timeless love

A Point of View: Is there still any point collecting books?

-Howard Jacobson

“floating in public drains” 

… that would contribute to the smell, for sure.

I have a house full on judgemental books that tell me to read them and I always reply “someday, my loves, someday” – but it doesn't much matter.  A house doesn't become a home until the books are there, keeping you warm and insulated from the brutish world.  And I loved the “detritus” comment too – my books are full of ticket stubs and train passes and upside-down notes of plans with friends long gone.  My books are, simply, mine – stocked full of the ephemera of a life lived often too quickly.   They are not precious museum pieces – they are battered, travelled, loved.  You can absolutely tell a book read from a book merely owned.  My collection would never be accepted at the public library.  I think the judgemental books are just jealous, wanting a dog-ear to call their own.

late

It is no secret that, every year, I hit a SAD zone. It coincides, usually, with February. This year, I ran late. I’m not sure what the trigger is – it may be a lack of sunlight or fresh air; it may be delayed post-Christmas denouement; It may be a residual sorrow for the loss of my single-child status. (Love you, LilBro!)

Regardless. It hits like a tonne of bricks. I find myself doing things I hardly ever do:

- (re)reading dozens of favourites, hardly ever leaving bed;
- listlessly wandering through the machinations of work (it’s amazing how unproductive I can be and yet go entirely unnoticed);
- avoiding chores (small things, like laundry and dishes)
- desperately seeking company (and becoming the one thing I really hate being: needy)
- watching romances (damn you, Netflix!)

I usually just need one good sunny spring day with a warm breeze that allows me to open my windows to snap out of it. The kind of day that’s spent doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom with 90’s music in the background. It usually means fresh sheets, new curtains, and donations piles. My fridge gets stocked with hand-squeezed juice and neat containers of conveniently cut veggies; my counter overflows with cakes and cookies. If I get a whole weekend, it will mean new projects for the rest of year – lists of birthday cards to make and dresses to retrofit and organisational designs for closets. I won’t touch my computer except to boot winamp. It’s high-energy.

That is not today.

movember

LilBro says:

"Now that Movember is officially over, I have a few sharp words I wish to share.  I'm going to try and be as placid as possible in writing this, I will attempt not to swear as it may diminish my purpose and point.

Let me take it back a few years ago. There was this "internet fad", if you will, of females posting vague statuses that went something like "I like it on the X" where "X" is any location they choose. Many people, at first, assumed it meant something to do with sex, and where they prefer to have it. However, this was a ruse, and in fact it was supposed to be where they put their purse. The point was to not share this information with my gender, and have us all in bewilderment as to why anyone would blatantly state their favourite spot for coitus on Facebook. But the purpose of this was actually rooted in, if you remember, breast cancer awareness.

I have already made my statement on the matter, and if you know it, skip this paragraph. For those of you who are unaware of my stance, it was that of unfortunate disappointment. Reason being, there was no symbolic reference to breast cancer awareness. As well, the point was to not let in half the population in on the ruse, thereby effectively cutting awareness by 50%. It was counterintuitive. It was also doing something that I've never been a fan of, and that is the sexualization of Illness. Since the breast is considered a sexual organ in the 21st century, I suppose some of us in society deem it appropriate to link the two. I do not believe in this practise. There is nothing sexy about a debilitating disease that kills over 5000 women in Canada a year. I find it much more suitable to wear a pink ribbon if you want to raise awareness, and if one wants to show support on Facebook, one can make a profile picture simply wearing pink. But that was an old point.

Fast forward to today, where the Movember movement is very much a part of our pop culture. The point is simple, grow a moustache for the month of November. The Purpose? Raise awareness for prostate cancer. Its simple enough, the meme is there, everyone understands the goal. Many men even raise money by growing facial hair at this time.

However, there is an ugly reaction that has surfaced this year.

taking credit

You know, I give LilBro a hard time. I can’t help it – I’m older, wiser, and (sometimes) smarter. I take pride in my sense of responsibility; equally, I loathe that same sense because I feel it is sometimes to my disadvantage. I’m getting more and more cynical as I age, though still lagging far behind my compatriots. Anyway, this is all to say that I’m often dismissive of the talents, skills, and genuine good-naturedness of my sibling. And I shouldn’t be.

Where I may be smarter, he’s certainly more clever and witty. He’s open to new ideas and discussions of big and little things alike. He has opinions – strong ones – but that doesn’t mean he’s closed-minded. He can be convinced with logic and rationale. This is a quality that is rare. It takes a lot to make a stand and then to admit that you may have been wrong. Where I may be wiser, he still carries some of that audacity of youth that I have long since lost. I have wisdom at the expense of courage. I know how to make, spend, and save money. He knows how to make, spend, and save creativity. Which of us is wiser?

I may be older…well, I am older. Nothing is changing that. I have become less pliant, more brittle, easily hurt. I don’t twist an ankle, I tear three tendons; I don’t have a sore muscles, I have chest pains and nausea; I don’t have heartbreak, I have a permanently broken heart. What I do with it is useless: I bury it, stomp on it, forget where I put it and let it go. He fuels it into music and song, takes something painful and makes something beautiful.

memory

There was this tiny moment in time, once, when I felt truly carefree.  Let's get this straight: if you were going to pick ten words to describe me, "carefree" would not be one of them.  But there I was.

It was late, still bright from the summer sunset.  We could hear the swans quietly trumpeting to each other.  I was a little tipsy, without a drop to drink.  Watching Iago had been an intoxicating experience.  We had to cross the bridge, to what was then an unfamiliar place.  Even in sotto voce, giggles bounced off the church walls.  I tripped.  You caught my elbow so I didn't fall and I think you laughed.  You never laugh.  I lamented that you didn't see the play, that you would have fallen in love too.  I remember the river and the swans.  I remember the dip in the sidewalk and the warm arm I held so tight.  I remember thinking it was the perfect evening for magic and tragedy.  I felt free and young and happy.  So tenuous, it dissipated in the porch light. 

I think my memory is playing tricks on me.  Why did we cross the river when our beds were right next to the theatre?  Did we really walk by the cemetery?  Perhaps I'm remembering it all wrong, putting together a mosaic instead of recalling a picture.  We may have never held each other.  I was drunk after all and the details escape me.

polly

Assignment #3: birthday

I am an only child.  Sure I have a sibling, but in my brain, I'm still an only child.  I can amuse myself for hours, do not like to share my toys and am most happy when it's quiet.  When my mother revealed that she was pregnant and that I was going to be a sister,  I said I did not want to be a sister.  She said I was going to be one anyway.  I was unamused.  When LilBro came home, I asked how long he was going to stay.  Mom said forever and I cried.  It wasn't a great beginning.  The months that followed were not good for me.  I was only five and couldn't quite grapple with the intense envy I felt for the new baby.  I mean, I had gone from being someone to being someone else's older sister.  I began having nightmares and wetting the bed.  I lost so much "baby fat" that my school uniform had to be resized twice.  I would hide under the dining table and blithely turn a deaf ear to being called.  My hair began falling out, darkened noticeably, lost all its curl.  There are no cute pictures of me holding a baby.  As an adult, anyone would say I was sinking into depression; as a child, everyone just waited for me to grow out of it.  Perhaps it was guilt that prompted the most lavish birthday that followed.

beloved

Assignment #2: music

When I was seventeen, I ordered a set of classical music CDs from Columbia House.  Upon receipt of them, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (which I prefer in D minor).  I played it on loop, wrote reams of (bad) poetry, read his encyclopaedia entry.  Fifteen minutes was too short.  I visited my local library and borrowed all his CDs; I sat cross-legged in front of my floor to ceiling window, watching the crab-apple trees outside blossom white and pink, crescendoes crashing in my ears.

I fell in love.  Hard.

For a good month, all I did was listen to Ludwig.  I felt his pain, his torture.  I felt his frustration and rage.  I felt his quiet sorrow.  I even related to  his pithy attempts at feverish jocularity (which always felt stilted and awkward).  This man was made for teen angst.

It is no great secret, then, that whenever I hear the Sonata (standing in my lobby, on hold with a certain cable company) I am immediately transported back to the windy Spring days of 1998.  I connect that melody with the beautiful tragedy of the asymptote, which is ever-diminishing even as it carries on to infinity.  I think of university applications and awkward (unsent) infatuation letters.  Mostly, though, I remember the thick sadness that coated my movements, a sadness that (after a while) became addictive.

I hadn’t heard the sonata in its entirety for many years.  Until today.  Its power has not waned.  I know that I can only give it a few hours before I must stop listening.  Its dark thrall is as enticing and as seductive as it ever was.  It would be too easy to wallow, to drink deep of his melancholy.

mirrors

Assignment #1: internal monologue

How much of ourselves do we really reveal to those around us?  Even those to whom we're close?  Can anyone really know what we're thinking?  Humans seem to be such empathetic creatures, expressing sadness for others, feeling vicarious joy.  Sometimes, though, I wonder if indeed that's true empathy or just a reflection of our own experiences as we project our feelings on to others.  I mean, whenever I witness someone's pain (physical, emotional) my first instinct seems to be to measure how I would feel in that situation and judge whether that person is demonstrating the appropriate response.


I don't think we ever really think about the pain of others unless it directly relates to us.
There.
I said it.

goodbye 2011

I know I haven't posted in quite some time and I have no excuses.  Especially these past three weeks, when I've been home with a sprained ankle and unable to do much more more than sleep and sit.  Books, movies, TV and Christmas have kept me sufficiently distracted.  I realise that last year I made no resolutions; it kinda worked out.  I've had a very good year.  Before December, I didn't take a day off sick - this is a minor miracle!  I went back to school and despite a serious bump in the road, still scraped out an "A" in accounting.  My new job seems to be going well, with lots of (boring) work objectives completed.  I continued to travel to new places though I hope to be more exotic in near future.  One major bucket list item?  Check.  This year, Nish's work took her to Africa for five months and I missed her dearly; I also love how we click right back in when we do see each other.

didn't see you in September

Did a whole month really go by without a single post?  Yikes!
While I can't promise to be better, I can promise to catch up.  I swear I have no less than SEVEN half-finished entries.  Oh dear.  Check back, post-Oct 3rd!

epic fail, Canada

So, last night Canada made history: we, the people, elected the first EVER party to be found in contempt of Parliament.  Way to go, guys.  Way to go.

Frankly, I'm not even sad about having the Liberals being decimated to 34 seats - really, we've seen worse defeats that have had no effect on the party's standing later.  Then again, when the Conservatives kept only only two seats after the Mulroney era and under Kim Campbell, the Liberals didn't yank their funding.  I doubt we can expect such fair play when it comes to Harper's Tories.

I still don't think Conservative voters know what the word "Conservative" means - it does not mean spending money into a deficit just so big business can continue to make a profit in recession times and it certainly does not mean being found in contempt of Parliament.  Harper is a megalomaniac who wears blue because he needs a recognisable party to hide his REFOOOOORM ideas - John A. is spinning is his grave at having his great party become much a divisive and polarising entity. Heck, if it wasn't for his ludicrous rich-get-richer platform, I would be a Conservative voter! Small Government, no tax hikes... yeah, I can get behind that.  But, really, who has an extra $5000 for a TFSA after paying taxes, RRSPs, your mortgage and groceries? I know who - people making $150000+.  And that's his priority, not you or me or the rest of us middle class schmucks who keep the engine of this economy running.

Frankly, people will see it for what it is, just as they did after Mulroney (seriously, TWO seats in Parliament... how quickly we forget) and just as they did after Mike Harris. Now is not the time to whine and complain about the democratic process - now is the time to remain vigilant and remind the Conservatives of what exactly the word "democratic" means.  We have a fairly strong Official Opposition in the NDP - let's give them the support they need to do their job to keep Harper in check.

all quiet

Poppets.  I know, I have been reticent of late.  It has not been because I haven't had anything happening; rather, it has been for want of time.  So, here I sit.

I have been immersed in revisiting old friends in the form of books (am re-reading the Harry Potter series), television (am watching Nikita and rewatching X-Files) and computer games (Marpesia has been questing post-Cata and is making decent progress).  I've also been decluttering my little home, getting rid of unnecessary things and reorganising what's left.  All of this coupled with catching up for the Oscars and pretty much most of my spare time is pretty much spoken for. 

I've also started my new job, managing a team of which I was once a part (see?  good grammar doesn't necessarily mean pretty grammar).  It's been ... different.  My first day: there was no one there, no one to welcome me or tell me where I should hang my coat or anything.  What a change from the large sparkly sign that awaited me at Sheridan or the little coffee cup that sat on my desk in Children's.  Anyway, I have since moved offices anyway, so it hardly matters.  But that's the kind of team I have now.

This weekend, at least, I will have spent an evening with Jadek, socialised with some SociaLits, danced all night with some of my favourite people and enjoyed a meal with the family.  Then, it's back to work.  Long-term things I'm looking forward to: Cuba, Stratford, Route 66!

Thank you, poppets, for still visiting.

lost boys

Nothing quite like a very long lunch with Elle to bring into focus things that are better left obscured.  We were chatting about a friend with her three-men-and-no-baby situation and it got me thinking.  A dangerous past-time, I know.

Situation:  Jane is juggling three men.  That's right, three.  She has a full social calendar and a good job but can't seem to find one man to satisfy all her needs.  And before we go judging Jane (which I like to do all the time), let's get some facts straight.  Jane is in three mediocre relationships, none of which are whole:

1) Friend-With-Benefits upon whom she can rely for company while shopping for shoes or dinner after work or the occasional hot-and-heavy sex.  He's pretty perfect for her, except she doesn't feel very 'safe' with him, as in, he cannot be depended upon in times of crises.  Her relationship with him is pretty much a physical thing, but can never grow to be more because he doesn't have any interest in growing to be more.

2) Rich-and-Successful certainly can provide for Jane.  He buys her dinner and takes her to the opera.  When he blows into town, he only stays in the nicest hotel rooms and rents the fanciest cars.  He's the kind of guy that found his own path in life early, forged ahead and never looked back.  In many ways, Jane and he are very much alike.  Successful, independent and self-made.  The problem is, of course, that both of them have built these lives without each other in them and neither is willing to make the sacrifices that would have to be made in order live in the same postal code.  They've done everything but have sex and then he leaves for a few months before coming back.  Rinse.  Repeat.

3) Mr. Unattainable is the one Jane emotionally fucks on a regular basis and he does the same back to her.  They spend hours alone over cups of tea, talking about life's problems, strategising over global domination and sleeping in each other's bed (but not at the same time).  They've never so much as held hands, but they get all the sparks with none of the fire.  He's the one who's perfect in theory but whom Jane never experiments with.  Here's the really messed up part: when Jane shows no interest, he's all into her; when she reciprocates, he turns cold; when she's cold in return, he calls to make a date; if she calls first, he won't answer.  See how the name fits?

Jane's pretty happy with her life, except that she's a self-confessed monogamist who is feeling the strain of being someone she's not.  I tell her to stop playing with fire, that it's not so much about all these other men that she may hurt, but that her own self-respect may slowly be eroding.  She insists she's not unfaithful - she only sleeps with one man, after all.  But I wonder, what would FWB think of Jane's 2am conversations with Mr. U?  Is R&S allowed to feel jealous that FWB gets something he wants from Jane, even though he's unwilling to commit?  Is Mr. U an emotional bully or is Jane just a masochist? Why won't FWB just man up?

(Sadly, this would be the perfect time to ask some boys for some answers.  There used to be a time in my life when I was surrounded by boys - and not in the way you're thinking.  Frankly, I get along with males better than I do females.  But somewhere in the transition from young adulthood to where I am today, I lost either my ability to make friends with men or my exposure to them.  This is what working in a female-dominated profession will do to you, ladies.  This is why so many librarians are single.  And the men that I do have are either too personally involved in the Jane situation or are gay.  I miss having straight male friends.  But I digress.)

Sometimes, I think Jane has the best of all worlds.  Most women would tell you it takes roughly 3 boys to equal one perfect man (sexy, rich and smart) and she has her bases covered.  But other times?  I just think she's nuts and is setting herself up for some serious heartache.

relativity

So, if you haven’t already heard Justin Bieber slowed down by 800%, then do that or none of this will make any sense. No, seriously. …okay? I hadn't heard it either until this past Saturday when LilBro exposed me to this new way of listening to the Stratford Sensation. Let me just say how much more I prefer it this way. So, he also has a theory. We call it the Bieber Corollary. No it's not clever, but it works.

Bieber Corollary: using a basic application of Einstein's Theory of Relativity, LilBro hypothesises that the reason JB is so popular with the ten-year-old set is because time, for them, is moving at a much slower rate than for adults. Given that this slowed down version of U smile is so appealing to a 30-year-old ears, he states what I'm hearing (800% slower) is what tweens hear, at its normal rate. A ten-year-old only has five years of cognitive memory, therefore every second (or minute) for them is like a minute (or hour) for us. The math ratios are off, but the fundamentals are the same. That’s why Sigur Ros does nothing for them and we (the focus group) think they’re awesome.

…if any of this holds true, this just may explain why Miley Cyrus is so amazing to the pre-teen crowd and completely horrific to the rest of the world. What they're hearing is a seriously slowed down version of the cacophony we hear! So, what they hear is something completely different from what we hear. Which may or may not be stating the obvious.

Also: everyone should be so lucky as to have a younger brother who invites them to parties and buys yummy-flavoured drink mixes and saves a bottle of Gatorade for the next day.

borrowed

In a fashion that typifies the behaviour discussed in this blog post, I am NOT writing one myself.  But this is SO FUNNY, you just HAVE to read it.  Seriously.    I mean, who hasn't eaten nachos for dinner?

love me do

I had an interesting conversation with a cousin of mine over the weekend regarding love.

Some context: I'm about to turn thirty, am single and actually pretty happy about it. I have lots of friends, of both genders, who are happy/single, happy/taken, unhappy/single (though quickly diminishing) and unhappy/taken. I know very little about love, having experienced it in only small quantities. I do know about lust, passion and jealousy however.

With this sparse knowledge, I began listening to the tale of Ali, who's been dating someone for seven months, who's already exchanged the big L and who actually thinks she's being smothered by her too-attentive mate. At seven months? You already feel smothered? I say it's over. The first blush of romance has faded. Then, she tells me the saddest thing I've ever heard: "relationships aren't really about love; they're about 'used-to-it'ness". Every last mushy feeling in me gasps in horror. So, I share with her what I think a relationship is really based on (as if I'm some expert).

She's right, a relationship isn't based on love. It's based on:

1) Respect: out of that respect, comes all the vows that are important (truthfulness, faithfulness, acceptance and forgiveness). This is why you have to give him space to breathe and tinker and read and play (with or without you); he does the same for you.

2) Passion: often confused with lust, passion is the desire to truly be with someone. It doesn't mean that you are with them 24/7 (because you should have lives outside each other) and it's more than missing them when they're not around. I think the true marker of passion is when you're having a really good time (say, drinking vodka shots at the Arctic Circle at midnight) and you think "I wish he could share this with me" - that's passion.

3) Lust: also very important. If he doesn't make your insides a little wobbly - especially when he's all dressed up and wearing that amazing cologne - he's just your friend.

4) Humour: he's got to keep you entertained, whether it's because he knows which movies to rent or what kind of game you want to play or when you just want to drink a pina colada on a patio. A sure sign that he has your attention? You've closed down the restaurant. He has to be able to make you laugh - right out of a bad mood, if necessary - or what are you going to do when you're old and feeble?

Truly, love is a childish ideal that Hallmark doesn't let us forget; it's something that made our teenage hearts melt but that doesn't really exist. There is no perfect man (or woman) and certainly no perfect relationships. Every successful relationship to which I've been exposed has one thing in common: work. Which brings me to:

5) Determination: when the road gets bumpy (and it will get bumpy), you have to have the determination to ride it out and fix the potholes. Divorce is not an option; leaving is not an option. When you are determined to work at something, the chances for success grow exponentially. Hope, faith and charity will get you started but it's old-fashioned elbow grease that will get you through. I see too many people walk away over the smallest of things.

If you experience all these qualities, then you're in Love my friend. The kind of Love that doesn't fade, but glows. The kind of Love other people can see when you both walk into a room and can feel even when you're not on the same continent. It's a good Love, a kind Love, an accepting Love. None of this RomCom bullshit. It's Love with a capital L. And I'll just bet that more than a few of us have walked away from it because it was just easier to do so.

Oh, and Ali? I give them two months. Why? See above.

three (really bad) reasons to have a boyfriend

+1: nothing kills me more than to have to figure out the "+1" deal. If I don’t take a date, I get the pity stares. If I take a girlfriend, not only do I get the pity stares, I also have to fend off questions about my sexuality. A boyfriend would mean a guaranteed "+1" AND someone to dance a slow dance with.

sick leave: you know, when you're sick and you just want someone to stay with you so you're not miserable alone. It's not like I expect them to make me chicken soup (although, that would be lovely) but, you know, someone to go to the pharmacy or to heat up a hot water bottle… that would be sweet.

scaredy cat: most girls would probably have something in here about opening jam jars and reaching the top shelf, but I have tools for those things. I do not have a tool for when I hear a strange sound in the middle of the night and I don't want to go see what it is, despite knowing it is something completely innocuous. Like last night, when I was awakened by what sounded like the front door closing. What I wouldn’t have given to nudge someone else awake who would go check the door while I peeked around the corner.

of heroes and villains

This season of Survivor is subtitled Heroes versus Villains. At first, I kind of understood why – I mean, the Villains were populated by schemers, liars and connivers while the good guys had, like firemen and stuff. But the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. It should come as no great surprise that I love me a good baddie – they usually have all the best lines. And while my heart bleeds with the best of them, I do find myself quite a bit more sympathetic to the plight of the anti-hero. It’s not usual for me to have deep thoughts about the fabric of society or the manifestations of the archetypes therein. It’s even more unusual that what precipitates these thoughts is Jeff Probst in a rain-drenched cotton shirt, but here it is.

What makes a villain a villain? And more importantly, who made up these rules anyway? As I watched Heroic (muscle god) James annihilate Villainous (old man) Randy, I thought, “oh, that’s not a fair match-up at all! James should have a hand tied behind his back or something!” And as the camera panned across first the Heroes and then the Villains, I could help but think that a more appropriate subtitle may have been Brawn versus Brains. Then it would have been completely acceptable to pit the ninety-pound Courtney against the (relatively) Amazonian Heroines. But alas, it is Hero and Villain being discussed here.

Why did I like the Villains so much more? Watching the Heroes begin to bite at each other is far more entertaining, after all. Besides, what makes these guys Villains anyway? Is it because they manipulate situations (Boston Rob), seduce people (Jerri), find idols without clues (Russell), lie (Sandra), cheat (Sandra) or steal (Sandra)? Is it because they’re mean (Courtney) or because we feel guilty for laughing when they are (Tyson)? Is it because, in some archaic society, these are the guys that would slip into your tent at night and slit your throat? Or is it because in modern-day survivor they totally would burn your socks and throw out all your fish? I know why I relate to them more: they’re smart. They use their cunning before their strength. But is that villainous?

I submit to you, poppets, that if you were David, staring down Goliath, that you should be allowed to even the playing field. There’s no way you’re going to win hand-to-hand combat, so sling those rocks as hard as you can and hope the great big lummox falls before he lays his hands on you – because if he does, you’re toast. That’s an easy one though – David’s always been a hero.

What about Delilah? She cut off Samson’s hair while he slept in her tent, taking with her the source of his great strength. Oh, yes, Samson sure did want him some Delilah, he loved her so much that he killed her husband to make it easier for her to come to him. Except: Delilah didn’t want Samson; some would even say that Delilah loathed Samson. But did that matter to him? Nope. He just kept tearing down the obstacles she erected, with brutal and bloodthirsty force. See Samson? He’s a hero – he’s battle-scarred and not too bright, but he’s a hero. Who’s Delilah to refuse him? Aside from a woman, she’s nobody. Do you think she could have taken Samson in one-on-one combat? Hellz no. So she did what she could to even the playing field – she waited until he was sleeping and cut off his stupid hair.

All the so-called dishonourable tactics of war are really nothing more than contrived rules to make the strong and stupid survive. Stealthy assassins that sneak about and stab you in the back of the neck? Villain. Rangers who use poison-tipped arrows? Villain. Women who seduce their enemies and strangle them in their sleep? Villain. Giants who wear thick plated-armour and who wield broadswords so they can hack men of lesser stature while riding destriers? Hero. ...does this make any sense? No wonder I relate to a good villain – I have no hope of winning a duel! Stabby stabby in the dead of night though? I may have a shot. Heroes always say lying is cheating; I think that they’re either mad that they fell for a trick or they’re jealous they didn’t come up with the plan themselves.

suffer little children

I’ve been vacillating writing about this; frankly, I don’t want to be the target of religious zealousness.

I went to Easter Sunday mass, one of my two concessions to my mother (the other? Christmas Eve). This year was especially martyr-esque, as I had crawled into bed at 4am and had to be back up for 10am. It was not easy. Anyway, showered and dressed in my Easter Sunday frippery, I went to church. Choir was boring, singing none of the songs that make the ceremony tolerable. I saw a few familiar faces, looking just as dejected as me; I wondered if they were C&E’s too or if they were now judging my conspicuous presence. This is what church has always done to me, made me paranoid without warrant. In reality, those people probably didn’t even notice me.

And then my least favourite part: the sermon. A few caveats:
1) I mostly like the priest in charge: he seems really laid back, he laid off the second pastor and his deacon is part-time in an effort to save money, he went green by replacing light bulbs and turning off the fountain at all times, except for the Blessing of the Water.
2) I find the sermons a real stretch when it comes to real-life application. I mean, what does a celibate old man have anything to do with me?
3) My mom used to be cool: she once told her marriage prep priest that if she wasn’t going to use birth control then he could take care of her dozens of children. I wonder what happened to that chick? Maybe you’re just inherently more rebellious when you’re in your twenties.

...So, the sermon is focussed on forgiveness. But not just forgiving your neighbour from pruning your prized gardenias or your little brother for putting a frog down your shirt in front of that cute boy. It’s not even about the more serious things in life, like rape and murder. No, this entire twelve-minute sermon was all about the specific forgiveness of those priests convicted of molestation under Ratzinger's turn at the helm. What. Maybe I’m a bad person, but I couldn't believe that I was being asked to forgive men of the cloth who had debased their oath to God (both the chastity and moral behaviour therein implied) by molesting young boys. Hello? If I’m a gay man and I participate in consensual sexual behaviour with another man, I’m going to hell; but, if I’m a priest that abuses my position of power to sexually assault children, that’s okay because I’m a priest? What bullshit is that about? The communion wafer stuck in my throat. I get that good Christians are all about turning the other cheek, but the Church has to realise that people will not stand for hypocrisy.

I looked over at my father: he was half asleep. I looked over at my mother and she had a curiously blank look on her face. A couple of years earlier, in a similar Easter sermon, the priest had asked the congregation to fill in protest letters for Dr. Morgentaler being honoured with the Order of Canada. In the parking lot, I blew up, crying foul, stating that Morgentaler did more for women’s rights than the Church ever did. This time, I swallowed my rage.

Is it wrong of me? By attending service, albeit silently and reluctantly, am I condoning the message? Is it worth fighting over, since I only attend twice a year for the appeasement of my parents (you know, honouring them)? And why is it that the intercession of a man is necessary for my communion with God? I just can’t believe that the big JC would have asked for forgiveness for these monsters-in-priests-clothing; I mean, He lost his cool when people sold doves on the steps of the synagogue! What would He have said about men taking innocence in a church rectory?

recollections at 4am

Mom: "Just get yourself a sixteen-year-old toy boy so you can train him from young. This way, when you're forty, he'll be a youthful twenty-six, and he can take care of you. He'll probably do whatever you like AND he won't take you for granted. It's perfect."... yes, my mother said "toy boy" not boy-toy; no, she wasn't drunk.

Elaine made a second appearance; yes, she was just as car-wreck-fascinating as NYE.


Many many cute shirtless boys at neu+ral. They were like a unit or something. They danced as one, drank as one and left as one. I've never seen that happen before. Also: Pantera huddle. Also, also: I learned the words to that song... and I always thought he said "breathe, spit, fuck." Man, i was way off.

Nish: (upon being told to go on and pick up the incredibly attractive, tattooed, single man who kept his shirt on) "But I don't know how."

Me: (upon hearing that Nish has forgotten how to pick up guys - see above) "Just say: Hi! Hot. Bed?"

LilBro: (later, upon hearing my response to Nish) "You can drop two of those words and get the same result."