confining people to socially appropriate boxes. Yeah, they were flakey, and there were problems with the movements that grew out of the 60’s, they were human, of course there will be problems. Regardless, their intention was to change the messed up world they were seeing around them. A world that valued power over love, war over peace, money over humanity. I can only hope that our small town mayor and his friends still believe the reverse to be true.

Dear Blog,

Thank you. Thank you for helping me clear my head. Thank you for becoming a place I like to visit, and write things down every once in a while when I need to figure something out, or I just want to share something with the 5 people who read this blog and the occasional guests. You have helped me get unstuck, and I am eternally grateful. I wasn’t sure it would happen, but you renewed my faith in me, and the people around me.

Pray for me…

I think I lost my tape. The tape from yesterday where I interviewed Rika, granted wishes to new agers, tourists, rumi lovers and a guy in a navy pinstripe suit on Burrard and Robson street. Took shots of toy dogs and running shoes spinning like a mobile in a cherry tree. An interview with myself about why I dress up in a wedding dress with flowers on it, stick glitter on my face, and flowers in my hair. I remembered why I loved you yesterday, why I love Vancouver, because my mind and heart get changed all the time. I had that on tape, this tape. I think I didn’t change the tape at the Beach, I just remembered, and my sweet mom just went down to look in the sand for me, because she lives in the West End, close to the Beach. I’m so out of it. It still may be gone. I have this yellow raincoat with holes everywhere, and there is a perfect tape size hole in my pocket. I still might need some extra praying, but I probably just need to sleep, and finish this thing, see my Mom, and give her a very big hug.