The Mail Order of Loneliness

I was 18 when my grandparents left the only house I had ever known them to live in.

I grew up with visits to this house overlooking the ocean just outside of Vancouver. I can still recall how the bathroom smelled like Old Spice because of the vintage glass bottles that my grandpa kept on the counter, and how the wallpaper was fuzzy in the fashion of the '70s.

I loved visiting my grandparents. It was always the little things that made the visits so special. Like the old red wagon, a survivor of my mother's childhood, or how there would always be a bowl of pickles at lunchtime.

It fell to me to accompany my mother to pack up the house the summer of 2003. I know I wasn't much help and mostly wandered off on long meandering runs in order to avoid some of the heavier grunt work.

On one of the occasions that I deigned to help with sorting through stuff to keep and stuff to chuck we came upon a gigantic stash of mail order goods. And when I say gigantic I mean decades worth of packages, most of them unopened.

At first I didn't understand why grandpa had spent years ordering junk off of the television. And why when he received the order didn't even open the package. Ripping open envelope after envelope I had an unsought history lesson of what was for sale by cheque or mail order in the '80s.

My aunts and uncles said that grandpa had a problem. That the constant ordering was something akin to an addiction. It hits me hard now, nine years later, that my grandpa was simply lonely. That ordering things that he didn't necessarily want meant that something would come in the mail for him. Something to remind him that he still existed.

Maybe I'm editorializing. My grandpa died just over a year ago so I can't ask him. I'm not sure why I never did in the years after I discovered his secret. Perhaps I felt like I was protecting him, perhaps I just didn't care until he was gone and by then it was too late.

I'm thinking about this now because I just blew a bunch of money on clothing on the internet, a more modern but no less lonely version of my grandfather. I just moved to the small town of Cranbrook for a job. A job I love but in a place that feels, at times, extremely isolating.

                                                                ***

At the culmination of each visit my grandparents would stand on the front stoop and wave goodbye until our van slipped out of sight. I've known for years that I'll never have the experience of visiting grandma and grandpa again, but I've never wished so hard that I could send my grandpa a letter.

To let him know that he was never alone.

The problem with Everest

One hundred years ago the summit of Mount Everest was a prize; a prize that was sought after by the world’s greatest mountaineers. Today Mount Everest is a prize that can be bought by anyone for the right price. Listening to the radio today my ears perked up at the mention of the peak, having spent some years of my childhood in Nepal and having trekked up to base camp as a graduation present from my parents three years ago.

A Canadian woman had succumbed to death on Saturday on her descent after summiting. It has been determined that the cause was altitude sickness and exhaustion. Now this is nothing new on Everest. During the 1996 Everest disaster which still to this day has claimed the most lives at one time on Everest Scott Fisher, a renowned climber, told my father that when on the mountain it is not the altitude but your attitude. Fisher died just days later. As a guide I believe he was under terrible pressure to get his clients to the summit and this is just part of the problem that I believe is surrounding the mountain. Clients pay upwards of $40,000 for the chance to say they’ve climbed Everest, meaning that rules are broken to get people to the top, often resulting in death.

What disturbed me the most about this woman’s death was that she trained for the climb by hiking hills around Toronto. Having grown up in British Columbia, and as an experienced alpinist, I wouldn’t even consider that proper training to take on an 11,000 foot peak in the Rockies. Conditions on Everest this weekend were considered “overcrowded,” and this just feels so unacceptable. When I was at base camp I met with climbers who would tell me stories about people who attempt the world’s largest peak without ever having put on cramp-ons before. When did Everest become something that could be bought? Something to be ticked off on hundreds of inexperienced people’s bucket lists? When did the dangers of this mountain become so downplayed? Now Everest while the highest peak in the world is by no means the most dangerous. I believe that prize goes to K2 in Pakistan but does this warrant the peak becoming such a tourist attraction?

Altitude sickness is something that cannot be ignored. Even trekking up to the base camp I monitored my body daily for signs of it. Even at a paltry 18,000 feet the altitude can be deadly. This is where inexperience and pressure lead to fatalities, yet the 200 plus successful summits per year seem to overshadow this problem.

When people hear that I’ve trekked to base camp they either think that I’ve climbed Everest or ask my why I didn’t go all the way. For me it wouldn’t be worth it, and while I will never settle to simply hike around the hills that surround Toronto I will never ever underestimate the dangers that come with mountaineering at 11,000 feet or 29,000. 

Life after J-school

Reasons I wanted to become a journalist (in no particular order):

1. I didn't get into law school.

2. I love to write. I just have no ambition without looming deadlines.

3. Nepal.

Reasons I want to still be a journalist after J-school:

1. It's a part of who I am.

I spent part of my childhood in Nepal. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love that country. But part of my love stems from childhood remembrance. I don't remember the adjustment period, the racial slurs, the language barriers. I just remember being happy. Simple. Pure. Joy.

Moving back from Nepal is still to this day the hardest thing I have ever had to do. And for years after I still felt that the way I mourned for my old life was something of a weakness. Something that could be put behind me. Overcome. And I never did.

I sat through a workshop entitled Journalists & Risks last November. The main discussion focused around post traumatic stress disorder and how journalists who go abroad covering war zones, natural disasters etc. are sometimes prone to it. The impact of some of the things and events they experience impact their lives in ways they couldn't possibly have imagined from a lecture hall in university. Journalists don't always realize that there are steps that can be taken to deal with PTSD because they don't always realize that the jobs they are faced with are affecting them in such a way.

My family left Nepal during the first couple years after the outbreak of the civil war. We returned six months after the murder of the entire royal family, when the conflict was engulfing the country and the evidence was seen in the abandoned villages, in the armed soldiers searching our car, in the gunshots heard after dark in the rural village my father, brother and I spent a night in.

This IS the reason I wanted to become a journalist. Because I, along with the rest of the world, didn't understand the situation and for the most part ignored it. I, like other journalists, didn't realize that I had to address what I had seen and what I had experienced in order to move on. But I didn't. And I'm still here, struggling to keep my head above water. Struggling to know what I want to do and how I am going to do it.

"If you haven't been there, then you can't understand it."

Truth. 

Learning to Fall

My crampons aren't ideal for ice climbing and my dad has already lost an axe, martyred to the ice gods below.

He's at the top of the 2nd pitch on the left side of Gibraltar Falls. We communicate through walkie talkies because I can neither see nor hear him.

I'm looking up the steepest pitch of vertical ice I have ever attempted to climb. The crux. I get my axe into a bomber hold at the top when my feet give way and I fall ten feet down the ice, my knees soon to look like some one took a baseball bat to them.

I fell.

And with my ice axe 10 feet above my head I had no choice but to give up.

I failed.

Having grown up with annual father-daughter trips into the mountains I learned at an early age to never fall. Falling while alpine climbing can have deadly results. So I never did.

My dad taught me to ice climb when I was 18 years old and in all that time I have never given up on a pitch, some of these times it was my dad who wouldn't let me give up. He always told me I could do it, and I always did.

But I would rarely ever fall. Some of the toughest times I have experienced while ice climbing have been to trust the rope. To fall and trust that my dad has me on belay. To clip onto a lousy screw in the ice and just hang back. Sitting on the nothing that only being hundreds of feet in the air can give you.

I am finally learning how to fall.

And although it feels a lot like failing, I count this as one of my most successful days of ice climbing so far.

And one more thing: thanks dad. For everything.

Three Things

It always seems to be what people ask.

If your house was on fire what three things would you grab?

It's easy to answer that question when your house isn't on fire. I've heard camera, laptop, pets, photo albums...stuff that's expensive or not easily replaceable. In the past I've answered photo albums and portfolio which morphed into flash drive as life turned digital.

When I woke up to a smoke filled apartment two weeks ago, I wasn't thinking about what I should grab because I wasn't fully aware of what was going on. I put on pants, grabbed a jacket and scarf and as I was calling 911 I reached into my school bag with the intent to grab my flash drive and came out with my wallet. By this time the operator was telling me to get out of the apartment and the smoke was so thick I couldn't even find my shoes.

Outside flames were exploding out of the kitchen window of the apartment next door. The fire continued to eat up the building and initial feelings of panic collapsed into terror.

Every resident made it out.

Hours later and the fire under control they told us everything was gone. The second floor had collapsed into the first. It was unsafe to enter the gutted, skeletal structure that had once been our home.

Everybody tells you that the most important thing is that you survived. But nobody tells you that survival can feel like drowning, treading water to keep your head just barely above water. That even little decisions like choosing a pair of shoes because you no longer have any can feel overwhelming. That sirens in the middle of the night will wake you up in a cold, terrifying sweat. That the last two weeks have felt like two years.

That fear can be an isolating and lonely place.

(But you survived.)

Peeking in the window of my bedroom later that day as my now former landlord literally looted the place for anything that had made it, a twisted, wet ball of fabric caught my eye. It was a vintage dress that I had only worn once. A memory. Something bright to cling to amidst the wreckage. Something strong to hold onto in a space crowded with doubt.

(I am so grateful and touched by the outpouring of support from the London community and the help and support of my classmates and faculty as well UWO. My heart is so full from their generosity that it is sometimes difficult to find words to express my utmost thanks.)

Remembrance Day

I'll remember the war later

A day to recall.

Closes her eyes, makes a wish.

Please remember me.

The sky is falling

There is a crack in my ceiling. This is no hairline crack. It looks as though a mini earthquake took place above my head and the world was too busy to notice because of the lack of casualties.

It reminds me of when I was a child and I had a hankering for Asterix and Obelisk comics. The Gauls' biggest fear in those books was that the sky was going to fall on their heads, and even a magic potion made by their druid couldn't save them. This crack looks like that. Like the sky is going to fall on my head.

I lay in my bed and I contemplate this crack and what could potentially happen if the sky were to collapse above me. I imagine a bathtub or a couch, maybe a fridge just missing me and how I would spend the rest of my days appreciating life again. Maybe I would even give a few inspirational speeches to university students on how it feels to die. Almost.

I surmise that if the bathtub or assorted pieces of furniture were to fall on me it would probably make the local news, but nothing more because it's just me. One person. In the production of a fifteen minute newscast last week at J-school it became apparent just how jaded I was becoming. I barely even flinched at the fact that the death toll for the Indian earthquake had risen to 100 casualties or that 35 bodies had been dumped on a street in Mexico. All I thought was, that's it?

I still have roof over my head for now, but I've only just realized that the sky has already fallen. It's been falling for years. I just never took the time to notice.

The power of three

I left London Ontario three days ago to attend my brother's wedding in Canmore.

Three days.

Three days and I have already forgotten that I live there yet at the same time I have a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach when I realize I only have three weeks left before I have to go back.

Three weeks ago I wrote the first poem I had written since I started grad school in May.

I last posted in my blog three months ago.

Stephen and Ali, now husband and wife, started dating three years ago.

Last night after cracking a fortune cookie in Windermere my fortune read: Remember this three months from now. Good things are in store for you (in bed).

It had better come true.

Haiku Day! Haiku Day!

Haikus for Distance

The phone sits on her ear

Balancing his poets voice on

The nape of her neck.

Her body listens

Entwined in intonation

Words beget kisses.

He sings her to sleep

Long after he has told her

Goodnight but goodbye.

Moustache Matters

"Khanne mukhlai jangaale chhakdaina"

The literal translation of this Nepali phrase is "a moustache does not prevent a person from eating." Or as we better know it: "where there's a will there's a way."

I love colloquial Nepali having spent five years there as a child. I also love moustaches having dated many hipsters in Vancouver. Welcome to my new favourite phrase.

My dad's Nepali language teacher teaches him a new proverb everyday. In turn my father has taught this to me. Although I have been told "where there's a will there's a way" many, many times during my lifetime it has never quite resonated so much as when I was told it in moustache form. Perhaps I have been hanging out with too many hipsters and it was the moustache reference that got me or, perhaps, I just needed to see the phrase in a new form. Never deny inspiration when it presents itself to you, dressed up in perfect language or not.

I have just moved to London, Ontario and am a few weeks into my journalism program. I left Vancouver and the first man that I have been crazy enough about to not eat or sleep for the past month. He told me before I left that he just couldn't do a long distance relationship and I believed him. That it was him and not me.

In J-school we have been discussing the concept of small "t" truths. Telling the truth. Always tell the truth. This begs the question, however, of what is Truth. Capital "T" Truth. My Truth is this: If someone or something is worth it, go for it. Don't make excuses as to why it couldn't work because yes, it may not work, but what is to be gained from not trying? What is to be taken away from choosing the safe option? What can be achieved from staying clean shaven for a lifetime?

Where there's a will there's a way.

Just make sure there's a will first.

Lesson learned.

They forget. We remember.

My grandpa had a fall. He broke his hip and he is bleeding in three areas of his brain. He will never walk again. He spent the week in the hospital and came home this weekend. My grandma, however, doesn't remember who he is. Next year they will have been married 70 years and when she is told that my grandpa is her husband she claims she isn't married.

How quickly Alzheimer's robs us of our identities: my grandpa is no longer a husband, my mother is no longer a daughter and I am no longer a granddaughter. How slowly this disease has crept into my grandma's brain and taken us away from her; her grandkids were the first to go, her kids followed one by one, but grandpa was always her husband. I always felt she couldn't live without him, that they would follow in the manner of the elderly couple from "The Notebook," dying within minutes of each other.

My father has always told me that having kids has been the greatest accomplishment of his life. I am incredibly flattered by this statement seeing as my dad has done some amazing things and is one of the most intelligent men I know, but I digress. As someone who cannot wait to one day have a loving husband (who will hopefully also take care of me once I am old and claimed by Alzheimers) and children I can't even imagine not knowing them as I gradually fall into old age. We are a part of who she is and we are here because of her.

I have three black and white photographs that were taken of my grandparents just after they were married. In one they sit on the lawn and my grandma is looking at my grandpa and laughing. Although the photo is black and white you can see the sun spilling into the frame; a second hand illumination that captures a moment of pure happiness and love. They are beautiful.

Crying in public places

Here is a list of the public places I cried in yesterday:

1. Front porch

2. Parking lot

3. Restaurant

4. Street

5. Bus stop

6. Restaurant #2

There is something very honest in allowing yourself to cry in a public place. While I was completely mortified at the lack of control I was exercising over my emotions, I also felt, in a shameless, self indulgent kind of way, completely and utterly free. It was as if I was reverting back to a time of childlike innocence when I didn't understand what emotional hurt was. And was surprised by it.

Despite the constant tears streaming from my smudged eyes (I made the mistake of wearing mascara yesterday, one I did not repeat today), I was able to observe the reactions of the people that surrounded me. Most people either stared or pretended not to notice. There were a few dirty looks directed at my friend and a busker wished me a good day from his microphone before he proceeded to lose himself in his violin.

So here is what I am puzzling about. Why is it so taboo for someone to cry in public? Why does this certain display of emotion make us, as a society, so uncomfortable? Why is it considered pathetic and undesirable? As blessed as I am with the life that I lead I still experience periods of unhappiness and instead of hiding what I feel I have decided to whole heartedly embrace this crushing feeling of loss (and consequently share it with one thousand strangers on Granville street). It is what it is.

7. Airport.

Goodbye Vancouver.

Endings becoming beginnings

“How quickly then, how quickly all of this will end…” – David Vertesi

I begin.

For the first time in years I have a computer that runs on battery. I am sitting five thousand feet in the air on my way to Phoenix. As a girl who prefers winter to summer I am still puzzling about how I ended up here. In exactly one week I will be on a different plane heading in the opposite direction to London, Ontario. One week. One week and my life will turn upside down. But this is good. I think. I cannot organize my thoughts or decide what I should be writing about. I do know this: I am doing the right thing. I do not know this: if I am doing the right thing pursuing someone in the spur of the moment.

I was told last night that my ability to live in the moment was inspirational. This floored me seeing as I feel one of my biggest weaknesses is my tendency to dwell too much in the future. I can barely walk down the street without thinking about what is going to happen once I get to my destination, what will be happening twenty minutes from now, what tomorrow will bring, months, years…

The past month has been the most trying of times; to not dwell in what is going to happen in the future. I met someone who makes me feel…complete. His hands feel like home. When we are together I experience absolute happiness. He makes me want to be a better person. But this begs the question, was I silly to let this situation unfold when I was knew I was moving away?

(note: five days elapse between these two paragraphs)

No. I would not wish away the last month of my life for anything in the world. And while my mindset as to what will happen once I leave has changed slightly, I refuse to feel compromised or disappointed. If I can take anything away from dating someone with an expiry date, it is that I cannot underestimate what I have learned in the last month. I am strong enough to say goodbye (not see you later), I am able to make decisions based on what I need and not what someone else needs me to be, and if nothing else I have learned that there are people out there who can make you feel:

Lovely. Beautiful. Joyful. Whole.

I have no desire to pursue any type of romantic relationship while in grad school but I have a feeling I may eat my words in a couple of months from now because if I am anything it is romantic; open to anything despite how much it could potentially hurt. This last month has taught me that it is never beneficial to close your heart to anything the world wants to give you.

Accept. Love. Lose. Heal.

I continue.

Why Worry?

This picture is backwards because I was too lazy to scan it and upload it onto my new computer. The writing is unintelligible anyways because the picture is sixteen years old and was taken on a camera that cost 200 rupees, the equivalent of five dollars at that time.

The camera was a birthday present. It was the first camera I had ever owned. The picture was taken at a trekking lodge in Marpha and I was nine years old.

Sixteen years and many lifetimes ago I came into contact with this "poem" (simply for lack of a better word) for the first time. It is entitled "Why Worry" and the gist of it is, is that we shouldn't worry because even if we get sick and die we will either go to heaven or to hell. Thats right, there are no other options. At least not in this poem. Heaven is not something to worry about and neither is hell because as it is so succinctly put: "you will be so busy shaking hands with old friends that you will have nothing to worry about."

Two days ago I was out and about with a friend on a beautiful sunny evening in Kits. In between arguing about which houses were the best on the block (dead trellis' aside) and gardening tips (yes I know how to spot wild strawberries now) we encountered an old man who had a smile so large it overtook his features. Wrinkles aside this man was as sprightly as a garden gnome who has been invited to Brownies for the first time. Lively as he was, his beef with us young ones was this: that we (young people in general) do not smile enough. After I assured him that this was most definitely not the case with us he proceeded to pull a small piece of printed paper out of his wallet. He commanded me to read it and I did. I couldn't suppress a nostalgic smile when I realized it was the "Why Worry" poem that I had photographed so many years ago.

The elderly man wasn't interested in this nugget of information as he proceeded to reminisce about a time when he had told a couple of teenage girls to smile on a bus in Latvia. For me, however, I was once again transported back to another time and place. Why did I take a picture of that poem? Was it because it made me laugh? Did I understand the significance of the message at the time? Was this encounter simply a coincidence?

After we managed to maneuver our way out of the conversation and were once again along our way, the talk turned from housing to what could we take away from that conversation. Life is full of worry and stressful situations. It is easy to get swept away with concern. My friend informed me that he realized that he needed to let go of some of the worry in his life; live in the moment and enjoy it.

This meeting between the old man and me didn't happen with the twenty five year old me but with the nine year old me, holding my very first camera. The worry free nine year old me. What a feeling! At this pivotal time in my life where I am about to leave behind everything I know and everybody I love it was so important to be reminded of what is valuable in life and that I can't waste a minute wondering what if. I have been so lucky to have found such good friends (old and new) in Vancouver and I now have a whole storage unit full of fantastic memories to carry with me into my new life out East. It's time to let go and embrace every situation with open arms and an open heart because, after all that I have been blessed with in life thus far, why should I worry?

The best game ever played...tribute.

When I was eleven I left the British Primary School (now known as The British School) to attend KISC (Kathmandu International Study Center). I was stoked beyond stoked. As the youngest grade in the school we were also the biggest, a whopping twenty kids. My brother, four years older than me and in the highest grade at KISC, was the only boy in his class along with three other girls. I do not believe he took advantage of the situation but that is another story.

I will always remember this year as one of the best of my childhood because it was the year when I participated in the best game ever played.

When I tell people that my class at KISC went on a week long trek it is usually greeted with buggy eyes and an incredulous exclamation that usually goes something like this: "What? They REALLY let you go off with your teachers for a whole week?" I wouldn't have thought that was weird until I moved back to Canada and field trips consisted of a trip to the pulp mill for the day (insert sarcastic thumbs up here). But yes, our class trip was the week long Gorkha trek. A historical area of Nepal where kings conquered and were conquered subsequently, but also a place where twenty boisterous youth had the time of their lives.

Day six outside of the village of Chiplote we discovered that the sloping hillside next to where we had set up camp is a natural maze of bushes. Awesome? Yes. Even better: the natural tunnels and hollowed out holes that just screamed "PLAY IN ME!" 25 year old me cannot remember the rules of the game excepting that there were two teams: the chasers and the chase-es. While struggling to recall the details of the game I am reminded of the Tenacious D song, "The Greatest Song in the world."

"This is not the greatest song in the world, this is just a tribute...couldn't remember the greatest song in the world..."

So this is what this blog post is all about. A tribute to the greatest game ever played. A tribute to the scrambling through dirt and bush, avoiding pursuit at all costs. Diving into holes, tearing our clothes on brambles, adrenaline pumping through our bony, pre-adolescent bodies. Hearts pounding holes through our skin, not yet realizing you can never go back to a time when you were truly happy (sorry Wordsworth). This is a tribute to the times before television, video games and ipods, when kids still played outside and invented their own games. A tribute to the times before kids demanded to be entertained.

Six years later I happened to end up a boarding school with my childhood crush from Nepal (I wasn't allowed to date him back then and didn't want to when we became re-acquainted but that is, once again, another story). One of the first things we reminisced about was that game. I was heading back to Nepal in a few months and all we could talk about was how epic that game was and how it could never ever be re-created. Eight years after that conversation here I am remembering it still. One thing for sure is that I will always look back at that time in my life and never doubt how good I had it, and never fail to miss it.

She was a smart girl. Until she fell in love.

Last night I was jolted out of my zzz's by the sound of chairs being thrown down the stairs. How did I know that it was chairs and not say a table or body (though I would not have been surprised by either)? The throw down was followed by my neighbour shouting "I fucking hate these chairs in my hallway!" The subsequent crash was followed by much banging on the other neighbours' door and the shouting that ensued should not be repeated due to its graphic nature. All of this happened at a lovely 2am. Luckily for me I was not on my usual 6am wake up call but I still lay awake in bed for an hour gripped with fear and anger about the following things:

1. Crackheads banging on my door (anger).
2. Crackheads breaking down my door (fear).
3. Crackheads arguing in the middle of the night (anger).
4. Crackheads in general (fear).

I grew up in Cranbrook, BC so I should be used to crackheads by now but the reason I fled Cranbrook the second I graduated from high school was to get as far away as I could from that scene. Thanks to Facebook I cannot escape the reality of my upbringing and get to experience a new type of fear: well known drug addicts reproducing [children]. Bring on the next generation.

But I digress. This is not the first time that I have been woken up by my conscientious and caring neighbours, who, interestingly enough, I have never seen or met before. They generally like to save their episodes for the middle of the night, the later the better. He usually storms off and she shouts after him "You are coming home right? RIGHT? ANSWER ME! ARE YOU COMING HOME?" I could almost feel sorry for her if she wasn't continually interrupting my drama free sleep. After he has made his way out of the house, making as much noise as possible, she proceeds to moan and cry and rock in place (the last one I do not know for sure but this is what I would imagine to be happening).

I realize I may sound cruel and callous but it is a well known fact that these people are hard core drug users. They are clearly both stuck in some kind of horrific,destructive and circular relationship that makes them dependent on the other so neither can ever leave. Hey, there may even be love involved. We always hurt the ones we love the most right? I know first hand how intense love can be and when combined with something as harmful as substance abuse I would have said, back in the day, that I couldn't even imagine what kind of life that must be. Now I am experiencing it first hand and it is not pretty.

I gave my notice today and will be moving out in a month.

If God were to blog

My father and I have been exchanging emails for a few weeks about how God doesn't directly communicate with us because a genuine connection is hard to achieve and words are so difficult to infuse with real meaning..."if that were not so, even God might have a blog!"

Some days I wish that God did have a blog. Imagine if we could gain access to God's innermost thoughts and concerns! Perhaps this is just wishful thinking, however, that God would blog about his feelings. Maybe his blog would consist of healthy living tips or of amazing photographs...each one accompanied with a proud "Yeah, I made that. Lets see anyone else try to do better."

I believe in God. I have believed in God since I can remember. I grew up in a Christian household and went to church every Sunday. It was only in my late teens that I started to doubt my religion. I never doubted God I just doubted the fact that I called myself a Christian. I have never had that "a-ha!" moment that Christians tend to have with God. A time when they felt him so close and so dear that they decided to dedicate their lives to him. As a camp counselor in high school for a Christian camp I had to give my testimony on a yearly basis, on why I was a Christian. I can't even recall now what I said. I felt that the camp experience should be about showing those kids love and showing them that good can exist in the world rather than just forcing them to learn a handful of bible verses.

The abuses of the church and the hypocritical nature of some of the Christian institutions that I have attended and the behaviour of some (not all) Christians towards me have forced me to think long and hard about how I label myself. I would never call myself a non-believer but I certainly hesistate to call myself a Christian. I do not expect perfection from myself or anybody for that matter as I believe, as humans, that we are frail and fallible creatures. Some of the best people (my parents, my siblings) I know are Christians and have set such an amazing example of how to live one's life to the fullest and I have nothing but respect and love for them. Simply put I am just choosing a different path.

I have always questioned what I would believe had I been given the choice; if I had grown up in a secular home and as a twenty-something was confronted with Christianity or simply the idea of belief in a god. In university I sought out electives that would educate my one track Christian mindset about alternate religions. I immersed myself in the teachings of Buddha, scratched the surface of Hinduism, Jainism, Confucianism, bought books on Zen Buddhism, read Sufi poetry, analyzed the differences between Christianity and Judaism...I could go on and on. It all came back to what I was raised to believe, that there is a God and what all religions have in common is that they believe in God and believe in living a life that is good. A common goal, a common people.

I strive to live a life that is good but I am still trying to figure it out and I believe that it will take a lifetime. In the meantime I will hold out hope for a blog with some answers!

Oh. So. Romantic.

"I'm a romantic; a sentimental person thinks things will last, a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Unfortunately romantics still feel. But better to hurt than to feel nothing at all, right? Right?

Afterthoughts.

You see. My love. My lover. I love you the same way that you love me. Sexual feasting of the body. I writhe. My fingers. Into your. Liver. Entwined. Intestine. Quivers-

Sway like. Wheat. Gyrate. My hips. And thrust. Into your. Canvas. Moan and. Lick and. Twist and fail. To mention-

I love you. I love you . My love. Just. Not. Enough.

Love (or lack thereof) Poems

“In a perfect perfect world you could fuck people without ever giving them a piece of your heart. Every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of your heart you’ll never see again.” –Neil Gaiman, Bitter Grounds.

The Poetics of Desire...

Of course like all real life love stories the issue isn’t love or lack thereof. It’s about how one behaves in the confines of a relationship that really makes or breaks the couple. Time lays heavy on those with heavier hearts. Slog through each day and search for the light at the end of tunnel that I am told exists. I want to believe that it exists. Don’t fight, don’t scream expletives at the top of my lungs, choke back tears that steam in October air because in the end they are wasted. Don’t say it—I love you—I love you. I said don’t say it. Empty words like empty air explode like firecrackers on Halloween night. The unresponse like rain but colder.

I’m not built like a computer on command. I can’t press exit, there is no delete button, no return to previous screen. If only I could re-wire my hard drive. Become more like him. Then I would still feel it. Then he would still feel it. It’s all about you—it’s all about you. Next time can we make it about me? Press command button relax. It’s there. Search harder. Search deeper. It will all be okay in the morning. But what if it isn’t?

Dear Future Lover

Dear future lover:

Please forgive me
for the mistakes I will make
while trying to get you
to love me.


Bonsai - (Haiku series)

A bonsai, Chloe.
I gave her to my boyfriend.
A housewarming gift.

His house was too cold
for Chloe to survive in
so she lives at mine.

Bonsai should bring luck.
The longer she lived with me
the less that he called.

He left me last month.
My life changed, hers stayed the same.
What luck Chloe has.

It's kind of random but YES!

The week in review: Christy Clark became the new Liberal leader much to my chagrin. However, this piece of depressing political news was offset by my acceptance to grad school not only by UBC but UWO also. The news of my acceptance was followed by fifteen minutes of jumping up and down whilst screaming unintelligible words at the top my lungs which led to a friend on the phone asking how many people were with me in my apartment at the time. It was just me.

Not wanting to get my hopes up I figured I wouldn't get into the Masters of Journalism programs that I had applied to because of the extreme competitive nature of the schools and my lack of experience. But now, faced with two acceptances, I have to decide where I should go to school and yes I am losing sleep over the decision. A friend advised me to follow my heart. Solid advice except I no longer trust my heart. I have spent my life following my heart. My heart has led me to move to Abbotsford and that should have been warning enough. Sparing the gritty details of the last eight years of my life I have spent the last year with my walls and guard up. From one extreme to other. If I am honest with myself though I miss letting go and letting myself feel without fear of consequence. I miss the excitement of not knowing but of falling into my decisions head first without looking back. For the first time in my life I am making this decision based on myself alone without letting extraneous factors affect my head. Or my heart. I am letting go. I am saying goodbye. I will be moving across the country in less than two months, (hello UWO!) and I am utterly terrified of leaving everything and everyone I know behind. I am also more excited and feel more alive than I have in. A. Long. Time.

Some found poetry. For my [scant] following! The first two are from articles in a New Yorker mag (date or month I cannot recall)

Domestics

A Wife.
Absurd person singular
With three kitchens,
shoutin'
he da mythic man
low class geechy concedes
progressive bravado.
Sizzle in daft potency and
penetration.

Wife
Eloquent, iconic,
white society stick figure.
Flinging hodgepodge
racism.
No understanding except of
notional, prefab kitchen.

The Wife.
Theatrically satisfying.
A placebo.
An ass.


Relationships

Honour.
Sex.
Use me in church
while maids co-habit with men.

God danced dizzying
and said
take your time single sister.

Don't love half heartedly
and lose me baby.

Champagne?

Hell no.

On a broken down bus in Clinton, BC

Use spring as your alibi
don't fall prey
to sparkling caribou

leaving gold nuggets
on the gold trail
for self service.

Make your way to the blue barn
in this shady bus.

Become a used bookworm
or, perhaps, sales merchant.
Just don't look at the catalogue first.

Revel in this flea market
that was once an amber emporium.