Ob-la-di, ob-la-da

Life goes on.

Indeed.

It’s been busy lately. 

Not busy as in “gee, I just can’t seem to fit you in between The Biggest Loser and Top Chef”.

Busy as in “accounting says that I can’t possibly accrue any more vacation time”.

I often find myself sitting around board tables feeling unqualified.

I was sitting in the main dining room of a Very Old Club just the other morning, listening to a Distinguished Older Gentleman as he bragged about his discussions with an Assassinated Political Leader right before That Political Crisis.  I looked around the room, and counted four other women.

Three of them were sitting at the registration table, handing out name tags.

I do not hand out name tags anymore.  I did, but not anymore.

I don’t assemble other people’s expenses.  I don’t even assemble my own expenses.  I don’t book my own travel.

“What time would you like to car to pick you up?” they ask me.

I have no idea.

They give my credit card number away.  They take receipts away.  I get a cheque.  It all works out.

I speak on panels now too, telling people what I know about various boring subjects.  Badly, I think.   I organize meetings of people who are more experienced and qualified than I am, and I force them to talk to each other.  Awkwardly.

“That was great, thank you so much for organizing this.  This was the best meeting I’ve ever attended,” they say afterwards.

Really?  I kind of feel like a dork.

I’ve learned to pretend.  Pretend to be knowledgable.  Pretend to be interested.  Pretend to be experienced.   If I pretend long enough, and hard enough, one day I might convince someone that I am the real thing.  Right? 

Maybe even myself.

But most importantly, I’ve learned to let go of mistakes and keep moving.   Swim or die.  Eat or be eaten.

Oh, how the life goes on.

Thirty six

I am old enough to

think seriously about my health

draft a will

draft a sonnet

get a mortgage

buy my own drill

learn how to use a drill

avoid those “you’ll regret the tattoo when you’re older” conversations

raise a child

never raise a child

save for my golden years

squander it all on a handful of magic beans

call my broker

answer all the questions on Jeopardy

go to bed after Jeopardy

tell the neighbours to keep it down, I’m trying to get to sleep

sleep with you

howl at the moon

wake up the neighbours

ask for forgiveness

stop apologizing

go for the really expensive shoes

get comfortable

walk myself home

run away with the circus

do the washing up

sweep it under the carpet

question the way the boss runs the show

panic about running my own show

run the show

search for the pot of gold

pick up the cheque

watch it all come together

watch it all come apart

wonder what will happen next

stop worrying about what will happen next

***

A few reminders

Take people at face value.  Give others the benefit of the doubt.  Stop looking for hidden meanings, and worse, stop presuming what those hidden meanings are.  If you have a question, ask it openly.  Politely, but openly.

Stop being afraid that you will look stupid.  Speak up.  The only people who aren’t afraid of looking dumb are…dumb people.  So you’re probably safe.  What you think means something and has value, even if no one else recognizes it at the time.  Even if you don’t recognize it at the time.

If you’re going to do something – work, play or otherwise – do it 100% and don’t get caught up in distractions.  Especially, don’t distract yourself.  Get the distractions out of the system, take a break, write, or whatever needs to be done to break the distraction.  And then get back to it.

Follow through.  Finish.  Go all the way.  Going halfway is as much of a failure as never starting.  Commit.

Forgive people.  For the big things and the little things.  And forgive yourself.  Life is too short to keep beating ourselves up over our shortcomings and wrongdoings.  Maybe you don’t want that person in your life anymore, and for good reason.  But forgive them and move on.  If they demonstrate change, give them a chance.

If an action you take makes you feel badly, makes you feel like a bad person, it’s a sign that you need to change your behaviour.  Or, at the very least, acknowledge your bad behaviour.  It’s not a time to start finding excuses or ways to blame the victim of your behaviour.  It’s an indication that you need to take a long, hard look at yourself, and understand that your actions have consequences.

Always try to leave situations and places and people better and stronger than when you found them.  Govern your actions accordingly.

Take care of yourself physically and mentally.  Don’t put off the important work that needs to be done to ensure that you have the energy you need to live the life you want to live.

Don’t be afraid to be alone.  When you’re alone, don’t spend it inside a bubble of unworthiness and self-doubt.  Use the time productively, to engage in activities that you enjoy doing by yourself.  Figure out what these things are and enjoy them to the fullest.  Don’t give into the ridiculous notion that you will somehow be alone forever, because this has never been the case, and will never be the case.  You are not living on a desert island.

Enjoy your life.  There are so many things to enjoy and be thankful for.  Your life is intrinsically privileged and good.  Don’t seek ways to make yourself unhappy because you want to somehow vindicate an idea that “it can’t possibly be this good or last this long”.  Breathe.  Laugh.  Enjoy.

I would never disappoint you, my dear

My dear friend Ray kindly informed me that I’ve been shirking my responsibilities around here (i.e. entertaining him), and so he begged threatened asked me nicely if I would please complete the following questionnaire.

So, without further ado…

When were you happiest?

The first night that I slept in my bed in an actual bedroom (with a door!) in my new condo.  That was about two months ago.

What is your greatest fear?

Waking up and finding myself living in a subdivision somewhere in the north end of Brampton, married to my high school boyfriend, pregnant with my fifth child.  Oh, the HORROR!

What is your earliest memory?

Sitting on the kitchen counter, bawling because I had just caught my finger in my Nana’s spinning wheel.  Or was that an episode of Little House on the Prairie?  No, I think that was me.

Which living person do you most admire?

Stephen Lewis.  When others have given up hope, he continues to fight.  Make a donation.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

My incessant need to over-analyze every situation.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Pessimism.

What was your most embarrassing moment?

There are so many, how could I pick only one?

What is your most treasured possession?

My home.  Everything else could disappear.

What do you most dislike about your appearance?

My forehead.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?

Dead Like Me.  Sheer brilliance.

What is your favourite smell?

Why can’t they make a cologne that smells like baking cookies?

Cat or dog?

Neither.

What is your guiltiest pleasure?

The question implies that there are pleasures that make me feel guilty.  So…nothing. 

What do you owe your parents?

An apology for that time a friend of a friend vomited on the living room carpet.  Other than that, I don’t feel I can be held responsible for the decade when the aliens invaded my body (aka the teenage girly angst years).

To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why?

See question above.  Also to the whiny prat at LaGuardia last week who almost cried when I accidentally took his cab.  Drama, drama, drama.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?

First, someone who can cook, because I’m not doing it.  Possibly Susur Lee (who totally redeemed himself in my books during Top Chef Masters) or Art Smith (because if he’s good enough for Oprah, he’s good enough for me, dammit).   Guests will include…you know, I was going to think up a list of famous people, but I think I’d rather invite all of my fabulous, interesting friends.  I am truly lucky to be surrounded by people who are fascinating and intelligent.

However, my date will be Don Draper.

Keep your hands off him, Sal. He's mine.

What is the worst job you’ve done?

I could say scooping ice cream or sorting specimens at a medical lab, but it was actually practicing law.  At least at the lab, the shit was contained in little jars.

If you could edit your past, what would you change?

I would seriously reconsider the Ziggy Stardust haircut of 2001.

When did you last cry, and why?

About a month ago, because I thought I might have cancer.

What is the closest you’ve come to death?

At a funeral home, next to a dead body, I hope.

What keeps you awake at night?

Sex, duh.  Or indigestion.  Sometimes both.

What song would you like played at your funeral?

“You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Stones, of course.

How would you like to be remembered?

Well, this questionnaire certainly took a sharp turn towards morbidity.

As a highlight in everyone’s life. 

Captivating conversationalist. 

Loyal friend. 

Great lover. 

Fearless writer.

Tireless philanthropist. 

Patron of the arts.

Too much?  I think not.

Mid-year check up

OK, it’s June, people. 

As in, “what the $%^!?, how did it get to be JUNE already?”

Do you remember this, from about six months ago?

“Last year I had vague notions. 

This year, I have goals.“

Cute, eh?

“It will get murky.”

It sure did.  But not in a bad way.  Let’s just say that there have been distractions, both positive and negative. 

“Finances?  Important.  Budget.  Plan.  Monitor.” 

I openly admit that I only pursued this half-heartedly.  While I am no spendthrift, I hate tying myself down to a hard and fast budget.  My poor financial advisor must wonder if he has the cooties.

I will call you, Mike, I promise.  I PROMISE.

“Buy property.  Put down the roots that I’ve been reluctant to nurture.”

At least I can check this one off the list.  I said “farewell” to the Shoebox in April, and I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the best, scariest, awesome-sauciest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.  Well, maybe finishing law school was pretty good, but it didn’t really involve shopping for furniture.

So now I am dealing with mortgages and property taxes and cleaning my own lint trap and all of the other things that in the past, I had let someone else worry about.  And it’s horrible and great and all-consuming and empowering all at the same time.

Yay, me. 

New goal:  Learning proper usage of electric drill in order to avoid having awkward conversations.

Example:

Me:  So, uhhhh…we should get together for a drink or something.

Ex-Boyfriend:  You want me to hang a picture, don’t you?

Me:  No!  Of course not.  Well, maybe just a little.

Ex-Boyfriend:  You’re so predictable.

Me:  [shameful silence]

“Work plans?  Now that I have a career, I should probably have career goals.”

"I'm a Career Girl now!"

I have goals.  These goals may in fact include more education…because three degrees just isn’t enough for one lifetime.  Why are you laughing?

“Re-learn my French?  No, I’d rather learn Hindi.”

Uhhhhh, did I write this? 

“Travel someplace new and exotic.” 

New, yes.  Exotic?  No. (I loved Boston, but I don’t think it counts as “exotic”).

Finish the novel.  This also requires starting the novel.

No, and no.  I haven’t even been writing on this blog, which is sad.   For you, of course.

“Do yoga.” 

No, not yet.  New Goal:  Find yoga studio that doesn’t creep me out.  And also doesn’t make me change in the hallway with two dozen other snotty Lululemon ”yogis” who won’t share the cubbyholes.

Maybe yoga is too stressful for me.

“Work out.” 

Ha ha ha ha ha haaa.  Next item, please.

“Watch less TV.  Go to the theatre more often.”

I’m not sure if I watch less TV, but I have been going to the theatre a lot.  In fact, it’s getting a little addictive.  Next thing you know I’ll be flouncing about in large colourful head scarves and double-kissing and saying things like “DARLING!”

Oh my god, I’m turning into Charles Nelson Reilly.

We all know who was the REAL star on Match Game. Suck it, Richard Dawson.

Uhh, let’s move on.

“Relationships.”

Oh come on, do I really have to answer this one?

You’ve come this far, and you’re on this page after almost months of near-inactivity, so I suppose you deserve to hear the truth.

I’m perfectly content exactly the way that I am.

And before you say “but…” and add your spin and opinion and personal experience into the mix, let me say it again for you:

I’m perfectly content exactly the way that I am.

I spend my time according to my own choices.  I make my own decisions and I am accountable only to myself.  I am capable of a full range of feelings and emotions, and when I feel them, I acknowledge and express and deal with them.  I am sometimes lonely and sad, and other times ecstaticly happy and joyful.  I have deep and meaningful relationships of varying types with many different people, all of whom I love and care about.

This human condition we all share scares us sometimes into thinking that we need to follow another path.  We don’t trust our own instincts.  We trick ourselves into believing that our own contentment will undoubtedly arrive at our doorstep if we order up “what everyone else is having”.  Or what we think everyone else is having.

The dish arrives and we discover that we really hate what everyone else is having.  And then we beat ourselves up for years.

So, my goal for 2010, and forever, is to enjoy the relationships that actually exist in my life, instead of always wondering why my plate doesn’t look like the one that you’re enjoying. 

And I wish the same for every single one of you.

The Fall Will Probably Kill You

When you reach such dizzying heights, there’s only one way to go.

There’s no use in worrying about whether you can swim, because the fall will probably kill you.

On Writing, Redux

char·la·tan

–noun

a person who pretends or claims to have more knowledge or skill than he or she possesses; quack.

—Synonyms
impostor, mountebank, fraud, fake, phony.

***

If you haven’t visited the Young Centre for Performing Arts, you really should go.  It is a beautifully converted space, large enough to make you feel comfortable, but intimate enough to see the expressions on the faces of the actors.  The former home of Tank Houses 9 and 10 of the old Gooderham & Worts Distillery is now home to Mamet and Miller and – last night – Friel.

The three troubled characters who inhabit The Faith Healer tell their stories in long, uninterrupted monologues.  I use the plural form of the word quite deliberately – there is in fact only one story, but told from such different points of view that the audience is left wondering what really happened, and who – if anyone – is telling the truth.

Or maybe they are all telling the truth.

The background notes on the play state that Friel described the play as a “metaphor for the art, the craft of writing”.

“A writer sets out to create a fictional world – a lie – and to fill it with as much truth as she can find in herself and express.  Sometimes, magically, it coalesces and audiences are touched.”*

About a week ago, I explored the work of Spalding Gray, a man who freely admitted that although his stories were based on his own life experiences, these experiences were clearly viewed through his own particular lens, filtered by his own brain, and quite possibly altered over long periods of time. 

Have you ever found yourself wondering if an event really happened in the way that you remember? 

We can go through life feeling certain that we know the characters of other people, that we know ourselves, and find that others have a completely different perspective.  How is it possible to know every side and angle to another complex human being?  We see only what that person chooses to show us and we see only what we want to see.

Perception.  Filter.  Distortion.

Writers go one step further.  We have the audacity, the narcissistic tendency, the burning need…to write it all down.  We are not content with viewing and filing away, we instead choose, in our own charming form of madness, to tell the story.  We challenge the audience by laying ourselves bare and saying “Here is what happened, here is what I think, here is my voice.  Make of it what you will”.

Friel also said that “there is an element of the charlatan…in all creative work”.

Quacks.  Mountebanks.** A person who pretends or claims to have more knowledge or skill than he or she possesses.

Yes, that sounds about right.

***

As a side note, it’s getting a little depressing to continually see only older audiences at the theatre.  Most companies, like the amazing Soulpepper, offer heavily discounted tickets to younger patrons.  So, what are you waiting for?

***

* From the Playbill Background Notes, beautifully written by Soulpepper Associate Artist Paula Wing.

**  A word I am trying desperately to fit into everyday conversation.

The 10 Minute Post

Welcome to another edition of “oh my god, how did this get on my calendar and why are they sending me an email now and when am I ever going to get this all done”.

AKA  The 10 Minute Post.

So, I was sitting in the ”exclusive members” lounge at a hotel in an undisclosed location, minding my own business, eating a bagel and sipping some peppermint tea* when a certain woman entered the lounge to have a cup of coffee.

"Are you finished with your Globe? The one with the picture of me on the front of it?"

OPTION ONE:

“Girlfriend, I just want you to know that Rahim is a dog, and you should totally dump his ass.  I’m sure you didn’t know anything about the cocaine and the busty hookers.  And even if you did…hey, who doesn’t like busty hookers, eh?”

OPTION TWO:

“Have you and Rahim considered producing and starring in your own reality show?  The two of you could travel around the country in a motor home and engage average Canadians in humourous loosely-scripted antics!  You could call it “Rahim and Helena: Get me out of this Hellhole!”

OPTION THREE:

Stare awkwardly.  

In hindsight, I should have pitched the TV show.

***

If that wasn’t satisfying, please enjoy this video of a guy named Phil dancing through the Eaton Centre.  You are my hero, Phil.

*The mussel soup at the conference seemed like a good idea at the time.  Not so much at 2 a.m. when I became intimately acquinted with the exquisite bathroom in my lovely upgraded suite.

And Everything is Going Fine

It occurred to me as I was viewing “And Everything is Going Fine” – a documentary by Steven Soderbergh about his friend Spalding Gray – that Gray may have in fact been the very first blogger.*

The late (great?) Spalding Gray

This is probably not an original thought.  But it was the first time it had occurred to me.

I was not a huge Gray fan, as most of his famous monologues had been delivered while I was still a child.   But in 2004, when he was declared missing and presumed dead, I was intrigued.  Soderbergh thankfully did not venture into this dark territory, although it was hinted at throughout the film. 

Hindsight is always 20/20, but the moments of thoughtful sadness, the shy vulnerability, and the raw fear of slipping into the same suicidal tendencies of his mother were plainly evident behind the witty veil of neurotic humour.

At one point, as Gray described his art as a kind of “reliving” of his life experiences, I found myself almost yelling at the screen.  “That’s not good for you, Spud!  No one should dwell so long on his or her own life.”

“I guess you’re right, it’s good to let things go,” my companion responded when I made this exclamation outside the Bloor Cinema after the film.

But it’s not just about letting things go.  That answer is too simple.

Writing can be cathartic.  It can be a kind of release, a way of spilling forth words and ideas and feelings that cannot stay contained.

As I’ve said in the past, it can also feel as though one is bleeding onto the page.  There is a fine line between the healthy release and the flow of words that once started, cannot be stopped, cannot be staunched, leaving the writer feeling shaky and weak. 

For years, Gray bled his life onto the stage for the audiences.   He was the story, and the story was him.  His life was his source of inspiration, in a blurring of life and art that is likely very familiar to many bloggers (or at least the good ones – you know who you are).   The writer gives a piece of himself to the reader, cuts himself in the process of sharing an intimate, sometimes terrible life experience.  “Look at me,” the writer says.  “I am bleeding.” 

“I have also had that experience,” the reader says.  “I am bleeding, too.  We share these wounds.  We bleed together.”

The moment of connection between writer and the audience is powerful, humbling, sometimes healing, but it takes the toll on the writer who uses himself as a source of material.  In my opinion, it cannot be sustained for any length of time without causing serious damage to the writer.

After Gray’s accident in 2001 left him with terrible neurological trauma, he was unable to tell the story.

“If you knew that you would only degenerate and would never again be able to pursue your life’s passion, would you end it?” I asked my companion. 

That is a question that can’t be answered in the hypothetical.  The answer will only come in the moment of clarity.

***

It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.

Marcel Proust

* There is still time to attend a documentary at the Hot Docs festival in Toronto – running until May 9th.

Random, random, 2010 style

Oh baby, don’t look at me with those big, watery eyes. 

Mama had to take a little break over the holidays, that’s all. 

Here, take this tissue and blow.  That’s better.

If it’s any consolation, I’ve been neglecting my other work, too.  It’s all just sitting on my little bar table, begging to be read and reviewed and highlighted and…whatever it is that I do for a living.

The email’s been piling up too.  And don’t even ask about that book I’m supposed to be reading, lying by the side of my bed.

Now, now, you know that I can’t promise you that I’ll write everyday.  I can only write when the Muse visits, and goodness knows, she is an even more fickle woman than I.

But, I can see by the state of neglect around here that I need to pay you a little more attention.

2008 was the annus horribilis, the year of the flood, the hurricane that swept away life and home, leaving only tattered remnants, scars and bruises.

2009 was a meandering journey on a life-raft, a search for a light in the darkness, glimpses of land without ever reaching the shore, a twelve-month long question mark.

2010 is a new world.  Anything is possible.

Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to send you a postcard on a regular basis.

How is your 2010 so far?  Leave a comment and let me know.