Deliverance

When I was 21, married to Pronoun Stupid, I remember having a conversation with his brother Tommy.

Tommy, can you hear me?

Tommy was much nicer than Stupid. More than once I'd wished I'd married Tommy instead, but Tommy was devoted to his Tracy. T'nT. We'd be C'nt. It wasn't in the stars.

I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, but it had to do with my level of expressed honesty that led him to say to me, "Maybe you're the one to save our family."

Smoking joints and chugging domestic light beer in the hot summer sun, Tommy and Stupid were 2 brothers that seemed incredibly close. They'd lost their father a couple of years prior. Their mother, who loved a ghost more than most women have loved any living partner, was a devout Baptist. She never killed a fly or went fishin' (flies and fish are our friends); didn't encourage card play on Sundays, or dancing - ever - because, well, dancing led to sex and Sunday was God's day. She loved her boys, including the eldest who seemed not only old-fashioned, but just plain old. His sons were closer to my own age. An old seeming man shrouded with a bristly nest-like, dull brown beard with woven strands of non-shimmering grey. Who seemed and commanded learned.

How the hell did he think I could save anything? Stupid and Tommy were at least 11 years older than I. Doesn't age lead to wisdom?

For the majority of my life if I was in the company of someone with little letters preceding or succeeding their name, I would perceive them to be in a greater position of knowledge, subsequently, of power. In tandem, I created a self-induced, reduced sense of personal adequacy. I reasoned that these people - who have lived longer than I and/or went to Serious School - knew more than I. Were more than I. In my mind I had elevated their status, thus relinquishing all of my own personal power.

Yes, doctor.
Of course I don't mind being booked in for an appointment at 9:00am, to not be seen until 10:30.
The fact that you have sixteen 9:00am bookings seems perfectly reasonable to me. You are the doctor.

Personal power, belief structure and general code of ethics - sold - to the only bidder.
All for the low, low price of free.

It's all perceived value anyway.

Something happened this week.
I did things I'd never really done before.

As an addendum to the 2 weeks of hell work tenure in Toronto's District of Distillation, I returned with a lilting tail, not quite between my legs, but more wrapped around one knee. As much as I needed to leave that job, which would have been both the demise of myself and the dear relationship with my darling Fatty, I had never before left a post as unceremoniously. Just up and walking out in the middle of a shift. In truth, there was a bit of shame attached to my right heel as I walked again through ominous doors, adjusting the Comrade Collection Agency cap on my head. I had both a pay cheque and cash owed from 2 night's work.

The Comrade: What do you mean you can't find it?
Floor Manager Fabio: [Shaved head, club clothed, guttural Gino-type] I saw an envelope kicking around with your name on it, but that was a while back. I haven't seen it in a while.
The Comrade: Well look harder. Peter did my cash out one night. Where's that?
FM Fabio: You're going to have to take it up with Peter.

Rip the needle off the vinyl.

The general manager.
Clear over 6'4".
Nice man,
Though
Falls squarely into my reductive-self complex.

A little terrified, I went home and sent an email to the general manager. It was sweetly asking if he knew the whereabouts of any of the money that was owed to me. One night was accounted for, but the other night left a great big question mark over his head. The best explanation was that the bartender I was training that night, incidentally her first night, something that doesn't usually warrant a 50/50 split, more than likely received not merely half, but all of the evening's collective earnings. That one night produced a 14 hour workday-induced hemorrhoid the size of a quail's egg. It took 2 weeks for it to return close enough to my body to no longer consider it alien.

Years, nay months, ago I would have just let this one go. I'd reasoned that I was the one who left, so I should face some sort of punishment. Besides, it's normal to take some knocks along the way. Normal. If you get out with yourself intact, that should be enough.

But it nearly killed me.
But it almost tore the ass out of my relationship with the love of my life.
But I had felt repeatedly raped and pillaged there.

Plot/scheme
Plot/scheme
Think, think, think

Why was considering to let this go? If I'd heard about this happening to someone else, I'd have all kinds of things to say and more suggestions on how to deal with the matter. Why has it been easier for me to choose to defend other people over myself?

I earned this money... the hard way.
While in its greatest protrusion, I nearly painted the ass goiter a robin's egg blue.
Fuck this.

With conjured powdered wig and reaper's gown, dodging swinging gavels while rising from a block of oak, I delivered the opening statement to my peers of imagined Comrade clones: I deserve to receive all the money that is owing to me.

The Supreme Court of Comraderie.
It does have a nice ring to it.

Without holding anything back I presented the general manager with a rather long essay outlining exactly why I left and how it was his sole responsibility to give me all the money I am due.

Bridges need burning sometimes.
They light your way.

[excerpt]
I left because of the lack of regard and respect for the staff.
I left for the unfair and illegal practices demonstrated [by management].
I left because there was no proper recompensement for working 14 hours straight in a relentlessly busy environment when in the end I couldn’t fire one neuron against another to complete a cash-out.

Which was why I handed it off.
Something you accepted the charge of.

Regardless of how much time has passed, money that I earned, that I had entrusted to you, has gone missing. I can only see it as your responsibility. If the lion’s share of earnings went to the bartender-in-training, someone with whom I was fully prepared to equally share my earnings, no matter how time has passed, the money that is rightfully mine was allocated incorrectly.

I’m asking you to correct the situation.

Yeah, well, he didn't like that one bit.

He wrote:
I disagree with everything you say.
Which is fine. Had he agreed on much of it, it would be terrific evidence that the Labour Board would be quite interested in.

In the end, as a method of appeasement, he asked me how much money I'd like. It was more than likely a resolution to make me happy because I was proving to be a potential whistle-blower. Who cared? I had a goal in mind. Though he tried to fracture the amount, using a dirty underhanded method of do-you-really-think-you-deserved-that-much-money, something historically I would have caved over out of guilt or feeling: He's right; maybe I didn't deserve it. He did make the mistake of asking how much money I thought was fair. I may present confidence often, but I don't always feel it. Though when working behind 2' wood,

I feel like a master.

I responded:
Thank you so much for taking the time to read so thoroughly and respond so thoughtfully. I am earnestly grateful. As for fairness in recompensement, I do feel that $200 for that shift is fair.

As I learned selling weight loss programmes to poor, overweight women once upon a time in my sordid, professional past, the first rule of sales: Bring things to a close.

Continued:
I will be by next week to collect it.
Many thanks again.

God knows he's not the first person to call me a bitch.
I don't suspect he'll be the last.


In my last post I'd promised myself I'd write a letter to my family which would exempt me from further annihilation of self-esteem. As I am a girl of her word, and as I was on a roll anyway, every family member I was raised with was CC'd.

[abridged excerpt]
I have decided to create a self-imposed exemption from any further function where obligatory attendance is required.
[T]he truth is this man, whom I am obligated to honour in his septuagenarian year, has for 20 years simply ignored my existence. A few years ago I was told I could be “forgiven” as long as I proved something to him. A presentation of another fiery hoop in which to jump through. To prove the validity of my deserving love.

For a lifetime I’ve heard all the rationale of forgiving the father for “he knows not what he’s done.” Or other clichés like “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” But he learns new technology. He applies knowledge of newly learned trades. All of which he lords over his wife, our mother, further elevating his status while reducing her self-esteem to rubble. If learning to love was important to him, he would have made it his life’s goal; something I’ve mandated within my own life. The process albeit is riddled with both success and failure, but it is still a process.

I do not make concessions for ignorance in my own world. To continue to allow this because it's "family" is a continued personal breach.

At the heart of every function is an unwritten clause that we all must maintain a façade that everything is fine, that we were all raised wonderfully and we think our dad is the greatest.

The World’s Greatest Dad who hasn’t spoken to his youngest child in over twenty years.
I beg for any other rationale than that of nonsensical pride.

I cannot take part in another scene in this ridiculous, self-destructive farce. It’s beyond disheartening. It’s morally corrupt.

When I wrote this, it was for no other design but to eliminate a sense of massive impending doom. I didn't expect a response, unless it was that of ridicule or further judgment.

My eldest brother, who speaks in monotones, no caps, little inflection and certainly no italics, wrote first:

Excellent letter!!!! I agree 110%.
I will be out of town until next week.
Maybe we have lunch the week of August 8 to talk!!!

Sincerely,

Vince

7... count 'em, 7 exclamation points.
He's never invited me out for lunch before in his life.

Second to respond was my darling brother-in-law Jimmy:
Well done. Is there anything I can do for you!!!

Always in service to others, this man who has "everything" I thought could do something for me. I requested:

What you can do for me is to be happy. And to do what you want. And to realise you are a remarkable person. And that I love you very much.

Besides that, I'd love to go for a pint soon.

As good things reputedly come in threes, the third, more than likely final, familial response came with the subject line: Your long lost brother

Walter

The apple of my childhood eye,
Whom I miss so much,
Who had estranged himself from the family,
Broke his silence
And invited me back into his world.

Tommy, can you hear me?

Maybe you were a guru.
Maybe you divined it.
You were right.
Maybe I do have the power to save.
You just got the families wrong.

Bleep Bleep

I've heard that No matter where you go you'll never run away from yourself.

It was repeated in the movie What the Bleep Do We Know, a nice starting point in the world of quantum mechanics. Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, finally has company in which to speak. He's been immersed in quantum theorising for quite some time. Working with intentionality - the creation of one's own life - not feeling like your life or your fate is in the hands of a vengeful karmic god. You're your own vengeful god.

Or loving one.

The thing that struck me most about the movie was the dissection of emotions. Victimisation, anger eruptions, et al. The anger bit often doesn't have a safety. These eruptions have historically exploded in the faces of the men I've shared my life with. Fatty is not exempt. It has to do with the level of comfort I feel with them. I've always said that during the first 6 months of a relationship, no one is to be trusted. We're on our best behaviour. With Fatty it was different. We've known each other very well for 4 years. The level of comfort was established quite early.

I think the root of my anger eruptions is You didn't do what I wanted you to. This is of course stupid. This is also elemental victimisation. Instead of posturing Why me?, which is essentially the same, though seems weak, something I have a hard time displaying, I create an ensuing caustic maelstrom of Fuck you's.

But again, this only comes out in the ones I hold dearest.
So where the hell did I learn that from?


I had a depressing Saturday night. I'd just found out that the short film I was asked to co-author is actually getting shot and sent to Sundance.

There was a moment of over-the-phone hyperventilation when I heard this news.

Writing partner: So, just learn your lines!

Learn my lines.

Years ago I was cast as a day player on a television series. My level of fear of success was at its peak then. The night prior to shooting I thought it was a really good idea to get hammered with some friends. I only have 12 lines sailed through my central nervous system, which had a mandate to consume vast amounts of sauvignon blanc. When I made it to set the next day, on time mind, I had a pounding sieve-like brain that only felt moderately controlled in the position foetal. As I was supposed to play a high-powered military executive (I think), lying prone on one's side was not written in. They didn't go for the suggestion of my character being an opium smoker.

In film, every minute costs $10,000.
35 takes in, I couldn't get my lines straight.
Shame masterminded every cell in my body.
I couldn't run anywhere.

Luckily I have an extraordinary agent who happens to be a very good friend. She told me that Marlon Brando's first role, a part that required him to just say one line, was fudged repeatedly. It took him over 50 takes. Dear Connie. She always makes me feel better.

But still, every time I receive a script then subsequently get handed a role, panic flies rampant like cancer in my body. Consuming. Exhausting. I always need to lie down. Back to foetal. Back to where we don't breathe air. We are surrounded by nourishing liquid.

So I have this emotional reminder, one which takes me back to a time where my behaviour from the night prior both halts the progress bar of the day's schedule as well as halting any progress in my own life. And I think back to the What the Bleep movie.

They said that the responses we muster, these automatic responses to stimuli or situation, are designed to get the emotional response that we're addicted to. To get our fix. Well, that short circuited me a bit. They also said that each time we fall victim to these automatic responses, they form synapses that lock onto neurons, creating a strong hold in the form of a neural net. This of course then forms the idea of who we think we are.

Without giving pause, I don't know how many times I've said: This is just how I react.
It truly taps into my Cave Girl construct.

I don't want to be one of those people who blames other people for her reactionary behaviour. I know it does, however, start somewhere. We are nothing but highly programmable machines. The trick is to learn how to reprogramme.

I was trying to write through some of the depression I was feeling the other day. The source of anxiety that came up was the looming dark cloud of my father's 70th birthday party. It's something I promised my mother I'd attend.

Ack's new girlfriend, the woman whose name translates to Truth/Beauty/Freedom, told me a story about her Italian friends. Well, their families, actually. These old world folk came to this country 50 years ago, say. They hold onto the romantic idea of what they remembered Italy as then. This memory is then housed in a trapezoidal cortex vault with the added value of passing decades and department store sectional sofas covered in thick plastic. These memories and ideals are then foisted upon their children. What no one knows is that Italy, or any people's country of origin, grows and develops. Becomes modernised. Changes in old world views.

My mother: You can't tell anybody. How will people look at you having had another failed marriage? If they ask how Ack is you just pretend that you're still together.

I see these people, friends and neighbours of my parents, maybe once a year. Not out of choice but out of obligation.

I promised her I'd go.
And I am a woman of her word.
But I would be expected to lie.
And that's a greater breach of contract to self.

After getting to know Fatty's family - the ones who cared for and nurtured the love of my life, the parents who go along with any hair-brained scheme that either of their sons dream up, the ones who have always created the best most creative and supportive environments in which to thrive, the ones who can easily and readily tell their sons all their best attributes - I began to reconsider my life and where I came from.

"No one knows a child like the mother," my mother has always said.
And I believed her.
Whenever I've asked her to list off the positive characteristics of her children, she is hard pressed to come up with an automatic response.

Fatty's Mom: [during a marathon conversation with the Comrade] I hope he knows how wonderful we (she and the dad) think he is.
The Comrade: Oh, if he doesn't, I'll beat it into him.

I never heard how wonderful I am from any of my family.
I often hear how loud I am.
How irresponsible I am.
How inappropriate I am.
How disrespectful I am.
Never wonderful, though.

That I had to find out in the real world.
And it took me a long time to believe it.

Supposition this:
Take a man who has never recognised the birthdays of any of his children or his wife,
Who then requires a massive blow-out for the celebration of reaching the age of septuagenarian, as mandated by past cultural dictates coupled with an elevated sense of self,
Whose only demonstrative kindness is displayed for friends and neighbours,
Never for his family.
Who taught his children a bastardised version of honour and respect under a totalitarian state,
Who repeatedly pitted his children against each other,
Who only wants his children at this celebration as evidence of being the perfect father.
His children who have spent tens of thousands of dollars in therapy.
Who has ignored his last born child for the past 20 years...

Is it forgivable to not want to learn the lines to this scene in Act III?
Even if promised?

There is a neural net that needs an explosions expert in the art of defusing.

Look at that. I gave myself permission.

The entire family will be receiving a minced-free version of exactly why I will not be attending this farce.

This isn't running away.
It's saving myself.

The Introduction of the Swap Meet

Chicken, the light of my life, had another episode. The uncontrollable pooping and hurling varietal. It's at best disconcerting. At worst, I find my hand on his ribcage. Movement detection. I try not to let him see me cry. He's a very sensitive cat who doesn't like me to see him in less than optimum health. He only presents me with his best. If he's too tired he doesn't come out to play. If he's in a foul mood he'll shoot me a look and that's pretty much all I need to back away from him. When he's sick he recoils from me. There's really nothing I can do for him. He hates pity anyway. It's a trait he's picked up from me.

Last Monday at my once a week night of employ at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, I was having a discussion with Cupcake, the chef formerly known as Cartman sounding Mike. The topic was the timeline in which I thought a natural relationship trajectory should go.

The Comrade's Timeline
Date 1: The sniffing of butts
Date 2: If a second date is warranted, there's more than a slim chance in hell that it could turn into a relationship.
Date 3: Back seat or on the beach - sex, sex, lurid sex.
Date 4: Invitation to inspect living quarters/ meet roommate.
Week 3: Respective introduction to the most significant friends.
Month 2: Meet the family (unless there are extraordinary circumstances which are made clear from the start).

My darling Fatty, the man who shares my life and my bed along with Chicken, is fully aware that I have mentally divorced my family by reasons of emotional damage and irreconcilable differences.

Cupcake thought the timeline for familial introduction was a bit premature. His Stupid Bitch, and I say that most lovingly as I quite adore her, has not yet met his family though they have been romantically linked for nearly a year. The reason I call her his Stupid Bitch is because of Interpol.

The preamble to the most anticipated concert of Summer 2004
Cupcake gets a new girlfriend.
And brings her to the concert.
As mentioned in a previous post
This is not done.

Having not yet met her, though in her presence
The Comrade: Dude, you brought your fucking girlfriend? Stupid bitch.

Though this comment was geared solely at Cupcake
She hated me for 6 months.
(Sometimes I'm not funny to everyone)
But then she got to know me and we now quite love each other a lot.


The Comrade: Do they live really far away?
Cupcake: No, not really.
The Comrade: Then why?

Being embarrassed of your family is an extraordinary circumstance.

Cupcake comes from Germanic stock. Strong, proud and resourceful. He takes great pride in carrying on traditions in his kitchen that his grandmother passed onto him. Cupcake's coveted potato salad is second only to my ex-mother-in-law's. Her salad is nothing to look at, especially with the addition of canned peas and carrots, but man that was savoury confection perfection on a spoon. Bite after compulsive bite, Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, is now the only one subjected to exponentially growing hips.

Cupcake's Stupid Bitch, who happens to be one of the most beautiful, smart women I know, is in the natural healing profession. Occasionally she will visit us on a Monday night for a light supper, a bit of conversation, company to smoke cigarettes with and is always available to discuss alternative health procedures. We never have a shortage of things to talk about.

Cupcake: My mom's been sick for a few years. She's on anti-depressants.
The Comrade: Are they helping?
Cupcake: No. When she does get out of bed, she just gets into her bathrobe and watches television all afternoon. I don't want my girlfriend to see that.
The Comrade: Your Stupid Bitch could help.
Cupcake: I know. It doesn't make any sense, really.
The Comrade: Have you talked to her about them?
Cupcake: Sort of. I just remember them strong. I wish she had met them then.

It's a rather terrifying spectacle watching your parents age. People who seemed invincible at one time, moving towards the mark of weakened, slightly feeble.

Fatty and I hosted a send-off party for his parents the other night. We prepared another tasting menu. This time it wasn't 10 courses. We reduced it to 5.

Aperitif: Kenya's Tusker lager.
Course 1: Risotto with oyster mushrooms, garlic scapes, seared mammoth scallops with a truffle oil drizzle. Paired with Veuve Cliquot champagne.
Course 2: Fried Kumo oysters with debretziner sausages on homegrown raddicchio leaves. Served with Quebec's Fin du Monde ale.
Course 3: Panko fried chicken wings with spicy Thai mango salad. Accompanied by Marlborough, NZ's Babich sauvignon blanc and Goldridge Estate riesling.
Grilled individual whole sea bream with baby bok choi, fennel and red onion. California's Kendall Jackson and BC's Mission Hill pinot noirs to quaff alongside.
Artisanal cheese plate with red grapes and fresh figs. Malivoire ice wine and Cockburn port to cap.

We killed it.

I asked the dad, my potential future father-in-law, the British doctor who did something rather massive during his medical career not unlike Russell Crowe had in the Insider, why the pronunciation of Cockburn was changed to Coburn.

My supposition was the original Cockburner must have either been a male chicken roaster (sorry for the imagery, Chicken) or the town's highly chafed celebrated bachelor.
I didn't really get an answer.

Thought not quite as extravagant, I used to do these kind of meals for my own family. I think after the 3rd straight year of Christmas dinner at my home, without a word of grace nor gratitude from my father, as it seemed almost expected, I stopped. I'm hard pressed to do anything without at least a whiff of incentive.

Throughout Fatty's family dinner there were earnest queries as to the preparation or ingredients chosen. There was no shortage of appreciation. There was no shortage of laughter. There were real conversations. Not the best stock option to buy or the latest media scare of some virulent disease, something that would keep one scared, safely tucked at home, computer on, television glowing, an online or phone line purchase - the best option for connection to the world. They didn't do any of that. They didn't foist their opinions on their sons or on me. They listened to each of us. And we them. Every opinion counted.

And they wanted to know about me. About my relationship to my family. How I felt about it.
They understood without trying to change my mind with the static, demoralising statement of, "But it's your family. It's the only one you've got. You ought to try."
Maybe they didn't press because both the parents came from less than desirable familial circumstances themselves. They moved to a different land to get away from their oppressive pasts. They started a new family, a rare and beautiful gem, one that welcomes Comrades.

Being a true adventurer and marvellous guest, after several glasses of everything, my future father-in-law was more reputedly "blotto" (his word) than he'd been in 10 years.

He stumbled to the bathroom in a wave pattern.
He fell asleep in the adirondack chair.
It was the first time Fatty had seen him look so vulnerable.
Older.
It made him consider his father's mortality for the first time.
This scared the crap out of him.

The Comrade: How are you doing, darling?
Future father-in-law: [very British accent] I am chilling.
Future mother-in-law: [high pitched British accent] Are you cold?
Future father-in-law: No, I am cool.

Though the rest of the family was holding their heads in mock horror, there is something rather adorable about a Dr. Mac Daddy feeling safe enough to conduct experiments in street vernacular within a controlled environment.

It was the first time we'd entertained Fatty's family here. I can't wait until the next time.

I've modified Chicken's diet. He's now receiving a combination of 3 different types of cat food. He seems to have taken to it. He's still blind as a bat, still can't hear me yelling at him, but he's starting to put on a little weight. Thank God. His poops are of a healthy consistency. And yes, I look at his poop as scientifically as I do my own. He hasn't thrown up and he hasn't crapped uncontrollably for a little while now. He's on yellow alert. He'll always be on yellow alert.

My little boy
Who will be celebrating his Sweet Sixteen this year.
Off to college soon,
Where he'll probably find a girl.

I hope he'll want me to meet her.

Weeding the Garden of Deception

I value honesty high among the traits humans bear as their finest decoration.

Fatty: Yeah, but you said there are some things you should never tell the truth about.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No!
Fatty: Yes.

[elapsed time: 45 minutes]

The Comrade: Okay, maybe I did.

Do you like this [enter random object the asker is displaying with obvious delirious pride]?
Truth or no truth, the answer is always yes.

Fatty and I went up to his family's cottage last weekend. We drove up in the middle of the night making only one pit-stop at the wretched golden arches, a place neither of us had entered in nearly 2 years. While insidious, there is something contemptibly delicious about their sausage and egg contraption. Alas.

We arrived 18 hours before any of the other guests. In those 18 hours were meals made, dishes done, a swim, mosquito slapping, tent raising of all denominations, leisurely yard and beach work and naps.

Uncertain whether it is a consequence of my darling Fatty's occasional night terrors, an inheritance from his mother's side of the family, the sweet love of my life is prone to waking up bitchy. I don't have this affliction. Mine is wholly different. I have a tendency to become incredibly irritating to others by way of either being über chipper or panicking because I've arisen late and there is still too much to do.

We were napping in a tent at midnight by the time our guests arrived. I wanted to greet these guests with Fatty. I wanted to go up to the main cottage with my boyfriend. I didn't want to go alone.

Subtext: What would they think about us? The strength of our relationship. Appearance Keeping 101.

But I couldn't find the thing I was looking for in the nyloned dark as Fatty was standing outside the blue, guaranteed to sleep 3, biting-fly inhibitor.

The Comrade: Where the fuck is my [insert random personal belonging which I couldn't care less whether he liked or not]?
Fatty: I don't know.
The Comrade: [panicked] Well I can't find it! Don't go anywhere!
Fatty: I'm not going anywhere.

Apparently I frantically asked him not to go anywhere about a dozen times. The decibels and panic levels grew by increments. Approaching the 8th time, the last place Fatty wanted to be was where he was.

Fatty: I'm getting eaten alive out here so I'm going to go up.
The Comrade: What? Okay.

Abandoned.
What an issue that is.

I found out later that there weren't any bugs that were giving Fatty any grief. He used that as an excuse to get the hell out of a situation that was too taxing, too irritating. Boy did that not sit well with me. And boy did he hear about it later. And boy did I regret handling it the way I had.

But we now had company. In total there were 4 other adults and 4 children. The children's ages ranged from 10 months to 10 years. As neither of us care to air our dirty laundry in public, we waited as I seethed.

My least favourite cottaging kid was Emily. I don't blame Emily for my not liking her as much as the other kids. Her parents were my least favourite adults as well. Something her dad liked saying was Giv'r. This is a word that I don't suspect will become part of my everyday vernacular, though you never know. My lovely Fergus was the inspiration to my now incessant awesome's. What I didn't like about Emily's character was that she was 5 years old without a proper vocabulary in which to express herself. Everything that came out was whiny grunts of dissatisfaction. It was made doubly bad by her constant state of having twin rivulets of snot cascading from nostril to lip in varying degrees of viscosity. Emily was born snotty but pretty and that was apparently enough. There was no need to develop character.

Though I still don't think it right, I chose a favourite.

Aidan.
He looked like a young Orlando Bloom.
Whip smart.
Slightly shy.
Independent.
Always asked when he didn't know.
Total grammarian.
Brown belt in karate.
When asked who he wanted to live with, his father or his mother (who has a tendency to leave good men whom she has children with), he chose his dad...
(An excellent choice).
Tried desperately to put me in an arm lock but I kept levelling him into the sand.

Aidan: Oh come on! Just let me put you into an arm hold.
The Comrade: You're not going to hurt me?
Aidan: No, I promise.
The Comrade: Okay.

The lovely Aidan puts the Comrade into a delicate arm hold and asks her to try to get out of it.

The Comrade: By any means necessary?
Aidan: Just try.

I kicked his feet out and mock jumped on top of him, looking, ever searching for a pair of Ninja ginch to yank up over his head, knowing inherently that young Aidan was light enough to string up in a tree.

Strange fruit.

The little bastard was going commando.
Drat.

Aidan: Yeah, well I'll be able to kick your ass when I'm as big as you.
The Comrade: Darling Aidan... How old do you think I am?
Aidan: Twenty.
The Comrade: That's right, mister.

Like I'm going to correct that.

His dad Craig, incidentally my favourite cottaging adult, is one of the best dads I've ever seen in action. The mind altering drugs he's done in the past had expanded his natural inclination towards philosophy. He spoke to his child once of fear.

Clap on.
Clap off.
Fear of the dark.

A bedroom is still the same bedroom with one difference. The absence of light. We fear what we cannot see. He is teaching his child that the generation of fear is from the very powerful mind. We do it to ourselves. I grew up on a street where some of the parents propagated the concept of the Boogeyman. Horrible, wretched liars.

Later, from this lesson, young Aidan will be better equipped to be able to detect the fear generation of media and government. He currently sings old songs of Rage Against the Machine. I wish to be there when he fully understands the magnitude. By the time he's 20, I'll be 30 anyway. I'm not going anywhere.

When Fatty finally told me the truth about my driving him nuts because his mental faculties were reduced while my panic level had increased, I initially lost it. I was hurt that he left me. I was angry because he couldn't tell me the truth. As a rule, I don't want to be lied to. I can actually handle it when someone says to me, "Look, you're being a crazy bitch. Now stop it." I hope he knows to do it next time because it hurts like hell when someone I love walks away from me.

When I first started seeing Fatty in a romantic capacity I did stress the utter importance of truth. I would not accept deception of any kind. If he was caught in a lie, there endeth the union. But he's right: I did say there are things that are better left unsaid or to lie about.

Certain white lies need to be weeded out just in case it mushrooms into a garden of deception. But there is clover in my own garden that I choose to not weed, maybe in hopes for that 4 leafer the mini Irish fellas sit at stirring their pots of pure gold.

There is a Santa Claus.
I'm not a disgusting person for looking at my own poop every single day.

But there is a line.
If it is selfish, self-serving or harmful to others, that is a bold line crossed to a point of no return.

Let My People Come

As much as I don't care for the world of film, the one thing I was very happy about in my one time pursuit of a theatre career was the study. Every actor has a choice. The word "no" could be said in infinite ways to reveal much of a character or his motivation. Subtext. Or it could just be a wank. Not all actor's choices are good ones. For a glaring example, please see Orlando Bloom's entire depiction of Balian in The Kingdom of Heaven. Wow. An elf does not a gladiator make. Strange, even to me, every single choice Simon Pegg selected in Shaun of the Dead was... ding, ding, ding... we have a winner.

Kicking, screaming, acting out, accusing, raging, becoming cold and unresponsive... This was not acting class. This was at home.
Subtext.
What's really the matter?

This question is the reason why Ack, the ex-husband, is still the best friend.

My darling Fatty and I were invited to accompany my future mother-in-law in an outdoor production of The Taming of the Shrew. Shakespeare in the Tent. It's Shakespeare in the Park... with a budget.

I read somewhere that Shakespeare's plays wouldn't be properly understood unless one reached a certain age. King Lear wouldn't have absolute relevance until one was 50. I hasten to add that it might not have ultimate relevance unless the reader or theatre goer was also male.

Romeo and Juliet was understood very early. I hid a boy in a closet. I jumped out of a second storey window to be with this boy. Our families hated the fact that we were together. When Fatty I go to fair Verona this fall, part of our European beer tour, I am going to visit the cemetery. Cemeteries are always on my travel itinerary whenever I'm fortunate enough to travel. I want to take pictures of tombstones with the names Capulet and Montague, if that's possible. Framed, I want them coexisting on the same wall, in a distance close enough for one violent hand to hold the other. Peace, a hated mortal word. Maybe they learned to embrace it in the afterlife.

Over a decade ago I worked at a wonderful restaurant where I received inordinate amounts of attention. At brunch a regular customer/ doorman from the club across the street had asked what the appeal of me was.

The Comrade: I don't know. Maybe it's an issue of the taming of a shrew.
I never studied this play in school. I'd never read it nor seen it performed before. Frankly I had it confused with A Midsummer's Night Dream. I was really looking forward to seeing Puck in action again.

No Puck.
Not even a urinal cake.
Only a child scorned by having her love usurped by her manipulative, sycophantic sister.
Favour cast aside by the one she learned her insatiable craving for acceptance.
A child treated as a commodity.
Where her worth is measured by her marriageability.
Must make her fit for society
By the removal of any spark or opinion she expresses.
Hurt.

If I wasn't sandwiched by 2 lovely people, I would have walked out prior to curtain's close. Upon the actor's bows and curtsies someone else was clapping my hands. I felt like a grimacing, maniacal monkey with cymbals.

Fatty's Mom: She didn't like it?

It's too close to home.
Too close to the world I live in;
A world of banishment if one can't tow the company line.
If one introduces shears to the company line.
No one seemed to understand.
Everyone was too busy being entertained.
Laughing, laughing.
At my expense.

I spent a lot of time crying over the weekend. I generally cry a lot. For the year I spent alone, crying was as routine as the morning coffee I'd prepare myself. It was a way to start my day. Sometimes I'd cry because I had a bad dream. Other times I cried because I felt so lucky. This weekend I cried all over Fatty because I felt orphaned and broken.

If you're a girl who ever had an older brother you were crazy about, Grave of the Fireflies will leave you in fetal position, bawling your eyes out for at least an hour afterwards. Well, this girl anyway. And this was my second viewing. A glutton for punishment, maybe. Or perhaps it was an unconscious reach-out, a catalyst for my own subtext.

Fatty: But now you have a new family. My family.
The Comrade: [choking on self-produced liquid] But I don't think they'll ever feel like my own family.
Fatty: Well, one day we'll have our own family. Together.

And then he held me and cried with me.
And for this action, Fatty has me for the rest of his life.


Months ago, Ack initiated a conversation that 5 other people, including myself, had on different occasions, mournfully expressed. The concept of Finding One's Own People.

It's the most lonely a person can feel.
Not being understood.
Where every mode of expression is met with equal expressions of incredulity, shock and horror.

Where are my People?

I met someone new this weekend.
Someone I suspect I'll see much of.

Ack, the ex-husband/best friend, has a new girlfriend.

Her name translates to Truth, Freedom and Beauty.
She has a remarkable Tree of Life tattoo covering her back. It protects her.
She's needed protection.
Not everyone has treated her well in her life.
She's small
But learned fierceness...
At least in work.
English is not her first language.
And you can tell.
Throughout her romantic life she'd been harboured as a secret.
A fetish.

But not anymore.

The Comrade: He'll never do that to you.

She draws amazing pictures that get made into realistic 3 dimensional forms. Film sets. Ack and I rode bikes through one of these forms years before we got to know Truth/Freedom/Beauty. We were introduced to her spirit that day. Her astral body. Not the lithe, sinuey, cumbersome one she uses in this mortal plain. She secretly wishes to be a cyborg.

The Comrade: Why?
Truth/Freedom/Beauty: So I can run faster and jump higher to save the world.
The Comrade: How do you save the world by running faster and jumping higher?
T/F/B: You can see things better from higher up.
Ack: Like kittens stuck in trees.

Last year at this time Ack and I desperately wanted to have love in our lives but it wasn't there. We plastered ourselves with self-pity, vocalised by repetitive mantras of We deserve love. Chugging beers. Faster and faster. We were certain it was going to happen to the other person, but really couldn't conceive of it happening for ourselves. What did that say about us? I started to look at toothpaste differently.

The Comrade: You use that much toothpaste each time?
Fatty: That's what you're supposed to use.
The Comrade: No. I use half of that.
Fatty: And how many cavities have you had in your life?
The Comrade: [hangs her head low]

I was taught to use 2 squares of toilet paper at a time and only a dot of toothpaste.


The year off has made Ack and I think about a great many things in regards to sharing a life with someone. It was very important for us to not have someone there to have love from, to be comforted by. After seeing a few different women over the course of 12 months, Ack discovered his litmus test for the potential of new love.

Hugging someone for 15 minutes straight without thinking about anything else, including sex.
Fatty agreed.

Ack: The last person I felt that with was you. That's how I knew.

And she shares his favourite movie: The Hunt for Red October. She gives him ethereal art books that only he would buy. They talk of worlds of spaceships, of flying, of life in pictures.

Ack and I sat across his kitchen's counter on Sunday. The same counter we'd licked our wounds from not having the kind of love we'd separated over. Telling him how I much I liked her, there was a moment of tearful revelation:

The Comrade: Oh, Ack. You found your people.

The Comrade: Does "Ack" mean anything in Japanese?
Truth/Freedom/Beauty: Oh yes. Bad, evil, Satan.
The Comrade: Yep. That's what I thought.