Aries
April 4th, 1968
Born a few hours after Martin Luther King Jr. was shot.
Perhaps I'm a special baby.
it's coming up soon, and time to do some spring cleaning. Letting go of things that no longer fit me anymore. Tidying up unhealthy relationships. Making way for sunshine and new blooms in my life.
It's been a long journey. It continues to be a rough and tumble one, that's for sure. But hopefully, by the grace of God, this new segment will be a clear path to purpose and fulfillment....
back soon.
Promise, this time...
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Not Yet Home
This is a blog that i started documenting our apartment hunting, and the stories about them.
Kind of a Law and Order about searching for a place to live after being kicked out of our home.
it's a work in progress and eventually will be turned into a book, and hopefully, an exposition.
have a looksee here...
Kind of a Law and Order about searching for a place to live after being kicked out of our home.
it's a work in progress and eventually will be turned into a book, and hopefully, an exposition.
have a looksee here...
Monday, September 12, 2011
She was young. Younger than i was for sure.
Kind looking, quiet, responsible.
The type of person I would like to oversee my mental health care.
The doctor will see you in a bit. I'm just getting settled - first day and all...
The Allan Memorial - an old turn of the century mansion that was transformed in the 1950's to become Canada's leading psychiatric hospital.
Project MK Ultra was conceived and carried out here. Despite it's old world eclectic charm, and the fact that it does not look like a hospital, only the ghosts of tormented minds and their terrifying secrets haunt the hallways.
I wait and scour the library - journals on pharmapsychology, lots of books by Jung, on topics such as behavioral therapy, addiction, mixed in with volumes of textbooks on the deep tentacles of mental illness and its many faces. Fascinating and terrifying...
There is a book on the table, thin white pages, the kind that are almost transparent. Similar to a bible, this is a sacred text of another sort. Complicated details behind the mystery of sleep, a look into the brain of a somnambulist, replete with medications that have over 20 letters and black and white etched drawings of EEGs with interesting wave patterns.
Sleep.
What I would not do to have enough of that...
Last night, i was hounded by images of 911: the twin towers crumbling like dead rose petals from the sky, people leaping to their death, tears.
So many tears.
Survivor guilt. Deep seated paranoia. Death. Like a tidal wave, these thoughts picked up momentum and pieces of my fragmented psyche until i was staring at an illuminated 5am notice. 2 more hours until i was supposed to get up. 4 more until I was to meet the doctor that would be the one to "refer" me to the next level of a medicated bipolar haze.
Come on in and have a seat.
The room was white, stark yet the antique charm of the old mansion welcomed me. I began to relax.
I'm going to take some notes while we talk, is that okay with you?
You better get out an extra pen, you'll run out of ink before I get to my medical history in my 20's...
Standard questions: what medication are you on now, how are you feeling? Side effects?
Then they gradually became more detailed: can you tell me when this all started? How old were you? What kind of medications have you been on? Have you ever heard voices? Seen things that were not there? Thoughts or actual suicide attempts in the past? Any family history of mental illness?
I started with the side effects.
The list was long and detailed. Every one that came into my mind and out of my mouth seemed surreal, silly, incidental in the grand scheme of things. In the light of what happened 10 years ago yesterday. 9/11 = 911.
Weight gain, foggy mental state, body aches, restless sleep, and apathy. I think apathy has to be the biggest and most troublesome one.
Can you explain?
How can you explain apathy when you are yourself, apathetic? Why should I care? Why do you care? Who cares?
Continuing seemed pointless, but i pushed through, rambling off the litany of adjectives and adverbs that had become the lexicon of my state of mind over the past year.
Can you please explain?
My mind flashed back to the lonely narrative in my film. "Sleep was my escape, and I did that often. Getting up in the morning and having to face the day was an awful thought..."
How far did I actually come from those paralyzing moments? Full circle. 20 years later, it is all a revival of painful memories that I'm living on a different level. More aware, but none the more cured.
Going back to those memories was difficult. There were several instances when I stopped, took a breath and brought myself back to the whiteness of the room because for an instant, i was walking downtown alone in a snow storm, hoping that I would spontaneously disappear because my brain was stretching the limit of how I saw reality and life around me. My head hurt. My eyes hurt. My soul ached and there was nothing I could do about it. Wandering around the medical system in a waiting game limbo took its toll on me, but this time, was coming in for a crash landing.
And here i am again, barely making it, stable, but scraping the bottom of a shallow existence of a dead end decade, treading water, barely afloat in an ocean of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.
I've tried almost everything. I was once on 3 anti-depressants and 3 mood stabilizers all at once. Nothing works anymore. Now I fear that no chemical soup will be able to cure me.
There was a slight hint of pleading in my voice, hoping that this young resident, fresh out of medical school, still carrying a backpack, not yet jaded by hospital bureaucracy and suffering burnout would be able to understand, sympathize.
An hour had passed along with the 200 questions about my mental state, family history, recollections of manic and depressive episodes past, the extent of my extended vocabulary/lexicon of anti-psychotic/anti-seizure medications. I watched as she furiously scribbled notes, picking out key phrases, antidotes, flags, perhaps the relics of what was once a sane human being.
I will review your case with the doctor and will be with you shortly.
And shortly it was.
Abruptly so that i wondered if the doctor had even taken the time to let the intern finish the story of my life as I am barely living it now.
Middle aged man, thinning straight dark hair, pasty white complexion, antique white, like the walls of his office. Hello, I'm Dr.M, please have a seat.
Nice to meet you, as I had imagined me sticking out my hand to shake his, but instead, grabbed my purse and held it close to my chest. Protective pleather armor to shield me from his adroit diagnosis.
I knew it was coming. His matter of fact textbook look, shuffling of papers - the preamble to a "well, this is what it is and that is all we can do..."
After reviewing your file, I have to say that perhaps anti-depressants are not for you. In several case studies, we have found that these can actually trigger mania in patients that are bipolar, so i think we should start you on a course of Lamictal with some Abilify."
pause
I'm sure you've seen the commercials
yea - the ones with the litany of side effects that rival the ingredients of a david lynch film
well, most patients tolerate this drug relatively well, and in a small case, only 7% complain about weight gain...
my big thing was feeling flat and weight gain. Two situations that would push me deeper into a dark hole of despair if they were thrust on me knowingly.
but that's 93% of people who don't experience weight gain...
yea, sunny side of the street, glass half full instead of half empty. Hate to tell you this dude, but i am the side effects queen. After having worked in photo labs for years, soaking my fingers in stop bath and other delighful acid washes, my immune system had now morphed into it's own bipolar monster. Like mother, like daughter. My inner was a reflection of my outer self.
and then we'll put you up to 150mg of lamictal, perhaps even higher to a 'therapeutic dose", up to 800mg.
I began to sputter. My mind working faster than my mouth could open and shut: "but that is the medication that is making me feel flat! At 150mg, i felt like a zombie!"
Well, perhaps that was something else making you feel that way. I would like to see you only on lamicatal with some abilify. No more anti-depressants. Primarily mood stabilizers/anti psychotics.
Clutching my pleather shield, i flashed back to the days on lithium. Bloated, 30 pounds overweight and experiencing a deep brain freeze that left me barely able to speak. Sure, i was stable, but at what cost?
and then it hit me: Had I been born 50 years ago, i might have been on the operating table, prime candidate for a lobotomy.
Terrifying.
50 years ago, hospitalized, hopeless and helpless, I imagined myself diving into the abyss of a certain metaphysical death. Circumstances beyond my control; the desperate ranting of other lost souls echoing over mine. I would have no choice in the matter. My fate would be decided for me.
The now famous photo of "The falling man", gracefully plunging head first to his demise while the twin towers behind him burned.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. What is the lesser of the two evils?
Mood stabilizers are the modern day lobotomy without the mess. For all I know, the chemical composition of my ransacked neural connections thanks to these drugs might soon resemble a plate of watery scrambled eggs. Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty.
And we will push to have you seen at the mood disorders clinic, that way, we can follow you closely was we make the switch. Your case history is too complicated to be seen as a regular out patient. We will try to fast track you back into the system.
Swallow a pill, make it all go away. Now you're quiet. Good. Stay like that...
I feigned relief and thankfulness.
In and out in less than 10 minutes.
I threw a look over to the new intern, a non verbal: "you gotta help me here! I know there are options! Didn't anybody hear my concerns about the side effects? Did anybody hear what I said about "feeling flat was the same as feeling dead inside?!"
She looked at me, with hands figurative tied, shook mine and whispered: "good luck".
And so it begins again.
Back to where I started 20+ years ago.
What I thought I had left behind has come back to haunt.
Those ghosts of my inner demons always so present, now resurrected and revisited.
Clair Obscure - a visual autobiography from Kathy Slamen on Vimeo.
Kind looking, quiet, responsible.
The type of person I would like to oversee my mental health care.
The doctor will see you in a bit. I'm just getting settled - first day and all...
The Allan Memorial - an old turn of the century mansion that was transformed in the 1950's to become Canada's leading psychiatric hospital.
Project MK Ultra was conceived and carried out here. Despite it's old world eclectic charm, and the fact that it does not look like a hospital, only the ghosts of tormented minds and their terrifying secrets haunt the hallways.
I wait and scour the library - journals on pharmapsychology, lots of books by Jung, on topics such as behavioral therapy, addiction, mixed in with volumes of textbooks on the deep tentacles of mental illness and its many faces. Fascinating and terrifying...
There is a book on the table, thin white pages, the kind that are almost transparent. Similar to a bible, this is a sacred text of another sort. Complicated details behind the mystery of sleep, a look into the brain of a somnambulist, replete with medications that have over 20 letters and black and white etched drawings of EEGs with interesting wave patterns.
Sleep.
What I would not do to have enough of that...
Last night, i was hounded by images of 911: the twin towers crumbling like dead rose petals from the sky, people leaping to their death, tears.
So many tears.
Survivor guilt. Deep seated paranoia. Death. Like a tidal wave, these thoughts picked up momentum and pieces of my fragmented psyche until i was staring at an illuminated 5am notice. 2 more hours until i was supposed to get up. 4 more until I was to meet the doctor that would be the one to "refer" me to the next level of a medicated bipolar haze.
Come on in and have a seat.
The room was white, stark yet the antique charm of the old mansion welcomed me. I began to relax.
I'm going to take some notes while we talk, is that okay with you?
You better get out an extra pen, you'll run out of ink before I get to my medical history in my 20's...
Standard questions: what medication are you on now, how are you feeling? Side effects?
Then they gradually became more detailed: can you tell me when this all started? How old were you? What kind of medications have you been on? Have you ever heard voices? Seen things that were not there? Thoughts or actual suicide attempts in the past? Any family history of mental illness?
I started with the side effects.
The list was long and detailed. Every one that came into my mind and out of my mouth seemed surreal, silly, incidental in the grand scheme of things. In the light of what happened 10 years ago yesterday. 9/11 = 911.
Weight gain, foggy mental state, body aches, restless sleep, and apathy. I think apathy has to be the biggest and most troublesome one.
Can you explain?
How can you explain apathy when you are yourself, apathetic? Why should I care? Why do you care? Who cares?
Continuing seemed pointless, but i pushed through, rambling off the litany of adjectives and adverbs that had become the lexicon of my state of mind over the past year.
Can you please explain?
My mind flashed back to the lonely narrative in my film. "Sleep was my escape, and I did that often. Getting up in the morning and having to face the day was an awful thought..."
How far did I actually come from those paralyzing moments? Full circle. 20 years later, it is all a revival of painful memories that I'm living on a different level. More aware, but none the more cured.
Going back to those memories was difficult. There were several instances when I stopped, took a breath and brought myself back to the whiteness of the room because for an instant, i was walking downtown alone in a snow storm, hoping that I would spontaneously disappear because my brain was stretching the limit of how I saw reality and life around me. My head hurt. My eyes hurt. My soul ached and there was nothing I could do about it. Wandering around the medical system in a waiting game limbo took its toll on me, but this time, was coming in for a crash landing.
And here i am again, barely making it, stable, but scraping the bottom of a shallow existence of a dead end decade, treading water, barely afloat in an ocean of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors.
I've tried almost everything. I was once on 3 anti-depressants and 3 mood stabilizers all at once. Nothing works anymore. Now I fear that no chemical soup will be able to cure me.
There was a slight hint of pleading in my voice, hoping that this young resident, fresh out of medical school, still carrying a backpack, not yet jaded by hospital bureaucracy and suffering burnout would be able to understand, sympathize.
An hour had passed along with the 200 questions about my mental state, family history, recollections of manic and depressive episodes past, the extent of my extended vocabulary/lexicon of anti-psychotic/anti-seizure medications. I watched as she furiously scribbled notes, picking out key phrases, antidotes, flags, perhaps the relics of what was once a sane human being.
I will review your case with the doctor and will be with you shortly.
And shortly it was.
Abruptly so that i wondered if the doctor had even taken the time to let the intern finish the story of my life as I am barely living it now.
Middle aged man, thinning straight dark hair, pasty white complexion, antique white, like the walls of his office. Hello, I'm Dr.M, please have a seat.
Nice to meet you, as I had imagined me sticking out my hand to shake his, but instead, grabbed my purse and held it close to my chest. Protective pleather armor to shield me from his adroit diagnosis.
I knew it was coming. His matter of fact textbook look, shuffling of papers - the preamble to a "well, this is what it is and that is all we can do..."
After reviewing your file, I have to say that perhaps anti-depressants are not for you. In several case studies, we have found that these can actually trigger mania in patients that are bipolar, so i think we should start you on a course of Lamictal with some Abilify."
pause
I'm sure you've seen the commercials
yea - the ones with the litany of side effects that rival the ingredients of a david lynch film
well, most patients tolerate this drug relatively well, and in a small case, only 7% complain about weight gain...
my big thing was feeling flat and weight gain. Two situations that would push me deeper into a dark hole of despair if they were thrust on me knowingly.
but that's 93% of people who don't experience weight gain...
yea, sunny side of the street, glass half full instead of half empty. Hate to tell you this dude, but i am the side effects queen. After having worked in photo labs for years, soaking my fingers in stop bath and other delighful acid washes, my immune system had now morphed into it's own bipolar monster. Like mother, like daughter. My inner was a reflection of my outer self.
and then we'll put you up to 150mg of lamictal, perhaps even higher to a 'therapeutic dose", up to 800mg.
I began to sputter. My mind working faster than my mouth could open and shut: "but that is the medication that is making me feel flat! At 150mg, i felt like a zombie!"
Well, perhaps that was something else making you feel that way. I would like to see you only on lamicatal with some abilify. No more anti-depressants. Primarily mood stabilizers/anti psychotics.
Clutching my pleather shield, i flashed back to the days on lithium. Bloated, 30 pounds overweight and experiencing a deep brain freeze that left me barely able to speak. Sure, i was stable, but at what cost?
and then it hit me: Had I been born 50 years ago, i might have been on the operating table, prime candidate for a lobotomy.
Terrifying.
50 years ago, hospitalized, hopeless and helpless, I imagined myself diving into the abyss of a certain metaphysical death. Circumstances beyond my control; the desperate ranting of other lost souls echoing over mine. I would have no choice in the matter. My fate would be decided for me.
The now famous photo of "The falling man", gracefully plunging head first to his demise while the twin towers behind him burned.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. What is the lesser of the two evils?
Mood stabilizers are the modern day lobotomy without the mess. For all I know, the chemical composition of my ransacked neural connections thanks to these drugs might soon resemble a plate of watery scrambled eggs. Either way, it wasn't going to be pretty.
And we will push to have you seen at the mood disorders clinic, that way, we can follow you closely was we make the switch. Your case history is too complicated to be seen as a regular out patient. We will try to fast track you back into the system.
Swallow a pill, make it all go away. Now you're quiet. Good. Stay like that...
I feigned relief and thankfulness.
In and out in less than 10 minutes.
I threw a look over to the new intern, a non verbal: "you gotta help me here! I know there are options! Didn't anybody hear my concerns about the side effects? Did anybody hear what I said about "feeling flat was the same as feeling dead inside?!"
She looked at me, with hands figurative tied, shook mine and whispered: "good luck".
And so it begins again.
Back to where I started 20+ years ago.
What I thought I had left behind has come back to haunt.
Those ghosts of my inner demons always so present, now resurrected and revisited.
Clair Obscure - a visual autobiography from Kathy Slamen on Vimeo.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
wow - what a long time!
Geeze, where did the time go?
I can tell you - into a supermassive black hole called apartment hunting.
Still nothing, and the stress/tension is mounting.
It has taken over my life and my body, mind and soul.
I'm hoping to visit here in a little while, but in the meantime, I'm twittering.
Short bursts of brilliance.
Very zen and bitchy at the same time.
hasta luego!
I can tell you - into a supermassive black hole called apartment hunting.
Still nothing, and the stress/tension is mounting.
It has taken over my life and my body, mind and soul.
I'm hoping to visit here in a little while, but in the meantime, I'm twittering.
Short bursts of brilliance.
Very zen and bitchy at the same time.
hasta luego!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
a letter to a friend - from one filmmaker to another...
A letter to a friend - he screening of her short film was a huge success last night, but she shared with me her feelings of "not having something that was i thought "good enough" - and that she is ever so aware of how being 'hard on herself' can be a 'not such a good thing..."
my response...
Oh, I all too well know the feeling/state of mind of being "hard on oneself". I feel that it might be the key as to why I'm so "stuck" lately.
Sure, setting impossibly high standards for myself has allowed me to push through some times of being "sluggish and sitting on my ass/lazy" periods in my life, when being my own drill sergeant was a necessary evil to get things done, but for the most part, when I'm feeling vulnerable and very self conscious about who i am, where I'm going and who i am becoming/what i'm doing, mental self flagellation in the name of "progress" can lead to emotional/psychological welts that are long lasting. The scars being a more detrimental result than the idea behind the punishment...
the saying is true - we are our own worst enemy, and I could totally identify with your pre-screening jitters last night - wanting to make sure everything was perfect, wondering if there was not something "more that could have not been done" to the final product.... it's so hard to let go of knowing that when "a film is 'in the can'", little can be changed at that point, and the moment of letting go can be a bittersweet experience.
When i screened my student film for the first time to 500 people, i was so freaked out that i was sure projectile vomit was inevitable, i took a breath, congratulated myself on months of hard work, and allowed myself and the film to finally 'breathe'.
Take the time to bask in the afterglow of the exhale - yesterday was a huge success, and as a filmmaker myself, i could see that every ounce of hours of sweat, anger, frustration and horror, happiness, excitement and love for your project that you experienced was worth it. At least it was for me :-) Thank you for sharing your cinematic/animation baby !!
my response...
Oh, I all too well know the feeling/state of mind of being "hard on oneself". I feel that it might be the key as to why I'm so "stuck" lately.
Sure, setting impossibly high standards for myself has allowed me to push through some times of being "sluggish and sitting on my ass/lazy" periods in my life, when being my own drill sergeant was a necessary evil to get things done, but for the most part, when I'm feeling vulnerable and very self conscious about who i am, where I'm going and who i am becoming/what i'm doing, mental self flagellation in the name of "progress" can lead to emotional/psychological welts that are long lasting. The scars being a more detrimental result than the idea behind the punishment...
the saying is true - we are our own worst enemy, and I could totally identify with your pre-screening jitters last night - wanting to make sure everything was perfect, wondering if there was not something "more that could have not been done" to the final product.... it's so hard to let go of knowing that when "a film is 'in the can'", little can be changed at that point, and the moment of letting go can be a bittersweet experience.
When i screened my student film for the first time to 500 people, i was so freaked out that i was sure projectile vomit was inevitable, i took a breath, congratulated myself on months of hard work, and allowed myself and the film to finally 'breathe'.
Take the time to bask in the afterglow of the exhale - yesterday was a huge success, and as a filmmaker myself, i could see that every ounce of hours of sweat, anger, frustration and horror, happiness, excitement and love for your project that you experienced was worth it. At least it was for me :-) Thank you for sharing your cinematic/animation baby !!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Phenomenal!
This just blows my mind out of the water.
This director is simply the most visually stimulating creative visionary I have seen in decades.
I am awestruck, and you should be as well...
This director is simply the most visually stimulating creative visionary I have seen in decades.
I am awestruck, and you should be as well...
Saturday, November 20, 2010
when it rains, the sky opens up and pours battery acid from the heavens...
WTF?
Along with all the crap today (5 apartments, either beautiful and out of reach price wise or affordable but bona-fide shit holes), i got an email from a dear friend. One of her parents has a brain tumor.
With age, they had become not well, and many had feared the worst from their other ailments compounded, but not this.
And i feel helpless as she is on the other side of the ocean.
If I only had even two pennies to rub together, i would be there in a split second.
Time to glue on some fake feathers and make some wings.
Life is getting overwhelming no matter where we are...
Along with all the crap today (5 apartments, either beautiful and out of reach price wise or affordable but bona-fide shit holes), i got an email from a dear friend. One of her parents has a brain tumor.
With age, they had become not well, and many had feared the worst from their other ailments compounded, but not this.
And i feel helpless as she is on the other side of the ocean.
If I only had even two pennies to rub together, i would be there in a split second.
Time to glue on some fake feathers and make some wings.
Life is getting overwhelming no matter where we are...
Thursday, November 18, 2010
home, not so sweet home...
Nothing can shake anybody more to the core than losing a home. A place to live, sleep, find comfort, feel safe. Without all those things, every day living seems a little less bearable.
This past Tuesday, E and I found out that we are basically being kicked out of our apartment. The landlords have decided to re-appropriate our apartment and make it their own. They own just under half a dozen properties/apartment blocks. That's more than a dozen units. Why they singled us out is, upon speculation and processes of elimination of various facts/factors is that we have been at our place for the past 10 years. Our rent is cheaper compared to the other units. They "move in" for a few months, make some half assed repairs and then re-rent it for almost double what we are paying for it.
We were served the papers by a bailiff on Monday night. A day after my huge meltdown chez mom. Fatigue, chronic pain, the inability to live a normal life due to this pain, and the onset of winter (the horrible in between stages of grey/lifeless landscapes and pretty snow covered wonderland) all began to erode away my spirit. This was the straw that broke my back.
I almost went into shock.
Why?
Why now?
We had been battling noisy downstairs neighbors for some time. Four teenagers from France - pompous, arrogant, and selfish, they run around the place at all hours of the night. Basically treating the apartment like a dormitory. We had to call the cops twice. Parties almost every night. They have quieted down, but just enough so we can't call the cops because four teenagers sitting around a kitchen table laughing their asses off at 3am doesn't warrant police intervention.
E is miserable. His company have come to a screeching halt and he worries about the future of his position. I do too. And it shows. We both look beaten down and weary. The love is there, but with weary hearts and minds, our patience is almost nil. We are supposed to be on the same page, but the tension is tearing our souls down. Exhaustion is an understatement
We are going to fight this eviction. The grounds for them giving us the boot is "well, you're place was the cheapest and we need a place to live". Bastards. Just last week, they gave us the pablum of song and dances, telling us they were going to break the lease of the kids below us because we weren't the only ones who complained about the noise and that they were to be served papers on Monday. But joke was on us. We were the ones who got the papers.
Stupid fucken bastards.
Be careful whom you trust from France.
Of the dozen or so people I have met from that country, only one was sincere and nice, and not the backstabbing, arrogant, snide, and sneaky frenchmen I knew. And this man was the exception to the rule for the only reason I believe to be was that he was a Buddhist.
And so the task begins, picking up, looking for a new home. After 10 years, a forced move from a place we called "home sweet home" will not be our home anymore.
Sad strange days indeed...
This past Tuesday, E and I found out that we are basically being kicked out of our apartment. The landlords have decided to re-appropriate our apartment and make it their own. They own just under half a dozen properties/apartment blocks. That's more than a dozen units. Why they singled us out is, upon speculation and processes of elimination of various facts/factors is that we have been at our place for the past 10 years. Our rent is cheaper compared to the other units. They "move in" for a few months, make some half assed repairs and then re-rent it for almost double what we are paying for it.
We were served the papers by a bailiff on Monday night. A day after my huge meltdown chez mom. Fatigue, chronic pain, the inability to live a normal life due to this pain, and the onset of winter (the horrible in between stages of grey/lifeless landscapes and pretty snow covered wonderland) all began to erode away my spirit. This was the straw that broke my back.
I almost went into shock.
Why?
Why now?
We had been battling noisy downstairs neighbors for some time. Four teenagers from France - pompous, arrogant, and selfish, they run around the place at all hours of the night. Basically treating the apartment like a dormitory. We had to call the cops twice. Parties almost every night. They have quieted down, but just enough so we can't call the cops because four teenagers sitting around a kitchen table laughing their asses off at 3am doesn't warrant police intervention.
E is miserable. His company have come to a screeching halt and he worries about the future of his position. I do too. And it shows. We both look beaten down and weary. The love is there, but with weary hearts and minds, our patience is almost nil. We are supposed to be on the same page, but the tension is tearing our souls down. Exhaustion is an understatement
We are going to fight this eviction. The grounds for them giving us the boot is "well, you're place was the cheapest and we need a place to live". Bastards. Just last week, they gave us the pablum of song and dances, telling us they were going to break the lease of the kids below us because we weren't the only ones who complained about the noise and that they were to be served papers on Monday. But joke was on us. We were the ones who got the papers.
Stupid fucken bastards.
Be careful whom you trust from France.
Of the dozen or so people I have met from that country, only one was sincere and nice, and not the backstabbing, arrogant, snide, and sneaky frenchmen I knew. And this man was the exception to the rule for the only reason I believe to be was that he was a Buddhist.
And so the task begins, picking up, looking for a new home. After 10 years, a forced move from a place we called "home sweet home" will not be our home anymore.
Sad strange days indeed...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
art with purpose
We all feel the need to find purpose in our lives.
I have been struggling with this for many decades.
Thought i found meaning, but it was fleeting.
Am still searching but it seems more and more elusive as time goes by.
I wish I were able to create art that impacted the world like this brilliant man.
Jason DeCaries Taylor, underwater magician
I have been struggling with this for many decades.
Thought i found meaning, but it was fleeting.
Am still searching but it seems more and more elusive as time goes by.
I wish I were able to create art that impacted the world like this brilliant man.
Jason DeCaries Taylor, underwater magician
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
car pool tunnel syndrome...
I had to laugh - the last episode of Modern Family, Gloria misunderstands American Phrases, like - "it scared the bejesus out of me" as "it scared the baby Jesus out of me", and "carpal tunnel syndrome" as you guess it, "car pool tunnel syndrome". So in typing this, i am aggravating my carpool tunnel syndrome as my fancy pancy blue velcro wrist immobilizer is currently in the wash (gawd. I have shweaty wrists...)
Last update - Action Theater Acting Improv class.
The practice of Action Theater incorporates the disciplined exploration of embodied exercises that lead to increased skills of strong, clear, spontaneous, and artful communication.
Action Theater addresses and expands the vocabularies of expression including: movement, vocalization, and speech. Action Theater is a tool to examines one's perceptive and responsive process, bringing awareness to and thereby disempowering distracting thoughts of self obsessions, fears, judgments and analysis.
My Lord, that was a gift from the heavens.
Four hours of mostly physical improv a day, for a week. I swear - four pounds must have been screamed/danced/twirled/laughed/shimmied off in those five days.
incredible experience.
I never realized how difficult improv could be, but having done it myself for the first time many years ago when I was literally, thrown into a movie role (because the director didn't have the foresight to cast an extra character, so in between my loading up film stock into the movie cameras, my part was born! I won't tell you what part I played but you can see it for yourself - Draghoula - check it out..), one of the main actresses, right off the plane from L.A was floored to hear that it was my first gig. "You're a goddam natural!"
And so it began...
but this improv class was nothing like I had ever experienced.
Ruth Zaporah is a world renowned artist and her "action theater" has pioneered the teaching of Improvisational performance. She gives only a few workshops a year, and this one happened to be in Canada. I was on a gallery/dance studio's mailing list and one day, the message floated into my inbox.
To tell you the truth, I have no clue how this gallery/dance studio got my email address. Perhaps it was just one of those divine intervention/synchronous/it was meant to be moments. Whatever it was, I am so very thankful for because this class literally changed my life...
I'm quite pooped - spent the evening with mom in the hospital keeping her company in the emergency, and am still reeling from the toxic curry meltdown I had from the incredible food poisoning from Saturday night's meal @ an Indian restaurant, but will have to revisit this "acting theater workshop" experience in greater detail while it's fresh in my head and in my body.
Odd thing to say, but it really was a whole body transformational experience; it made me realize how deeply connected we are to these bones and casing of flesh - and that how by being aware of this connection, being able to stay present in the moment and allow the body to speak and not let the mind edit/hinder/manipulate while watching helplessly as it moves into the driver's seat, beautiful things can happen.
Check it out
It's been a week and I'm going through improv withdrawal.
I'm going to miss acting out what it means to be a rock and a pile of mud...
back soon with more details/insights.
Last update - Action Theater Acting Improv class.
The practice of Action Theater incorporates the disciplined exploration of embodied exercises that lead to increased skills of strong, clear, spontaneous, and artful communication.
Action Theater addresses and expands the vocabularies of expression including: movement, vocalization, and speech. Action Theater is a tool to examines one's perceptive and responsive process, bringing awareness to and thereby disempowering distracting thoughts of self obsessions, fears, judgments and analysis.
My Lord, that was a gift from the heavens.
Four hours of mostly physical improv a day, for a week. I swear - four pounds must have been screamed/danced/twirled/laughed/shimmied off in those five days.
incredible experience.
I never realized how difficult improv could be, but having done it myself for the first time many years ago when I was literally, thrown into a movie role (because the director didn't have the foresight to cast an extra character, so in between my loading up film stock into the movie cameras, my part was born! I won't tell you what part I played but you can see it for yourself - Draghoula - check it out..), one of the main actresses, right off the plane from L.A was floored to hear that it was my first gig. "You're a goddam natural!"
And so it began...
but this improv class was nothing like I had ever experienced.
Ruth Zaporah is a world renowned artist and her "action theater" has pioneered the teaching of Improvisational performance. She gives only a few workshops a year, and this one happened to be in Canada. I was on a gallery/dance studio's mailing list and one day, the message floated into my inbox.
To tell you the truth, I have no clue how this gallery/dance studio got my email address. Perhaps it was just one of those divine intervention/synchronous/it was meant to be moments. Whatever it was, I am so very thankful for because this class literally changed my life...
I'm quite pooped - spent the evening with mom in the hospital keeping her company in the emergency, and am still reeling from the toxic curry meltdown I had from the incredible food poisoning from Saturday night's meal @ an Indian restaurant, but will have to revisit this "acting theater workshop" experience in greater detail while it's fresh in my head and in my body.
Odd thing to say, but it really was a whole body transformational experience; it made me realize how deeply connected we are to these bones and casing of flesh - and that how by being aware of this connection, being able to stay present in the moment and allow the body to speak and not let the mind edit/hinder/manipulate while watching helplessly as it moves into the driver's seat, beautiful things can happen.
Check it out
It's been a week and I'm going through improv withdrawal.
I'm going to miss acting out what it means to be a rock and a pile of mud...
back soon with more details/insights.
Friday, October 22, 2010
everything and nothing
Have been busy, have been quiet.
have been hyper, have been tired
achy and euphoric, melancholy and mindful
everything and nothing
all at once, nothing at all...
have been hyper, have been tired
achy and euphoric, melancholy and mindful
everything and nothing
all at once, nothing at all...
Sunday, October 17, 2010
amen
I'm not a hugely religious person, and I've had my issues with the Catholic church for many reasons, but faith is something personal. Over the past few years, it has been shaken and put to the test, but there always seemed to be great comfort when I would go to St. Joseph's Oratory, and then pause at the crypt of Brother Andre.
I remember going there as a child, awestruck by the immensity of the chapel. The poetic and delicately ornate archways, the sun beaming through the stained glass in the ceiling and from the iconic windows. The smell of incense and the burning candles, which were, literally - a sea of glowing light, and the hundreds of canes and crutches hanging from the walls of people whom he had cured over the years.
A humble man, small and frail in stature who had such an incredible presence.
Returning as an adult, there was peace and serenity in the quiet halls. Being surrounded by warmth and love just made me feel safe.
And now, Canada will have its first canonized saint. I'd stay up until 4am to watch the mass from the vatican, but after several days without sleep, i will try go to bed, and try to dream of watching this pious soul watching from above, with a smile on his face...
From the Montreal Gazette, Saturday October 16th, 2010
— The praises of a once penniless, sickly and illiterate porter were literally sung here Saturday to honour the man who is on the cusp of becoming the first Canadian-born male saint.
Led by the Pontifical French Seminary choir, more than 1,000 pilgrims sang the hymn Frere Andre as a large black-and-white portrait of the lay brother was carried to the altar of Sant’Andrea della Valle, an ornate 17th-century church dedicated to Saint Andrew the Apostle.
It was standing-room-only at the prayer vigil on the eve of the big day. On Sunday, Brother Andre, will become the first male Catholic saint born in Canada during a ceremony in St. Peter’s Square.
“Simple, pauvre, humble frere, coeur d’apetre / Pour le royaume. Simple, pauvre, frere Andre / Dans ta priere prends les notres,” they sang as the portrait was placed on an easel, and immediately illuminated by the flashes of dozens of cameras.The prayer vigil was led by Andre Richard, Archbishop of Moncton and a member of the Congregation of Holy Cross, the order Alfred Bessette joined in 1870 when he took the name Brother Andre.
At the event, the man to be known as Saint Andre Bessette was remembered as a compassionate man who stood out because of his inspiring life story and his unique way of helping people in pain. Having lost both parents by age 12, Bessette was separated from his brothers and sisters and sent to live with family members. He tried unsuccessfully to make it on his own, drifting from job to job in Quebec before moving to New England, Gerard Dionne, a Holy Cross brother, told the crowd.
After returning to Quebec when he was in his early 20s, Bessette settled in St. Cesaire, Que., southeast of Montreal, where local priest Rev. Andre Provencal inspired him to devote himself to Saint Joseph, foster father of Jesus Christ.
Bessette spent so much time praying to Saint Joseph, local children mocked him as “le fou de St. Joseph,” Dionne said. Provencal recommended him to the Congregation of Holy Cross, which ran College Notre Dame in Cote des Neiges. “I’m sending you a saint,” Provencal said in his recommendation letter, Dionne noted.
Though wary because of Bessette’s poor health, the congregation took him in. Bessette became Brother Andre. He was given the lowly job of taking care of the school’s reception area. For years, he dreamt of building a small chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph, across from College Notre Dame, on Mount Royal.
“Brother Andre placed a statue of St. Joseph on his windowsill, with the face turned toward the mountain,” Dionne said. “When people asked why, his answer was quite simple: Saint Joseph wants to have a chapel on the mountain where he can be honoured and prayed to.” That chapel would be built in 1904 and then expanded a few years later. Untold numbers of people came to seek help from Brother Andre, who would tell them to rub oil that had burned in front of a statue of Saint Joseph on their bodies, and seek Saint Joseph’s help in prayer.
He became known as the Miracle Man of Montreal, with thousands of people attributing to him miraculous recoveries from everything from physical infirmities to tuberculosis to cancer.
Eventually, construction began on a grand building to replace Brother Andre’s simple chapel. But the worldwide economic depression of the 1920s stalled the project, leaving his superiors unable to gather the money to finish it.
A few weeks before his death in 1937, Brother Andre invited his superiors, who were unsure of how to proceed, to put their confidence in Saint Joseph, Dionne said. “In middle of winter, they held a procession and placed a statue of Saint Joseph in the vast interior” of the roofless oratory. “Just one year later, when Brother Andre was no longer in this world,” Dionne said, “we were able to finish this immense building, which became Saint Joseph’s Oratory, the biggest sanctuary in the world dedicated to Saint Joseph, visited by two million people every year.”
In a closing prayer, Rev. Richard Warner, the Rome-based superior general of the Congregation of Holy Cross, noted Brother Andre’s commitment to the poor and the afflicted and asked God to help others to follow in Andre’s footsteps.
“Through (Brother Andre’s) intercession, help us to follow his example of prayer and love and so come to share with him in your glory,” Warner said. As they streamed out of Sant’Andrea della Valle, whose dome is the second largest in Rome, surpassed only by Saint Peter’s Basilica, pilgrims reflected on the man they came to celebrate. “He was a humble man who helped the neediest in our world and he deserves to be honoured,” said Montreal resident Mary Vincelli. “This world needs role models and he’s one of the best.”
For Jacques Gilbert, also of Montreal, the prayer vigil was a bit of deja vu. He attended a similar event at Sant’Andrea della Valle in 1982, when Pope John Paul II beatified Brother Andre. “I didn’t want to miss the actual canonization,” said Gilbert, 78. “It’s not every day you see a saint made.’
I remember going there as a child, awestruck by the immensity of the chapel. The poetic and delicately ornate archways, the sun beaming through the stained glass in the ceiling and from the iconic windows. The smell of incense and the burning candles, which were, literally - a sea of glowing light, and the hundreds of canes and crutches hanging from the walls of people whom he had cured over the years.
A humble man, small and frail in stature who had such an incredible presence.
Returning as an adult, there was peace and serenity in the quiet halls. Being surrounded by warmth and love just made me feel safe.
And now, Canada will have its first canonized saint. I'd stay up until 4am to watch the mass from the vatican, but after several days without sleep, i will try go to bed, and try to dream of watching this pious soul watching from above, with a smile on his face...
From the Montreal Gazette, Saturday October 16th, 2010
— The praises of a once penniless, sickly and illiterate porter were literally sung here Saturday to honour the man who is on the cusp of becoming the first Canadian-born male saint.
Led by the Pontifical French Seminary choir, more than 1,000 pilgrims sang the hymn Frere Andre as a large black-and-white portrait of the lay brother was carried to the altar of Sant’Andrea della Valle, an ornate 17th-century church dedicated to Saint Andrew the Apostle.
It was standing-room-only at the prayer vigil on the eve of the big day. On Sunday, Brother Andre, will become the first male Catholic saint born in Canada during a ceremony in St. Peter’s Square.
“Simple, pauvre, humble frere, coeur d’apetre / Pour le royaume. Simple, pauvre, frere Andre / Dans ta priere prends les notres,” they sang as the portrait was placed on an easel, and immediately illuminated by the flashes of dozens of cameras.The prayer vigil was led by Andre Richard, Archbishop of Moncton and a member of the Congregation of Holy Cross, the order Alfred Bessette joined in 1870 when he took the name Brother Andre.
At the event, the man to be known as Saint Andre Bessette was remembered as a compassionate man who stood out because of his inspiring life story and his unique way of helping people in pain. Having lost both parents by age 12, Bessette was separated from his brothers and sisters and sent to live with family members. He tried unsuccessfully to make it on his own, drifting from job to job in Quebec before moving to New England, Gerard Dionne, a Holy Cross brother, told the crowd.
After returning to Quebec when he was in his early 20s, Bessette settled in St. Cesaire, Que., southeast of Montreal, where local priest Rev. Andre Provencal inspired him to devote himself to Saint Joseph, foster father of Jesus Christ.
Bessette spent so much time praying to Saint Joseph, local children mocked him as “le fou de St. Joseph,” Dionne said. Provencal recommended him to the Congregation of Holy Cross, which ran College Notre Dame in Cote des Neiges. “I’m sending you a saint,” Provencal said in his recommendation letter, Dionne noted.
Though wary because of Bessette’s poor health, the congregation took him in. Bessette became Brother Andre. He was given the lowly job of taking care of the school’s reception area. For years, he dreamt of building a small chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph, across from College Notre Dame, on Mount Royal.
“Brother Andre placed a statue of St. Joseph on his windowsill, with the face turned toward the mountain,” Dionne said. “When people asked why, his answer was quite simple: Saint Joseph wants to have a chapel on the mountain where he can be honoured and prayed to.” That chapel would be built in 1904 and then expanded a few years later. Untold numbers of people came to seek help from Brother Andre, who would tell them to rub oil that had burned in front of a statue of Saint Joseph on their bodies, and seek Saint Joseph’s help in prayer.
He became known as the Miracle Man of Montreal, with thousands of people attributing to him miraculous recoveries from everything from physical infirmities to tuberculosis to cancer.
Eventually, construction began on a grand building to replace Brother Andre’s simple chapel. But the worldwide economic depression of the 1920s stalled the project, leaving his superiors unable to gather the money to finish it.
A few weeks before his death in 1937, Brother Andre invited his superiors, who were unsure of how to proceed, to put their confidence in Saint Joseph, Dionne said. “In middle of winter, they held a procession and placed a statue of Saint Joseph in the vast interior” of the roofless oratory. “Just one year later, when Brother Andre was no longer in this world,” Dionne said, “we were able to finish this immense building, which became Saint Joseph’s Oratory, the biggest sanctuary in the world dedicated to Saint Joseph, visited by two million people every year.”
In a closing prayer, Rev. Richard Warner, the Rome-based superior general of the Congregation of Holy Cross, noted Brother Andre’s commitment to the poor and the afflicted and asked God to help others to follow in Andre’s footsteps.
“Through (Brother Andre’s) intercession, help us to follow his example of prayer and love and so come to share with him in your glory,” Warner said. As they streamed out of Sant’Andrea della Valle, whose dome is the second largest in Rome, surpassed only by Saint Peter’s Basilica, pilgrims reflected on the man they came to celebrate. “He was a humble man who helped the neediest in our world and he deserves to be honoured,” said Montreal resident Mary Vincelli. “This world needs role models and he’s one of the best.”
For Jacques Gilbert, also of Montreal, the prayer vigil was a bit of deja vu. He attended a similar event at Sant’Andrea della Valle in 1982, when Pope John Paul II beatified Brother Andre. “I didn’t want to miss the actual canonization,” said Gilbert, 78. “It’s not every day you see a saint made.’
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
wired and fried
Oh so many photos.
Transfered about 20 cds to my HD tonight.
So many photos. Boggles the mind.
And duplicates - enough to make my head spin.
but i'm in a ocd mood. Had to get it all done.
4:30am and i'm still wide awake.
Did a whole hour in the pool today - stopping only for about a minute or so every so often. Still not happy with my results.
Damn you Russian coach in my head!!
So you would think i would be exhausted by now.
Nope.
but must sleep.
Swim class 2mrw.
Need grounding.
Wired and fried.
(peugh. Just rubbed my nose. That smell of chlorine is brutal. How the hell do i get that off me?!?!)
Saw cbt phd student today.
she's wonderful.
"don't worry, I'm confident that together we will get you the help you need."
Needed to hear that.
She gave me a questionnaire.
Gawd. I never realized how ocd/self sabotaging i really am.
but making the moves to change that.
Looking forward to going back into the darkroom again.
Oh what saving grace to be able to take photos so organically again....
Ativan take me away!
Transfered about 20 cds to my HD tonight.
So many photos. Boggles the mind.
And duplicates - enough to make my head spin.
but i'm in a ocd mood. Had to get it all done.
4:30am and i'm still wide awake.
Did a whole hour in the pool today - stopping only for about a minute or so every so often. Still not happy with my results.
Damn you Russian coach in my head!!
So you would think i would be exhausted by now.
Nope.
but must sleep.
Swim class 2mrw.
Need grounding.
Wired and fried.
(peugh. Just rubbed my nose. That smell of chlorine is brutal. How the hell do i get that off me?!?!)
Saw cbt phd student today.
she's wonderful.
"don't worry, I'm confident that together we will get you the help you need."
Needed to hear that.
She gave me a questionnaire.
Gawd. I never realized how ocd/self sabotaging i really am.
but making the moves to change that.
Looking forward to going back into the darkroom again.
Oh what saving grace to be able to take photos so organically again....
Ativan take me away!
Monday, September 27, 2010
black eye from a dog
no, i did not fall down the stairs
no, i didn't walk into a door either.
And a big no - to my husband beating me.
I got a black eye from a dog last night.
Was at a friend's party and his husky seemed quite zen, walking from room to room, foraging for food, until near the end of the night, i guess he was getting irritated. I went to pet him and he turned around and snapped at my face, his muzzle and one tooth narrowly missed my eye. I have a cut there now, and a black eye.
Lovely.
Mom: "You might get rabies! Make sure he had his shots!!"
oi vey.
So ice, and lots of hydrogen peroxide. This story is one for the record books...
no, i didn't walk into a door either.
And a big no - to my husband beating me.
I got a black eye from a dog last night.
Was at a friend's party and his husky seemed quite zen, walking from room to room, foraging for food, until near the end of the night, i guess he was getting irritated. I went to pet him and he turned around and snapped at my face, his muzzle and one tooth narrowly missed my eye. I have a cut there now, and a black eye.
Lovely.
Mom: "You might get rabies! Make sure he had his shots!!"
oi vey.
So ice, and lots of hydrogen peroxide. This story is one for the record books...
Saturday, September 25, 2010
rationalize the irrational
had an awesome day today.
Swam for an hour. 45 minutes no stop. 40 laps. Not bad for somebody who has not exercised in eons...
It felt good - to be buoyant. Body moving effortlessly through the water. Arms displacing fluid, the sound of my own breath breaking the pace.
Got new swim fins. Cute little things. Look like stubbed flipper toes. Not too long that it will kick the person behind you in the head, but enough to make waves that mimic a small hurricane throughout the pool.
I moved effortlessly because i was not afraid of the water, where i was going, what i was doing. I saw the bottom and it was not too far away from reach.
I have this irrational fear of deep pools.
Deep oceans don't bother me as much - perhaps it's the turquoise that is calming to me. When i was in cuba, i would go snorkeling for miles by myself, without a fear in the world. Floating effortlessly, the water calm and undersea life watching me watch them. And the salt water, no matter how hard I tried, I could not stay down long enough to get very close to anything. Skimming the surface.
But pools on the other hand, are my nemeses.
There is something that scares the shit out of me when it comes to looking into a deep pool. Perhaps because the blue is so very intense. So very deep. Perhaps it harks back to the first time i learned how to swim. We were literally thrown in the deep end of the pool. I hyperventilated as i tried to dog paddle, making me even more exhausted that much faster. My little arms and legs moving furiously - trying to keep me afloat - to keep me from sinking to my watery grave.
The teachers would have never let this happen, but it's a chore to tame a monkey mind - let alone the rabid monkey mind of a 7 year old.
And that fear stuck with me for a long time.
And was revisited last week @ my swim class.
The deep end drops off to 12 feet from a 5 feet base. Just like that - deep.
I had a panic attack the first time i swam it. What was i afraid of? I don't know. Even 35 years later, it still haunts me.
I can swim. Swim quite well actually. But when i'm stressed, i sink like a stone. Working against the waves instead of with them is a recipe for near disaster.
C'mon guys - 20 laps in less than 15 minutes.
I almost cried.
This is only the 2nd intermediate swim class! It's not the Olympics!!
So i paddled through, only making it to 12 in 18 minutes. And even that was pushing it. I was exhausted.
But why then, today, was i able to do 40 laps in less than 45 minutes?
There was no fear.
I swam with ease.
i was one with the movement and water.
This pool slowly drops off to 7 feet. Slowly.
I did not panic, i did not dread.
The daylight shone through the skylights, and i felt refreshed.
My swim classes on the other hand - 8 - 9pm.
Dark dark and deep..
But it's all about endurance.
i know that once i feel comfortable on my own turf, within my own pre-defined set of known variables that i will feel comfortable anywhere else uncertainty may strike.
And tonight, a joyous meeting with friends.
Play pushing through. Getting down the bones of the essence of the work. Bbby will help me but it will always remain my "baby". And I know he understands that and I'm happy he does.
This is a writing match made in heaven.
This play is going to go places.
The sky and is the limit.
I move effortlessly because i am not afraid of these waters, where i am going, what i am doing. I see the distance and it is not too far away from reach...
Swam for an hour. 45 minutes no stop. 40 laps. Not bad for somebody who has not exercised in eons...
It felt good - to be buoyant. Body moving effortlessly through the water. Arms displacing fluid, the sound of my own breath breaking the pace.
Got new swim fins. Cute little things. Look like stubbed flipper toes. Not too long that it will kick the person behind you in the head, but enough to make waves that mimic a small hurricane throughout the pool.
I moved effortlessly because i was not afraid of the water, where i was going, what i was doing. I saw the bottom and it was not too far away from reach.
I have this irrational fear of deep pools.
Deep oceans don't bother me as much - perhaps it's the turquoise that is calming to me. When i was in cuba, i would go snorkeling for miles by myself, without a fear in the world. Floating effortlessly, the water calm and undersea life watching me watch them. And the salt water, no matter how hard I tried, I could not stay down long enough to get very close to anything. Skimming the surface.
But pools on the other hand, are my nemeses.
There is something that scares the shit out of me when it comes to looking into a deep pool. Perhaps because the blue is so very intense. So very deep. Perhaps it harks back to the first time i learned how to swim. We were literally thrown in the deep end of the pool. I hyperventilated as i tried to dog paddle, making me even more exhausted that much faster. My little arms and legs moving furiously - trying to keep me afloat - to keep me from sinking to my watery grave.
The teachers would have never let this happen, but it's a chore to tame a monkey mind - let alone the rabid monkey mind of a 7 year old.
And that fear stuck with me for a long time.
And was revisited last week @ my swim class.
The deep end drops off to 12 feet from a 5 feet base. Just like that - deep.
I had a panic attack the first time i swam it. What was i afraid of? I don't know. Even 35 years later, it still haunts me.
I can swim. Swim quite well actually. But when i'm stressed, i sink like a stone. Working against the waves instead of with them is a recipe for near disaster.
C'mon guys - 20 laps in less than 15 minutes.
I almost cried.
This is only the 2nd intermediate swim class! It's not the Olympics!!
So i paddled through, only making it to 12 in 18 minutes. And even that was pushing it. I was exhausted.
But why then, today, was i able to do 40 laps in less than 45 minutes?
There was no fear.
I swam with ease.
i was one with the movement and water.
This pool slowly drops off to 7 feet. Slowly.
I did not panic, i did not dread.
The daylight shone through the skylights, and i felt refreshed.
My swim classes on the other hand - 8 - 9pm.
Dark dark and deep..
But it's all about endurance.
i know that once i feel comfortable on my own turf, within my own pre-defined set of known variables that i will feel comfortable anywhere else uncertainty may strike.
And tonight, a joyous meeting with friends.
Play pushing through. Getting down the bones of the essence of the work. Bbby will help me but it will always remain my "baby". And I know he understands that and I'm happy he does.
This is a writing match made in heaven.
This play is going to go places.
The sky and is the limit.
I move effortlessly because i am not afraid of these waters, where i am going, what i am doing. I see the distance and it is not too far away from reach...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
ebay-atosis-itis
Yikes. I'm turning into Fred Flintsone over here...
ebay-alatosis-itis
I shunned M when she got an airbrush spray tan in a box thing from the shopping network, cause I'm not far behind. But at least I'm being sensible with my addiction. A photographer can never have enough light stands, diffusers, gels, lenses, camera bags, batteries, filters...
ebay-alatosis-itis
I shunned M when she got an airbrush spray tan in a box thing from the shopping network, cause I'm not far behind. But at least I'm being sensible with my addiction. A photographer can never have enough light stands, diffusers, gels, lenses, camera bags, batteries, filters...
Monday, September 20, 2010
sign sign everywhere a sign...
out of the blue, a friend of a friend forwards this to me.
She didn't see my last posts. She does not know me or the monumental changes that are taking place in my life right now.
Yet this message keeps on repeating itself in one way, shape, or form with incredible urgency.
Think I have to listen, understand and act...
THE 3 C's OF LIFE..............CHOICES----CHANCES----
She didn't see my last posts. She does not know me or the monumental changes that are taking place in my life right now.
Yet this message keeps on repeating itself in one way, shape, or form with incredible urgency.
Think I have to listen, understand and act...
THE 3 C's OF LIFE..............CHOICES----CHANCES----
La Haine - still haunts...
After last night's ranting and stirrings of cinematic inspiration, i felt a need to push through my own jagged creative blocks because i know that on the other side, the pain will be worth it...
I was completley "bouleverse" (damn you mac keyboard - I can't find an accent aigu when in need it!) because the writing in La Haine was so exquisite, perspicacious, and the depth to which the characters were fleshed out made me think of the astute complexities of Becket or Williams, and how, essentially, the whole film could have been a stage play (albeit the logistics of gunfire would have created many a bleeding eardrum for the audience members...). The testament to the strength of Kassovitz's written word as well as the power of a well rounded actor reciting that eloquent and prosaic prose, spurned me into moving forward with turning my play into something that would surpass my own dreams and expectations.
I met with D - a truly beautiful soul, delightful photographer, prolific writer, and society conscious documentary film maker. We talked for hours at a local cafe about everything under the sun, stars and moon. We 'get each other' and as an artist, there is no greater comfort in knowing that somebody out there "gets you" and your vision.
I told him about this play that had been pushing through my (un and) consciousness. Something so prevalent in every waking and sleeping moment - it was as if the letters from the sentences in my mind were falling from my pores when I stopped moving. Complete scenes, monologues, ideas for stage direction, fast and furious - so quick i could not write them down. But brilliant ideas.
"I know this play will make people nervous, angry, laugh, become sick to their stomach, weep, and rise to their feet. I see it. I feel it. This project is bigger than me. I have only notes on paper, but a dream in my heart and head. Mark my words, this is gonna be huge."
And with that - D began to work with me. Brainstorming. Fast and furious in his excitement. He saw my vision with his own eyes. It was fucken brilliant.
And all this brings be back to a summer day in 1995 - "Le Festival Des Films Du Monde - Montreal". Taking my seat in The Imperial, the year before, still fresh in my memory, i sat down to watch a young man's film from France that would change the trajectory of my creative life.
And all this brings be back to a summer day in 1995 - "Le Festival Des Films Du Monde - Montreal". Taking my seat in The Imperial, the year before, still fresh in my memory, i sat down to watch a young man's film from France that would change the trajectory of my creative life.
And as I type this, I know that these new projects - this play, this conceptual photo shoot will mark a new chapter in my life. Or perhaps it is the new book. A new journey, a new life altogether...
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