To read today's prompt, click here.
"Life wastes itself while we are preparing to live." - Emerson
At theatre school, we were once given an exercise in which we had to draw where we were now and where we imagined we'd be five years in the future. Though I can't remember the specifics of my "now," I do recall that I entitled it "Waiting For It". My teacher circled the title in a thick red sharpie and wrote, "if you're just waiting for it, you'll never get it." At the time, I was resentful. How easy it must have been for her to write that, I thought; she's already living her dreams of working as an actor. Soon after that, I left school and although it wasn't because of that experience, my ever-growing resentment of the institution I was studying at was a big part of it.
Fast-forward ten years, and here I am working towards a different goal but nonetheless waiting for it in a lot of ways. I still find myself struggling with feelings of resentments when friends and acquaintances get ahead because of what often seems to me to be excessively cocky behaviour. What I'm beginning to understand is that what I reflexively perceive as cocky is really just self-confidence, or at the very least the result of an inner belief on the part of people that what they have to offer has value and deserves to see the light of day.
My struggle now is to develop that belief within myself. To echo a post from a few days ago, I'm beginning to take small (and trying to make consistent) steps towards my dreams. Remaining strong in the knowledge that good things will come if I actively work for what I want instead of waiting for a fairy godmother to shepherd me off to the ball isn't always easy, and I fail more days than I succeed, but I'm fighting the good fight. I encourage you all to do the same; it's how we'll change the world.
Tuesday, June 7
Sunday, June 5
Day #5
To read todays prompt, click here.
I've had the great good fortune of visiting many of the cities I dreamed about as a child - London, Paris, New York, New Orleans, Boston - and each city in its own way appeared to me as a dream. In New York, the sidewalks glittered like gold. The cafes of Paris were every bit as romantic as I had imagined they would be. New Orleans' French Quarter, with its cobblestone streets and neon lights, simultaneously concealed and revealed itself like a first-timer at Mardi Gras.
I'm still very much a city girl at heart, but the one place I long to visit leaves the modern city behind and is less a destination than a journey. When I was coming of age, Paulo Coehlo's The Pilgrimage made a huge impact on me and since then I've had a dream of walking the Camino de Santiago through France and Spain. Oliver Schroer, an incredible Canadian fiddle player with an equally incredible story also walked the path, and released a CD of recordings he made along the Camino that is the closest thing to God I've ever heard. Though I don't identify with any religion, instead considering myself an agnostic interested in the possibility of a higher power, the idea of spending three weeks on an ancient road with nothing but what fits in a backpack is irresistible to me. These images no doubt add to the mystique of the trip.
I've had the great good fortune of visiting many of the cities I dreamed about as a child - London, Paris, New York, New Orleans, Boston - and each city in its own way appeared to me as a dream. In New York, the sidewalks glittered like gold. The cafes of Paris were every bit as romantic as I had imagined they would be. New Orleans' French Quarter, with its cobblestone streets and neon lights, simultaneously concealed and revealed itself like a first-timer at Mardi Gras.
I'm still very much a city girl at heart, but the one place I long to visit leaves the modern city behind and is less a destination than a journey. When I was coming of age, Paulo Coehlo's The Pilgrimage made a huge impact on me and since then I've had a dream of walking the Camino de Santiago through France and Spain. Oliver Schroer, an incredible Canadian fiddle player with an equally incredible story also walked the path, and released a CD of recordings he made along the Camino that is the closest thing to God I've ever heard. Though I don't identify with any religion, instead considering myself an agnostic interested in the possibility of a higher power, the idea of spending three weeks on an ancient road with nothing but what fits in a backpack is irresistible to me. These images no doubt add to the mystique of the trip.
I don't have any current plans to walk the Camino de Santiago, but it's definitely on my bucket list. Maybe it sounds strange for an avowed agnostic to say, but I feel as though I'll make it there when I'm meant to make it there, that the details will take care of themselves. I have no doubt that one day I'll find myself on a dusty road in rural Spain, look around and think to myself, 'how did I get here?'
Friday, June 3
Ira Glass on Beginners
I love this quote from Ira Glass, host & producer of This American Life and all 'round awesome dude. Today's Trust30 prompt seemed like a good excuse to post it.
"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through."
"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through."
Day #3
To see today's prompt, click here.
Swimming around in ideas is one of my favourite pastimes, and as such, I'm a big fan of intellectual sparring. I like to disagree, test my beliefs, and maybe even learn something in the process. I think Plato's dialectic is fascinating, and though it may not result in the discovery of any ultimate truth as the Ancient philosophers held it would, it never fails to improve the minds of those who engage. I often have dialectic conversations with myself, and they haven't made me nuts yet, so the process can't be all bad...
All that's really a preface to say that while most of the people in my life share my views on the "important" things in life - ethics, politics, religion - we often engage in heated verbal battles over the little things. You know: Daniel Cleaver versus Mark Darcy, Pacey versus Dawson, Angel versus Spike. That sort of thing. And while preferring the tall, dark, and broody vampire over the blonde bad boy vampire may not amount to a passionate belief, it certainly makes for interesting water cooler talk.
Swimming around in ideas is one of my favourite pastimes, and as such, I'm a big fan of intellectual sparring. I like to disagree, test my beliefs, and maybe even learn something in the process. I think Plato's dialectic is fascinating, and though it may not result in the discovery of any ultimate truth as the Ancient philosophers held it would, it never fails to improve the minds of those who engage. I often have dialectic conversations with myself, and they haven't made me nuts yet, so the process can't be all bad...
All that's really a preface to say that while most of the people in my life share my views on the "important" things in life - ethics, politics, religion - we often engage in heated verbal battles over the little things. You know: Daniel Cleaver versus Mark Darcy, Pacey versus Dawson, Angel versus Spike. That sort of thing. And while preferring the tall, dark, and broody vampire over the blonde bad boy vampire may not amount to a passionate belief, it certainly makes for interesting water cooler talk.
Wednesday, June 1
Movie Review: Somewhere
It's not often that I get incensed by movie reviews, but much of what I've read about Sofia Coppola's Somewhere is missing the film's wider message, and as a result, is selling Coppola's new work short. Most critics are focusing on Somewhere as a movie about the alienating effect of fame in contemporary culture, and proceeding to judge the film based on their sympathy (or lack thereof) for celebrities. While these reviews aren't exactly wrong, they ignore the fact that behind every celebrity persona exists a person like you or me; they fail to see the Everyman beneath the chosen one.
Somewhere tells the story of Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff, resurrected from career purgatory), Hollywood star bored by luxuries that most of us would kill for. He's not a particularly sympathetic character to begin with, and is made even less so when we see him drowning his sorrows in booze and pills or passing out in the midst of some pretty serious foreplay. But take away the insane privileges of celebrity, and Johnny Marco becomes just another person unhappy with himself and desperately seeking something that will pull him from his depression. At it's core, Somewhere is a thoughtful meditation on the human condition, something we all share regardless of our material possessions.
Coppola's challenge in Somewhere is to expose how the trappings of fame and celebrity do nothing to elevate someone above self-loathing, depression, and boredom; she must destroy pre-conceived notions about fame as some golden ticket to happiness. The success of the film depends on this, and it seems that for many critics, Coppola fails; I've read that the pacing of Somewhere is self-indulgent, that audiences are bored by Johnny's boredom, and that the lack of transformation or even resolution at the film's ending belies some fundamental lack in the character of Johnny Marco. These selfsame criticisms, for this viewer, are what make the film so powerful. The meandering tempo of the film crushes cultural assumptions about the glamorous, fast-paced life of a celebrity, instead highlighting that time runs the same for all of us, and that we are each responsible to construct our days in such a way as to create meaning. Johnny's boredom, far from boring, reinforces the film's overall message that achieving celebrity isn't a golden ticket. As for the film's conclusion, I found the lack resolution further cemented the notion that the distinction celebrity and fame afford does nothing to combat the pains of being human.
I've never had pole dancers on call or a swimming pool in my hotel suite, but I have felt disillusioned and bored with my many blessings, dissatisfied with my day-to-day life, and even depressed by my own boredom. Though Stephen Dorff's Johnny Marco and the rest of us are separated by a host of luxuries and life experiences, we are bonded by the fact that we are all caught up in our own lives, unable to appreciate what we have, preferring to strive to attain, obtain and experience more. It's the human condition, and if you can't relate to that, then Tron's playing right down the hall. Maybe you'll find something in common with the Programs on the Grid.
Tuesday, May 31
Day #1
And immediately begin the self-sabotaging thoughts in a faster-than-I-can-type kind of inner monologue: I don't want to sound like a bad commencement speech that will be turned into a Top 40 hit with Vitamin C in the background. Oh boy, will anyone think that's funny? Should I type that? People are going to think I'm a lunatic. Sh*t, I'd better get back on track. But what to write? I mean, if I was going to die in 15 minutes, wouldn't I stop typing and call the people I love? But who to call first? Do you call those that you need to patch things up with, the ones who maybe you took for granted when life seemed endless? Or do you call the people who most comfort you, who might be able to make the last 15...crap, it's down to 11 minutes now...I'd better get back on track. Where to begin?
Well that was a fun stream of consciousness report. Now back to the task at hand.
What's the story that needs to be told if I'm about to die?
I'm just a person, like you. I've had dreams and hopes and fears and doubts. None of that seems to matter now that I'm down to my final minutes of consciousness. In the face of death, I don't find comfort in the philosophy that I've read, because I've never really let it sink in to the core of my being. Playing with ideas in your grey matter is great fun, but unless you're living there's not much point. So I guess what I'd say to whoever might read these final thoughts is that you've got to temper your brain play with actual play. Get out into the world and do things instead of just wishing you were doing things. Eventually, if you're not careful, that wishing will turn into jealously and resentment of those who actually are out there engaging with the world, and that's no fun, folks.
Maybe there's no way to keep final thoughts from being a bit twee-sounding, the kind of words that you might hear at a college graduation. But that doesn't make them less true. I've always had mixed feelings about the inspirational - "dance like no one's watching" is a great idea, but, c'mon, I'd always think...people ARE watching, so how can I pretend they're not? And there goes my grey matter again, think-think-thinking along, like a freight train keeping me from doing.
Do! Explore, feel, LIVE. Stop taking refuge in dark rooms in the afternoons when you should be outside in the world. If you must, think about Plato's allegory of the cave. Are you really happy to remain chained to a chair, watching ideas about the world instead of inserting yourself into things? At the end, I think you'll find that....
No. At the end, if this were really the end, I worry that I'll find that the path to happiness does not lie in an endless stream of movies & books. Sure, they're essential to living a rich life, but other people's works of art are not enough. So perhaps this has been an exercise in waking myself up from routine, comfort and change.
And then the timer goes off, signaling that my time is up. Gee, 15 minutes can result in a whole lot of words on a screen. Time is valuable, friends. Go out there and use it.
Self-Reliance
For an entire year, I've essentally forgotten that this blog existed. Yeah, I remembered creating it and posting something here and there, but for the most part time has gone by and so have I, squandering days and wondering why nothing exciting was happening.
And then along came the ever-inspiring Tricia Huffmann. I'd been a fan of Tricia for a long time - following her on Twitter, reading her blog, attending her online workshops - but this too had become a passive activity. I was no longer working with her words but rather just letting them swim around and dissipate in my brain and yet expecting them to make an impact in my life. When Tricia posted about Project Domino and the Trust Yourself Writing Challenge, I knew this was an opportunity I'd been needing, something small I could commit myself to that would start things moving in my life.
So, as they say, today is the first day of the rest of our lives, folks. I'm going to be writing here daily over the next month, producing whatever comes out of me from prompts I receive in my inbox. Who knows what will come of it? I guess we'll never know until we start...
And then along came the ever-inspiring Tricia Huffmann. I'd been a fan of Tricia for a long time - following her on Twitter, reading her blog, attending her online workshops - but this too had become a passive activity. I was no longer working with her words but rather just letting them swim around and dissipate in my brain and yet expecting them to make an impact in my life. When Tricia posted about Project Domino and the Trust Yourself Writing Challenge, I knew this was an opportunity I'd been needing, something small I could commit myself to that would start things moving in my life.
So, as they say, today is the first day of the rest of our lives, folks. I'm going to be writing here daily over the next month, producing whatever comes out of me from prompts I receive in my inbox. Who knows what will come of it? I guess we'll never know until we start...
Tuesday, July 20
It's Been A Long Time...
Yesterday, I said to my sister, 'I feel like I'm not doing anything!' and she replied that I was due a break, that I deserved some down-time. It's been a busy four years, but, as far as I'm concerned, not so busy to excuse my current total inability to take care of myself. I thought that going back to school would open me, make me whole, shine me up; in a lot of ways it did. But I still feel like something's missing, and the list of things that fit into that category has been running endlessly through my mind these past few days.
The question is, what do you do when you know where you are, have an image of where you want to be, but can't see a road that's appealing to you? Is it really just, as they say, about the first step?
This afternoon, I lay down in the shower and let the water run over me. Life-affirming, yes. Here I am, living and breathing in this moment. What a gift. Seems foolish to squander it, but isn't that most of us end up doing?
Tuesday, March 24
Monday, July 21
Losing Yourself...
When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend told a group of complete strangers that I was out on a day pass from a mental institution. I had been loudly offering commentary on an invisible figure skating performance in the stands of a baseball stadium, and the strangers had become disturbed and were heading towards park security when Julia intercepted them and explained that I would be retuning to the sanitarium that evening. Later that same year, I spent two weeks being mocked mercilessly by my friends and family for wearing a woolen glove on my right hand and refusing to take it off for anything, including bathing and writing exams. Then there was the week that I spent every available second transforming a Treasure Troll into an underdog boxer from Philadelphia....
You're probably starting to think that maybe I belonged in a sanitarium. I could edit my past, and say that I had been presenting an ironic performance piece in the baseball stadium, or that I wore the glove because of a hideous rash or an illogical fear of germs, but the truth is that this strange behavior was all due to the ease with which I lost myself in the people and things that I loved. The commentary, the glove, and the Treasure Troll were all outward expressions of my extreme devotion to Philippe Candeloro, a charismatic Frenchman who skated shirtless to the theme from Rocky.
As an isolated incident, the Philippe affair might have simply faded into the background of my adolescence to be chalked up to raging hormones or casual drug use. The problem with that explanation is that I wasn't hopelessly devoted to only Philippe; there were countless others to whom I gave my undying love during my childhood and adolescence. I was a dramatic, passionate, and high-strung kid, and most often those energies were channelled toward the current object of my affection.
In the service of full disclosure (and no doubt a few laughs at my expense), I present to you a chronological list of my most important exes (complete with YouTube links!):
1984: Boy George
1989: New Kids On The Block
1993: Bon Jovi
1994: Philippe Candeloro
1995: The Who's Tommy
1998: Rent
2001: O-Town
And then I got a life. Or, rather, I got a boyfriend. For the first time, losing myself wasn't a solo activity. He and I got lost in each other; We were working together, sleeping together, and practically living together at times. Being in love with a real someone was so calm and easy compared to loving the idea of something or someone. The trick is that when things ended - as they inevitably did - it was also so much harder. Growing out of my love of the New Kids On The Block seemed like a natural progression, and I was free to return to them at will, knowing there would be no hard feelings, only nostalgia for the fun times. Losing my first love was nothing like that: To this day, when I think about Him, I run the risk of becoming caught up in a typhoon of memories that rarely fails to leave me exhausted, sad, and slightly tempted to drown my sorrows in fruity drinks while listening to ABBA.
I've been loved and in love since then, but never with the abandon of that first time. I can't even count on the one-sided loves of my youth - I don't remember the last time an actor, sports figure, or entertainment product captured me as Tommy and O-Town did so many years ago. And although the current New Kids On The Block reunion can make me giddy for minutes at a time (Joe still wears the fedora with the top cut out!), even that has failed to spark any serious, old school devotion in me.
Maybe part of growing up is learning not to lose yourself in anything. But that sounds awfully dull, even if it makes life less painful: there's something delicious in surrendering totally to a passion. So maybe the trick is finding the right thing to lose yourself in. I hope to find it some day soon...
You're probably starting to think that maybe I belonged in a sanitarium. I could edit my past, and say that I had been presenting an ironic performance piece in the baseball stadium, or that I wore the glove because of a hideous rash or an illogical fear of germs, but the truth is that this strange behavior was all due to the ease with which I lost myself in the people and things that I loved. The commentary, the glove, and the Treasure Troll were all outward expressions of my extreme devotion to Philippe Candeloro, a charismatic Frenchman who skated shirtless to the theme from Rocky.
As an isolated incident, the Philippe affair might have simply faded into the background of my adolescence to be chalked up to raging hormones or casual drug use. The problem with that explanation is that I wasn't hopelessly devoted to only Philippe; there were countless others to whom I gave my undying love during my childhood and adolescence. I was a dramatic, passionate, and high-strung kid, and most often those energies were channelled toward the current object of my affection.
In the service of full disclosure (and no doubt a few laughs at my expense), I present to you a chronological list of my most important exes (complete with YouTube links!):
1984: Boy George
1989: New Kids On The Block
1993: Bon Jovi
1994: Philippe Candeloro
1995: The Who's Tommy
1998: Rent
2001: O-Town
And then I got a life. Or, rather, I got a boyfriend. For the first time, losing myself wasn't a solo activity. He and I got lost in each other; We were working together, sleeping together, and practically living together at times. Being in love with a real someone was so calm and easy compared to loving the idea of something or someone. The trick is that when things ended - as they inevitably did - it was also so much harder. Growing out of my love of the New Kids On The Block seemed like a natural progression, and I was free to return to them at will, knowing there would be no hard feelings, only nostalgia for the fun times. Losing my first love was nothing like that: To this day, when I think about Him, I run the risk of becoming caught up in a typhoon of memories that rarely fails to leave me exhausted, sad, and slightly tempted to drown my sorrows in fruity drinks while listening to ABBA.
I've been loved and in love since then, but never with the abandon of that first time. I can't even count on the one-sided loves of my youth - I don't remember the last time an actor, sports figure, or entertainment product captured me as Tommy and O-Town did so many years ago. And although the current New Kids On The Block reunion can make me giddy for minutes at a time (Joe still wears the fedora with the top cut out!), even that has failed to spark any serious, old school devotion in me.
Maybe part of growing up is learning not to lose yourself in anything. But that sounds awfully dull, even if it makes life less painful: there's something delicious in surrendering totally to a passion. So maybe the trick is finding the right thing to lose yourself in. I hope to find it some day soon...
Wednesday, July 16
"P"
From the time I was five or six, my mother was heavily involved with an organization called the Trefoil Guild, a group of aging women who had once been Girl Guides, and who, like Peter Pan, refused to grow up. She attended meetings, went on outings, and went door-to-door selling cookies. What this meant for me was that the Fall I would turn seven, I was marched to First Baptist Church down the street from our house and enrolled in Brownies, a sort-of junior sect of the Girl Guides.
I have to say, it was pretty cool to be a Brownie: I got to be part of a little gang called a Six, wear a cute brown dress that totally matched my hair, and learn all sorts of useful life skills, like interpretive dance, and how to light a campfire with nothing more than a rock and a piece of driftwood. Even better than molding me into a female version of MacGyver, Brownies was a place to make friends. Almost all the cool girls from my grade two class were part of my chapter, and so I had high hopes of using my two-year Brownie membership as a ticket to increased popularity at school.
The first year was a great success, as I was placed in the Six known as “Pixies” with three of the most popular girls from school: Andrea, Jodi, and Becky. Becky was the leader of our Six, and it was a real coup to be with her, because she was in third grade, and had just come back from spending a year doing missionary work in Nepal with her family; her acquaintance was equivalent to the Brownie badge for cool. My luck transferred to school too, where I was, if not accepted, than at least acknowledged by the cool clique. Things were going exactly according to plan, and by the end of Brownies, I was sure to be number one on the speed dial of all the girls in class!
While the first year of Brownies had been very good to me, the same could not be said for others. Ruth, a quiet girl who had been placed in a Six with a bunch of girls we didn’t know, had lost her first tooth during a Brownie sleepover in the church hall, and been so scared that she burst into tears and had to be taken home by Brown Owl, our troop leader. By the following Monday, she was the laughing stock of Miss Wills’ class, and even though she and I were friends, I laughed along with everyone else. I couldn’t risk being ostracized for being different - not with entry into the cool clique at my fingertips! In the end, Ruth couldn’t take the humiliation, and by the next Fall had enrolled in a new Brownie troop, and a new school.
Second year in Brownies was when things became really important. Becky had flown up to Girl Guides, and so a new leader would be chosen for our Six. Everyone was vying for the promotion, for with it would come an automatic increase in status. I had always suspected that Brown Owl had it in for me, and when she picked Jodi to be in charge of the Pixies, my suspicions were confirmed. I was relegated to be second in command, which was equivalent to being the friend of a friend of a friend of someone famous; in other words, no ticket to glory. I would have to show my stuff in some other way. A typical overachiever, I set about to win the most badges I could. I would stop at nothing and let no one get in my way.
By the middle of the year, things were going great; I was leading the troop with 26 badges and seeing marked improvement in my social life. There were lots of invitations coming my way, for play dates and birthday parties, and even some sleepovers. I finally felt like one of the cool kids! At Brownies, it was almost time for our Fly Up ceremony, where my friends and I would officially graduate to the Girl Guides. As a special treat for us, Brown Owl (who I still mistrusted) arranged for a Sign Language Interpreter to give a special lesson. The girl who excelled the most would be given the Communicator badge, which none of us had yet received. It felt like the final stretch of a long marathon – and I was about to cross the finish line first!
There was about a dozen of us in the sign language lesson, each girl trying to outdo her neighbor and show Brown Owl that she was the one on which to bestow the coveted badge. Jodi and I were hanging on every mimed letter of the Interpreter, and even though I was feeling a tingle in my bladder, I was determined not to be distracted by the petty needs of my body. The lesson was almost over when the instructor asked for two volunteers to come to the front of the room and recite the sign language alphabet as quickly as possible. It was to be a race and whoever won would take home the badge. My hand raced into the air, and Jodi and I were selected to compete.
We took our places next to the instructor, and the countdown began. “Three…Two…One...GO!” called Brown Owl. Something inside of me took this command as permission, and as my left hand began reciting the alphabet, my bladder released, and a stream of pee began trickling down my right leg and into my brown sock. Still more focused on winning the badge than on the shame and social damage peeing myself would bring, I closed my eyes and continued to sign. Reaching “Z”, I threw my fist into the air in victory, and opened my eyes to find the class staring open-mouthed at my stained dress. I made eye contact with Jodi, and she pointed at me and began to laugh. Brown Owl came over, handed me the Communicator badge, and pointed towards the bathroom.
I may have won the badge that day, and ended up with more than any other Brownie at the Fly Up ceremony that June, but the damage to my social life was beyond repair. Since I’d shown “un-Brownie-like behavior,” my mother grounded me until summer break started, which didn’t really make a difference, as no one was calling me anymore. Worse was that my classmates had obviously heard about the pee incident, and so for the rest of the school year, I was called Hershey Squirt. It may have made no sense, but it still stung when coming from those who I had so strived to emulate. Now I knew how Ruth had felt the year before, and regretted how I’d been a part of it.
Eventually the storm passed, and by the following September, the cool kids had moved on to making fun of another girl, Julia, who had been caught picking her nose seconds before our class picture was taken. My grade four snapshot features her hand at her nose and tears streaming down her face. And to this day, even though it’s wrong, every time I see it I laugh.
Tuesday, July 15
Edvianism
The Little Men
In the beginning, Ed created an Empire.
Now the Empire was formless and devoid of culture, darkness hovered over King Street, and the business sense of Ed was hovering above Bloor and Bathurst.
And Ed said, “Let there be musicals,” and there were musicals. Ed saw that musicals were good, and He separated the musicals from King Street. Ed called the light “The Entertainment District,” and the darkness he called “The Business District.” And there were jazz hands, and there were footlights – the magic of Edvianism.
Ok, so the birth of my religion doesn’t work so well when told in the style of that other creation story. But we were different, and didn’t need to live by anyone else’s rules. We didn’t want to fit into anyone’s pre-conceived notions of what a faith was or who its devout should worship. No one was going to tell us that it wasn’t ok to be polytheistic, or to include elements of the occult into our rituals, or sic ten miniature hooligans on our English teachers. But perhaps I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself. With matters of religion, it’s important to initiate new recruits – I mean, interested readers - slowly and in a logical manner, so that one doesn’t seem like a Scientologist or something. Ready? Let’s begin.
On a summer evening in 1995, my friend Kendra and I were listening to the original Broadway Cast Recording of Tommy and discussing the emergence of a new musical theatre star, when something miraculous happened: ten small glowing masks began to appear in the darkness across the room; my glow in the dark Phantom Of The Opera boxer shorts were attempting to communicate! As the Angel Gabriel had done before him, one of the masks began to sing: “Keri can you hear me? Can you feel me near you? Keri Can you see me? Can I help to cheer you? Oooh, Keri…” While I’ve never ascertained whether Kendra heard my name or her own in the song, in that moment, our lives would change forever. Those glowing masks, who would come to be known as the Little Men, had given us a mission: to organize and promote the new religion called…Well. We didn’t have a name quite yet. That came later.
In the morning, we set to work planning the religion. Our philosophy was that as man wrote the Bible, there must have been discussions and planning regarding things like the setting, cast, props, and script of Christianity before ink was placed to parchment, and so we did the same. Over a long meeting in my pool and serious debate while playing putt-putt, our religion took shape. Gathering all the things we loved most about the culture of theatre, and what we had noticed about the actors we loved, we compiled a list of people and things that our religion should celebrate. It looked a little something like this:
Setting (a.k.a. Meccas…Meccai?): Toronto
King Street between John and Simcoe (North Side)
The Elgin Theatre
Shopsy’s Deli
Walker’s Line Highway Exit[1]
Props (a.k.a. Sacred Idols)
1) Large backpacks, preferably from Mountain Equipment Co-Op
2) Bottles of Evian water, generally held in the mesh pockets of said backpacks
Cast (in order of appearance)
Little Man 4…………………….……..…………………….Pete Townshend
Little Man 5…….…………………………………....…Stephen Sondheim
Little Man 8…………………….….………….….Andrew Lloyd Webber
Once we had the framework for the new religion, our main focus became finding the right name for it. In the early stages, Kendra and I hoped to bring ourselves glory by including ourselves in the name somehow…Kenri-ism, Kerndram, The KK’s…nothing sounded right. Plus, we obviously wanted to be seen as benevolent founders. The first name that we thought would really stick was Evianism, but when I emailed the people at Evian with the exciting news (thinking they might offer us a free trip to the Evian Spa in the French Alps), they kindly requested we change the name or expect their legal department to be in touch regarding copyright infringement. Some people just lack religious tolerance, and although we feared for their souls, we accepted the disappointment, and kept thinking. Finally, after 40 days and 40 nights, we had a name that both rang true and solved the Evian copyright problem; We christened the new religion Edvianism in honour of our most revered deity, Ed Mirvish, and began seeking out like-minded people to join us.
In the months and years that followed, the bible of Edvianism was released in a very exclusive run from my Dot Matrix printer, and the religion spread across North America and into Europe; At its height, the religion boasted more than 35 members, and was profiled in the February 2006 Edition of the A.N. Myer Student Gazette. But those heady days were not to last. In the early years of the new century, Demi-God and once fresh-faced musical theatre star Tyley Ross turned his back on the Empire that Ed built to join a hip-hopera collective. Environmental concerns forced actors and devotees alike to abandon plastic Evian bottles in favour of the soulless aluminum canteens that can be seen peeking out of many backpacks to this day. Kendra and I were growing up and apart, beginning to stray from our teenage dreams of musical theatre stardom. The final blow came in the summer of 2007, 12 years after the initial appearance of the Little Men, when the namesake of Edvianism, “Honest” Ed Mirvish took his final bow and joined the big kick-line in the sky.
Ed’s death effectively brought the curtain down on Edvianism, and an important chapter in my life. Never again would I flagellate myself when a brand of water other than Evian touched my lips. Nor would I be required to observe a moment of silence each and every time I walked along King Street West. But the end of Edvianism also meant that I was no longer a part of something that gave meaning to my life; now I was out there on my own in the big world without the Ed or The Little Men to guide me. There was only one other option: I had to learn to do that myself. Today, I’m no longer a budding musical theatre star – what I really want to do is direct.
[1] Like the Islamic Pilgrimage to Mecca, exiting at Walker’s Line would be a required task in our religion.
[2] Proprietor of “Honest” Ed’s bargain shop and major musical producer in Toronto.
[3] The aforementioned rising musical theatre star. He was pretty cute.
[4] On the television series “Kung Fu: The Legend Continues”
[5] As above.
[6] Star of the Toronto production of “The Phantom Of The Opera” and best Phantom EVER!
[7] Pre hair cut. We are talking 1980’s hair band hair.
[8] The love interest in “The Phantom Of The Opera”
[9] We went to school together, and I’m pretty sure he loved me. I figured it was good to have friends in high places.
[10] We decided it best to include him in some way lest we incur his wrath. Or his Dad’s.
Sunday, January 27
The Way I See It.
Full disclosure: I love Starbucks. I know I shouldn't. Logically, I do know that paying close to $5 for a (usually) nutritionless drink is foolish and that my money would be better spent on booze. I realize my Starbucks addiction makes me, to many, an evil elitist capitalist pig, to blame for all the woe in the world...But I can't help it. There is something so delightful about striding up to a mid-twenties hipster who's twitching from the eight cups of Americano he's had and ordering a venti extra hot half-sweet half-caf non-fat vanilla hazelnut latte with extra foam* that I just can't give it up, try as I might.
So there you go: I love Starbucks, and have as long as I can remember.
But it's not just about the coffee. It's about the brilliant marketing, too. Starbucks caters to those of us who consider ourselves intelligent and cultured. Their cafe's encourage us to sit and relax, read the paper (free in store!), listen to some good music (recorded on the new Starbucks record label!), and meet with friends for stimulating conversation ("The new Coen brothers film? Adored it! But what a stinker that Atonement was! At least there was James McAvoy to look at!"). That being said, it came as no surprise when Starbucks launched "The Way I See It," a collection of quotes from noted thinkers and artists (and even some regular folk like you and me) which appear on the side of each hot cup.
I love these quotes. They do, as intended, often spark discussions. The Starbucks website suggests these discussions should be "good" and "healthy," which is probably why I have yet to find quotes from Sarah Silverman, Karl Marx, or Ann Coulter on the side of my morning venti extra hot half-sweet half-caf non-fat vanilla hazelnut latte with extra foam.* On the contrary, most of the quotes I've come across have been pretty innocuous adages from the likes of Al Gore, Gloria Steinem, and....Newt Gingrich?? Wait a minute...
Yes folks, today's quote came from US Republican Newt Gingrich. Upon reading the quote, I thought, "Hmmm. This is interesting." And then, mere seconds later, "What the f*ck does this mean?" I leave you with the quote in it's entirety; I'd love to hear your ideas of just what he is talking about, because I'm in a liberal arts programs studying ideas, and I ain't seen any guns yet. Can't we all just get along?
"On the battlefield of ideas, winning requires moving toward the sound of the guns."
*Please note: I have never before ordered this drink in reality. I only drink 2%.
So there you go: I love Starbucks, and have as long as I can remember.
But it's not just about the coffee. It's about the brilliant marketing, too. Starbucks caters to those of us who consider ourselves intelligent and cultured. Their cafe's encourage us to sit and relax, read the paper (free in store!), listen to some good music (recorded on the new Starbucks record label!), and meet with friends for stimulating conversation ("The new Coen brothers film? Adored it! But what a stinker that Atonement was! At least there was James McAvoy to look at!"). That being said, it came as no surprise when Starbucks launched "The Way I See It," a collection of quotes from noted thinkers and artists (and even some regular folk like you and me) which appear on the side of each hot cup.
I love these quotes. They do, as intended, often spark discussions. The Starbucks website suggests these discussions should be "good" and "healthy," which is probably why I have yet to find quotes from Sarah Silverman, Karl Marx, or Ann Coulter on the side of my morning venti extra hot half-sweet half-caf non-fat vanilla hazelnut latte with extra foam.* On the contrary, most of the quotes I've come across have been pretty innocuous adages from the likes of Al Gore, Gloria Steinem, and....Newt Gingrich?? Wait a minute...
Yes folks, today's quote came from US Republican Newt Gingrich. Upon reading the quote, I thought, "Hmmm. This is interesting." And then, mere seconds later, "What the f*ck does this mean?" I leave you with the quote in it's entirety; I'd love to hear your ideas of just what he is talking about, because I'm in a liberal arts programs studying ideas, and I ain't seen any guns yet. Can't we all just get along?
"On the battlefield of ideas, winning requires moving toward the sound of the guns."
*Please note: I have never before ordered this drink in reality. I only drink 2%.
Thursday, January 17
Objects In The Rear View Mirror....
What is it about the past? This is a question that has been floating through my mind a lot lately, for I find myself bombarded with beautiful, but unwanted thoughts of people and experiences long gone from my life. And I've been giving into those memories, and in some cases actively nurturing them, even though I know that they have the potential to make a mess of now.
Why?
Robert Fulford gave the 1999 Massey Lectures (a really fantastic series!) about the human need to tell stories as a means of understanding our lives, and I think that has something to do with it. From the beginning of humanity - yes, even before "civilization" - people have used storytelling as a way by which to explain the world and our place in it. Why should modern man be any different? The fact that today we have people like filmmakers and authors who are paid to tell us stories does not discount the individual desire to make sense of our lives.
But what about when making sense of the past turns into nostalgia? Is there any way to guard against it? Nostalgia is a pretty dangerous thing, or at least it has been in my life. Don't get me wrong - I'm relatively content in my current situation - but there have been times that, in retrospect, look like complete perfection. I find it alarmingly easy to slip into yearning for those times, and that yearning tends to stall (at the very least) any new endeavours in my life.
As Jim Brickman wrote in the immortal Meatloaf classic, "objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are," and the times my mind most likes to return to were so long ago that it seems almost indecent to still revel in the feelings they elicit in me. I've begun to think that those feelings aren't particularly genuine, and that perhaps nostalgia is merely a trick played by mind that is frightened to step into the new. There's only one way to find out. Take that step....
Why?
Robert Fulford gave the 1999 Massey Lectures (a really fantastic series!) about the human need to tell stories as a means of understanding our lives, and I think that has something to do with it. From the beginning of humanity - yes, even before "civilization" - people have used storytelling as a way by which to explain the world and our place in it. Why should modern man be any different? The fact that today we have people like filmmakers and authors who are paid to tell us stories does not discount the individual desire to make sense of our lives.
But what about when making sense of the past turns into nostalgia? Is there any way to guard against it? Nostalgia is a pretty dangerous thing, or at least it has been in my life. Don't get me wrong - I'm relatively content in my current situation - but there have been times that, in retrospect, look like complete perfection. I find it alarmingly easy to slip into yearning for those times, and that yearning tends to stall (at the very least) any new endeavours in my life.
As Jim Brickman wrote in the immortal Meatloaf classic, "objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are," and the times my mind most likes to return to were so long ago that it seems almost indecent to still revel in the feelings they elicit in me. I've begun to think that those feelings aren't particularly genuine, and that perhaps nostalgia is merely a trick played by mind that is frightened to step into the new. There's only one way to find out. Take that step....
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