WHAT I ENVY

 (Note---I had a photo in here that got flagged as a copyright issue.  It was my own photo, which I took.  I am putting it back).

What I envy most in others is talent for I lack it. While I have an avid interest in a lot of things, I am cursed with a total lack of ability to do things. It's a lost cause.

When I was a kid, Sally moved into the house across the lane from me. She had this great Liverpool accent as they had literally just gotten off the boat. Her parents were "show people", although her Dad had to hold a real job. This was nothing to which I had ever been exposed. Suddenly, however, I was introduced to the world backstage when they were involved in rehersals. Sally and I loved to hang out. The lights, the thick curtains, the orchestra pit; all were a new revelation to me. Musicals became my new love. I learned them all---Music Man, Carousel, Oliver and My Fair Lady. Sally and I were seven years old yet were minced around the yard singing all of the lyrics to "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying". We somehow didn't get what it all meant, but we knew every line. We put on a production of Oliver in the backyard, complete with soot from the fireplace and tickets sold around the neighborhood. I was in love with Jack Wild and his top hat.

A sheet went around school where we could sign up for singing lessons, so I put my name down for it. My parents then had the sad mission of telling me that a person had to have some talent to bother. Well, that was it for me. I still like musicals, but you won't even get me singing the national anthem. I fake it.

I wanted to take dance lessons as well and gymnastics. I actually was very flexible, but they would have been out of our element financially and my family just wasn't aware of that sort of thing culturally when I was growing up. I tried to teach myself gymnastics and could do all sorts of flips and back bends and such, but it was obviously more for enjoyment than anything else.

My Dad tried to encourage running, as he'd raced and done very well. I was good at that and could outrun the guys, but I had no interest. Also, I do not like to compete. My love of something is because it enhances who I am artistically. But, my little kid self couldn't get that across to my Dad.

I loved music, but without lessons, there's not much a person can do. I had a little toy piano which my mother gave to my cousin. Her parents gave her lessons and she went on to study it at a university level and to teach it, amongst other things. So, while I still love a really fine piece of music, I shall never play it.

Art is the bane of my existence. I spend far too much money on art books and I go to galleries when I can. I also like photography. Again...zip...zero...no talent. My brother is very good at painting yet he doesn't keep it up.

Once upon a time I dieted myself into oblivion. My one true talent and I had to give it up. My friend tells me that I have an incredible knack for blowing up light bulbs when I'm angry and frying electonics. In fact, the science teacher in highschool wouldn't let me turn on the lights after a point. Does that count?

 

STOP THE BIMBO BANTER

`````At least in the 80's when we were inundated with valley-girl speak it was generally done tongue-in-cheek by anybody older than fifteen, especially if they lived further from L.A. than Downey. However, we seem beset upon by females who insist upon speaking and writing in what I have come to think of as bimbo banter. They don't understand that it is inappropriate to refrain from using this at the work site or in e-mails that reflect their intellectual comments around the world.

`````Their words du jour are "k" and "ta ta". They are oft used. The words are used in the same taunting, jeering fashion as utilized by the school yard bully. Were they before me I could only imagine the eye roll. For, you can reason with these people at about the same level as you can with the school yard temptress who sneers and back stabs. Read any e-mail commentary on a topic where a person uses these words. At some point, when pushed to actually provide sound justifications, they fall back onto the "oh, you're no fun" or "you're just jealous" "You must be fat." Were these teenaged girls, it would be one thing. These are often adult women.

`````Usually the dreaded "k" is followed by a question mark. The "ta ta" is always a way for the bimb to end a debate she cannot win. As in "I have to go out with my good looking friends now. Ta." In the meantime you know she's lurking about the computer fuming and reading the comments, not understanding the big words.

`````My male friend and I used to call these women the 3-V's (vain, vacant and vacuous). Who knew that they'd develop their own special language.

ANOTHER SAD BUT TRUE STORY OF UGLY BEHAVIOR BY THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

IMAGES SENT TO ME VIA INTERNET BY A FRIEND.
ARTIST UNKNOWN.

I read this and unfortunately it's nothing new. I just wrote about something which related to it. At least this woman could take the outfit off. This is the daily life of a lot of people. By "daily life" I do not mean the weight, as I do not perceive the writer as looking as anything freakish or bad. I am referring to the ignorant and nasty comments or looks that people need to generate. Let's substitute skin colour and see how long this would be accepted. Hate and bias is wrong. It's sad that so many people have so little to offer the world that they focus only on their own looks and that of others. We as a society reward people for looking good. They can be horrid humans with no personality or intellect. They subsequently develop a sense of entitlement to rival that of Marie Antoinette's. I hope that some of the people recognize themselves and are embarrassed after this article appears................................................................................................................................................................ What happened when we sent a 'fattie' to London Fashion Week? Kate Faithfull reports back on her week on the fatwalk Mail Online

NO, NO, NO, NOT THIS AGAIN!!!!!!!!

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IN JUST ONE HOUR IT WENT FROM NO SNOW TO THIS. BELIEVE IT OR NOT, IT IS NOON. THEY SAID THAT THE WIND CHILL WILL GO TO MINUS SIXTEEN. SO, ON TOP OF THE PLUMBING AND THE CATS WRECKING THE HOUSE, IT IS BACK TO THIS AGAIN. UGH......

MISSING OLD FRIENDS

We like to think that we're going to keep in touch with friends forever, but somewhere along the way, life happens. As a child, it's usually a move. Perhaps it's easier for kids now with the internet, but once upon a time, a move meant the end of the world. After highschool, university and the many changes that we undergo in that period of our lives means that we drop old ties whether we want to or not.

Marriage, especially, changes the dynamics of friendship between women if one of them stays single. Events are still run around couples and the single person soon finds themselves dropped from happenings. The odd wheel man out, so to speak. I guess it must upset the silver pattern or China setting not to have things match.

A number of years ago a friend of mine moved across the country. I really miss our dinners. I work seven in a row and each time I used to hit my rest days I'd do the long drive into the city that I miss so much and we'd meet at The Four Seasons for drinks. We'd always like to try a new restaurant and then the theatre or a film. The dinners were long, drawn out affairs as we'd catch up. Before he quit we used to have the bartender in on our ten minute rule. Only ten minutes of major bitching about work and then it was on to the real things that mattered. If we went on beyond that he would look at us and go,

"Ladies, please." We once got into a tirade about politics and the recent election. When a very well healed man left he stopped and thanked us for the most entertaining evening he'd ever had at that bar. Hours later when we went to leave, we found that the tab had been taken care of. Those lively conversations cannot be replicated by the internet. I miss the face to face and trying new food.

You cannot make new old friends. The cliche is true. My best friend at the moment is a male, but when he got married that was it for our road trips and spending all our time together. That's to be expected. It still hurts. I miss my bud.

I lost another close friend to office policy and a bad choice that I believe stemmed from some chemical imbalance on her part as it so came out of left field. Like many places, where I work has standards which labels certain relationships as taboo. For example, people employed as teachers, priests, doctors, therapists, etc. cannot get involved with those who are clients or under their care. My friend crossed that boundary. We'd always talked about those who did that sort of thing and neither of us understood it. We used to spend our time before this talking for hours and venting about work. We'd go to see concerts and watch videos. I knew who she was hopelessly in love with. It certainly wasn't the person who threw away her career for; and consequently all of her friends.

I should have a highschool reunion this year. I feel odd about it for a number of reasons. I know that I am depressed at the moment and I am not the person that I used to be. But, it will be sad to see those people with whom I lost touch.

PERFECT, OR ELSE FIRED.

I just read an article that a number of people are trying to get a female presenter on a children's program removed. Her offence? Not that she dresses like a tramp, or has been caught doing drugs. No. She has a stump; as in part of an arm. Those who have complained fear that she will upset the children.

Unfortunately, I suspect that most of the people complaining are probably women. Realistically, they would be the ones at home during the day to notice what constitutes children's shows. I've also noticed that this is the sort of thing that women got "wound up" about. With all the important issues out there that could take one's time, this is the nonsense that tends to get the people I term the "happy homemaker brigade" going. I must add that I have nothing against stay at home Mom's. My spleen is being emptied at those women who must have it all seemingly perfect. It must all look good. They'll dither away only about appearance and not substance. The women who will make cutting comments about others in the presence of their children and then be surprised that they grow up to be lousy humans who bully others. They'll also be honestly puzzled as to where it came from.

I hated that process in school when we had to select kids for teams. I was always in shape in elementary school; in fact, I could outrun the boys. Yet, if it was my turn to pick people for the team, I'd make sure to pick the girl who was heavy near the start. For once, I did not want her to suffer being selected last. As I had once gotten teased for my accent, I knew what it was like to be the outsider. I refused to play that game. My mere doing that garnered me a reputation for not fitting in.

Kids don't learn this junk in a vacuum. It's bad enough to be influenced by the crap on television that tells girls that dressing like a tramp and being brain-dead is good. They don't need their parents suggesting the same. Each and every time they make some negative comment on a person's looks, that's what they do. Never mind the I.Q., it's the surface that matters.

While those with physical handicaps are trying to make inroads, this is beyond the pale. Children may be curious as to why a woman has one arm. What a perfect learning opportunity. I suspect that these people are nothing but hypocrites. To suggest that they have ulterior motives--that the kids are scared, is a cover story. I doubt that they have any qualms about sending their little darlings out on Halloween decked out like a ghoul.

Sadly, it's not an isolated case. In the spring there was a story of people complaining that they didn't want to take their children to a public pool as veterans of the Afghanistan war who were using the pool as a rehabilitative tool looked upsetting. These people who had served their country and lost limbs. Yes, the thanks of a grateful nation indeed.

This is a new phenenomena. Not that long ago people expected their children to be able to handle life. My goodness, cities in Europe were being bombed daily and people made it through. Yet, we now cannot handle a less than perfect human being.

I predict that in the near future we will be able to ascertain who has money from those who don't by how they look. The good looking people will be the upper class as they can afford to fix their appearance. It was once breeding and education that marked the difference.

The fallout is coming to companies that are asking women to wear stiletto heels and makeup. High-heels can permanently alter one's bone structure and risk a slip and fall. Note the double standard that men are not being asked to "upgrade" themselves somehow. Yet.

I hope this woman keeps her job. But, I can imagine her chagrin and pain. The BBC had better not backdown to these morons who'd rather have perfect looks over a real human being who loves children.

BETWEEN THE CATS AND THE PLUMBING IT'S NOT A GOOD DAY

THE ABOVE CARNAGE IS THE CURRENT CONDITION. THE GLASS ACTUALLY GOES ALL THE WAY DOWN THE STAIRS. THE DIRT IS ALL OVER THE RUG.

THIS IS TAKEN BEFORE THE KITTENS CAME TO STAY.................................................

It's true that no good deed goes unpunished, I guess. I took in two feral kittens that were literally left on my doorstep because the stray cat that I had been feeding left them there. She had gone and gotten pregnant again. Well, this is the thanks. The rest of the house is worse.

Then, after a terrible day at work I tried to relax in the tub. The hot water tap suddenly flew off and I had the scalding hot water hitting me full force. It's a good thing I have a high pain tolerence and fast reflexes. Needless to say, I did not relax. I managed to get the flow to stop but it's still dripping and I am trying to see if my friend can fix it. This is on top of the dishwasher that doesn't work, the vacuum cleaner that I just had to replace, the leaking steering fluid, the furnace that only wants to turn on if I mess with it (and certainly not when it's windy and cold). Oh, did I mention that I just spent 800 dollars on those kittens and an older cat with cancer?

I have a long and sad history with toilets and plumbing. It began as a child in Europe. I stepped in a puddle, or what I thought was a puddle. Had I not been holding my mother's hand I would have disappeared into the bowels and depths of the earth. A manhole cover had come off and I kept on going down. As the snow had just melted and the town was up near the Arctic Circle, it was cold. My next misadventure was in a train station as we prepared to leave. I flushed a toilet and some mainline must have blown. Suddenly, the entire washroom was filled with inches of water. It was rising quickly. Had this taken place today they probably would have thought that I was a five year old terrorist plant.

It's been ongoing. I once took part in a student exchange program in order to learn French. Upon arriving at my host family's home I had to use the washroom very badly. When I flushed the tank blew off and the water flew up and hit the ceiling.

I was once woken up by my neighbour because my sewer was backing up into my driveway. You can imagine the joy of having that occur. Everybody was gathering around to watch "the stuff" pile up.

My well went dry once and I had no water for about almost two weeks. Interestingly enough, it went dry the day prior to an earthquake as did several other wells in the area. Hmm, sounds like a topic for Art Bell and "Coast to Coast". In the meantime, just call me stinky. I happened to have water stored in empty Diet Pepsi bottles for flushing the toilet (as where I live, when the power goes out, so does the water), but you only want to boil so much water for washing.

So, that's my day....my week...my month. I have escaped into Youtube and a British MTV special and couldn't help but notice that Pete Doherty's cats are very well behaved (all 13 of them). Mmm, perhaps he's medicated them. Now, there's an idea.... Mind you, the computer's acting up too. Ughh.

WHY THE PAIN?

Some time ago I responded to a post that was on Medusa's blog about cutting. I did so under "annonymous". A comment was given that caused me to reflect and inspired me to write further about what I had stated. I would like to give thanks to Medusa and her blog. She does a great service in providing information and reference material. On a personal note, it caused me to look into an issue that I hadn't thought about for a long time. While it is not something that I have engaged in often in my life in comparison to some people, it should not be something to which one needs to resort at all. What follows is a response as to why people do it and not a personal annecdote. Perhaps I shall blog about that some other time. Incidentally, this is in reponse to the commonly held belief by many people that people engage in this behavior in order to get attention and the issuers of that statement is to whom I direct my comments. I hope that people realize that it's not acting out by their children in order to get "their way" but rather indicative of something more profound. It's not to get attention. Don't ask about motivation. If we cannot even begin to describe how we feel we are hardly going to be capable of telling you what drives us. What follows is an attempt. There is some strange disconnect that happens. It's like living in a parallel universe where we walk and talk and to all those present we seem to be part of the play. But the real action takes place behind the scenes when the curtain is drawn and the audience goes home. We can finally drop the facade. The last thing we want is the stage lights focused on us. We want to be invisible---to pull off the ultimate illusion and disappear in plain sight. Everything seems like an act. We know when to smile and to laugh so that we pass. It's like the animal that camoflauges itself to survive in hostile conditions. We do it to get through life.

We see numb as good. It's certainly an improvement from crushing depression or anxiety or the ever pounding drumbeat that assaults us like a hammer with its message of "no good". That chorus is as familiar to us as the sound of your heartbeat is to you. It is also as constant. Sometimes, just for a second, we find a way to make it stop. It is what we do to take ourselves out of our world and for that brief instant focus on something else. Maybe it's a chemical change, the so-called endorphan rush that others derive from jogging or jumping out of planes. Why are these abuses of the body or risks acceptable while ours is not? Why can you opt to tattoo your body or pierce and brand your skin as a form of self expression or as a way to mark passages in your life? We mark ourselves also, but we do it to express the mundane that we can find no words for in our vocabulary.

What it comes down to is control. This time, I control the pain, not those women who shoot me looks as I dare to cross their path during the course of my day, not the news telling me of yet another lost species, nor a job which holds its employees in contempt. I get to dish it out on my terms. There is an incredible amount of relief derived from this abililty. Perhaps the sense of safety is a false one but it is the only net available. It is our source of power. We don't want people to see it. You so rarely see anything else about us, why would we want this, of all things, to be noticed? What arrogance to think that we seek that attention.

Most of us can remember the first time we did it, the way others recall their first experience with sex or alcohol. I was ten and a green glass vase had fallen off the table during a fight. I was now alone in the living room and the slivers on the floor were somehow alluring in the light. I picked up one of the shards and looked at it for merely a second before something drove me to apply a small amount of pressure and drag it down my forearm. Like the glass itself, the pain was somewhat pristine and pure. It was just a scratch. Contrary to the song, the first cut isn't the deepest. Maybe some people can do it the one time and then walk away, but others are like the addict who knows where the cure is. At some point, we come back to it. And like the addict, we all have our drug of choice. Ours just might be the razor on the arm, the flashlight to the forehead or the hot lightbulb to the wrist. We use it to make ourselves a calm little spot within the hurricane around us. Pain becomes our buffer zone. But it's our hurt; we control it. Like all junkies we hide our disease from others because we feel as though we cannot cope without it. We wear long sleeves in the summer and have ready excuses of accidents incurred should anybody actually notice and ask. People so rarely do. Our coping mechanisms have become so limited that the thought of losing our little "trick" scares us. We have no other outlet with which to express our anguish or lack another person with whom we can share our grief. It's not to get attention.

THE UNKNOWN INFLUENCE

.....We've been inundated with talk of

Obamamania these last couple of months. The media is reporting that he is having a huge influence on people. It was said that Kennedy managed to influence a generation. They signed up for the Peace Corp and asked what they could do for their country.

.....This got me wondering about the possibility of being influenced by people we've never met. Does somebody we don't know have the ability to alter the decisions we make over our lives? Surely many people sign up to fight in battles because of the actions of people like Hitler, but what about in normal, everyday events?

.....I would say that I have had somebody influence me in that way. She'll never know it because she is dead. When I was in highschool, there was a party. Many people of my graduating class attended, although I did not. It was held in an open field not far from where I lived. During the course of the event, a girl was killed. She was reported missing and after a search her body was found some distance from where people had been drinking. In fact, I had gone for a walk the afternoon right by that area.

.....Everybody was talking about it at school. People knew who did it but nobody told the cops. In fact, nobody told the police for a really long time. Even at the ten year highschool reunion when some guy got drunk and started to rail about it, somebody else hushed him up and said,

....."Be quiet, it was an accident."

.....I had planned on studying English at university as I have always loved to read, but I changed my major to Criminology. It wasn't to study evil people. They are boring. Who was it that made the comment about the banality of evil? Ann Rynd? What fascinated me was the people who knew and kept quiet. At the time, it was a small town. These were very middle-class, very white kids. None of them were hardened gang bangers. This wasn't the mob where somebody would be planted in the drink and swimming with the fishes with cement shoes for talking.

.....So, this dead girl inspired me to change my career. This choice was reinforced by the fact that I met her father when he came to my parent's house. It turns out that my father knew him. The fallout of violent acts had a real face and real consequences.

.....I have also been influenced by Simone de Beauvoir. I picked up one of her memoirs one day and I was hooked. Here was a woman who wrote about what was important to me; that with rights comes responsibilities. That doing nothing sometimes makes you more guilty than those who act.

.....And no, despite my problems with eating too much or too little, I have never had a model as an icon.

NOT THE PRINCE

`````We all know somebody who has a type. It's usually a guy who is steadfast in not dating somebody that isn't a hottie or lacks large breasts. There's nothing wrong with having standards and sticking to them. For instance, ruling out racists or people who won't pick up a book is a good rule of thumb. But, what of those odd decisions that guide our choices?

`````I had a friend that wouldn't move in with somebody due to one item of furniture that he would not part with. They had been dating for sometime and this was the next logical progression. It was being discussed. However, Bob had a wagon wheel coffee table. It wasn't an antique that had borne his relatives across the great plains or anything. It was manufactured. My friend was studying at a fashion institute at the time and was interning with a woman whose name frequently came up in magazines as a consultant for future trends. Think "The Devil Wears Prada" and you'll get an idea of the work environment. There were certain boundaries she would not cross and her fine tastes coexisting with Bob's table was such a line in the sand. No cocktail parties could ever be held with that----thing---in the middle of the room. The relationship faltered as a result.

`````A male friend of mine, who was gay, just couldn't get over how "straight" one of his interests dressed. He always wore sneakers instead of dress shoes, wailed my buddy. I digress, but I always figured that there was a market like "Ger-Animals" for men. Those are those clothes where, if one bought an item of clothing that had a tiger on a label, it would be guaranteed to match with all other clothes that bore a tiger on the label. It would probably sell well for the newly divorced guys forced to shop alone at Walmart.

`````As shallow as it may sound, we all have our own Rubicon. One of mine happens to be country music. I loathe it. It's up there with telemarketers on my list of things that may one day inspire a spree shooting episode. Like people with severe peanut allergies, I cannot risk my being exposed to it.

`````I also have an aversion to mullets and bad facial hair. It's been my experience that said hair style is usually sported by a certain type of male. That guy tends to cross into my category of big picture reasons for avoiding somebody (redneck, proudly uneducated and a hater of cats).

`````When partners attempt to kill each other after snapping because they couldn't take the cap being left off the toothpaste one more time, I think it's important to be honest with oneself about this stuff at the very start. I guess I'd rather be single then have to listen to Shania Twain any day.

FELINE FELON

I'm a criminal. I keep the blinds drawn so that people won't see in. If the door goes I only open it a bit and I stick my head out to talk to whomever is out there. Does it sound like a check sheet to a grow-op? Well, I'm a dastardly (to use a word of Brad Pitt's) felon. A feline felon.

Far too many people in my town do not look after their animals. The dogs bark constantly and run around off leash. I am forever feeding the poor strays that show up as the owners are too cheap to fix them and perceive them as being merely "barn cats". I don't know how many times I've gone for a walk and had to fight off a dog attack.

The solution? Not to enforce any existing bylaws. No, they created a brand new one. They limited the amount of pets any household could hold to two. Watch out you owners of too many guppies. They're coming for you.

When asked about how in the hell this would be enforced, the erstwhile Mayor said that people would come to your house to check. Mind you, The Supreme Court ruled that even to enter the home of a suspected grow operation the police had to have a warrant and had to knock to announce their presence.

I guess it's easier to go and attack the homes of Cat Ladies. That along with seat belt infractions must be a serious crime, given the constant checks ongoing for those.

And what to do with the criminal? Or the pets? Death to the animals, I'm sure.

I'll be damned if anybody is coming into my house. Should some idiot show up on my door and try to gain entry, flashing a little laminated badge announcing them as the Pussy Patrol, I will defend myself as though they were Joe Rapist. My pets never go outside and they are much loved. The vet in the town thought the town council were idiots. She refuses to disclose or talk about ownership.

I hope my cats learn the rules of "life underground". Stay away from the windows. At least three of them are black, so if they go to the window they had better learn that it's one at a time. With any luck, the neighbours may think they're the same beast. Or go and peer out at night. Close your eyes if car headlights go by. We wouldn't want all those eyeballs lighting up at one time.

This is so ironic given the fact that the people on one side of me have five children. The people on the other side also have five. The people in the area are fixated on the repair of pickup trucks. Noise, idling, reving. This is accompagnied by very bad country music played at a high volume. The lawn obsession causes the massive overusage of very toxic fertilizers. Even when there's burn bans on, people not wanting to pay for pickup burn their crap in the yard. Chainsaws are obviously the male version of the vibrator.

But no, my cats are the risk and threat. I guess it's that Black Panther group behind it all.

THIS IS HARD

I've known for some time that I'm very much in the wrong over an issue. Yes, the person who goes on about her disdain of hypocrites finds herself in the position of acknowledging that she is allowing evil to continue. In fact, I suspect that I have a legal duty to report. By not doing so I honestly see myself as no better than the low-life who drives the get-a-way car. The accomplice after the fact.

When I was ten I met the new girl on my street. She lived with her father in a large home at the top of the lane. There were so many trees in the yard that it encased their house in permanent shadow. The air itself seemed denser. The blinds were forever drawn. Their backyard had a patio shielded on one side by a huge outdoor fireplace and chimney with landscaping which prevented anybody from seeing into the yard.

Fabiola told me that her mother had left when she was two or three, not to be heard from again. Her mother had been Spanish, which may have accounted for Fabiola's stunning and exotic looks.

But her eyes were always sad and seemed focused at times on something just out of view. Unlike most pretty girls, she seemed to want to disappear. This was made virtually impossible by the fact that she was fully developed and the only girl in our class who truly needed a bra. She was pained by the reaction her body got her.

Fabiola invited me over and it was thus that I met her father. He always seemed to be around after that and his modus operandi was consistant. The man was a pervert. He was forever trying to put his hands up my top or elsewhere. I would have none of it and wriggled away when he tried to grab me. I'd not been raised to be compliant to this sort of thing but at times it was a struggle as he would literally hide and then grab.

My friend was mortified and stressed. She told me that at her previous residence, she'd had a playmate called Pam. Evidentally, what her father had done to Pam was ongoing and "very bad". I guess Pam did not know that a person could say "no" to adults when appropriate.

I remember odd things began to occur at about this time in my own behavior. Fabiola and I once tossed a hard, metal bucket back and forth in her backyard with all the force we could muster. My mother later noticed the severe bruising all down one side of my body. Where did this need to hurt myself come from? This wasn't playing on our parts; this was pent up rage. It was also at this time that a profound depression descended upon me like those fogs of old that would beset London for weeks. I recall with clarity wanting to die. I found respite in books such as "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden" and "Lisa, Bright and Dark."

Fabiola suddenly began to call herself Yvette and kept to herself. I stopped seeing her as did most people. My family moved from the area and I don't know what happened with her. I've tried to find her name in the usual search engines, but she isn't there. Given her opting to use a different name already at such a young age, I can imagine that she has no desire to be found. I had a call from somebody a few years ago and I asked about Fabiola. Sandra had not seen her, but her Dad came up in conversation. She too thought, given his moves upon her, that he was a pervert.

Thus my quandry. I've taken the courses, read the books and met the monsters. I know better. I know that people like him do not change. They enter crime cycles and become emboldened when they are not caught. I feel like I need to report him. But, if his daughter hasn't done so, will I do more harm? Or is it me I strive to protect? I know the system. I know that they will have to inform my employer and not one individual there can refrain from gossip. I have never told my parents. It would kill them. For what? The man is probably dead. Given his age, even if I provided any evidence that corroborated Pam's or Fabiolo's, he would be given the usual slap on the wrist.

I grieve for Fabiola. I know as an adult that he molested her. All the signs are there. And I see what my very brief exposure to him was like; how it seemed to have changed me. I cannot imagine the horror she faced being alone with that man every day. To this day I hate the show Kojak as he looked like Telly Savalas. To what extent can I blame the sudden change in my behavior on him? My issues with food? My reluctance to trust people? My forays into self injurying? There were no hints of any of these problems until I met that man.

I hunted out of yearbook from Grade 8; the last year I knew her. I hope she made it and didn't fall into the usual pitfalls that so many girls exposed to these monsters become encased in.

She was so smart and had so much promise. And I hate that all these years later I am still somehow weighing the options because of his behavior.

THE TIME MACHINE

I have found a way to travel in time, although I hardly control when it happens. Music has the power to do that to me. Every once in a while I will hear a song and instantly I find myself back in a time or place. It does not happen often, but when it does occur the link is profound. I am transported.

Each time "Love My Way" by the Psychedelic Furs is played I see my friends dancing; slow as though under water. I see the very precise angle at which my friend held her cigarette as she slid languidly on her small patch of ground with whatever rail-thin, British guy she had on her hit list that month.

"The House of the Rising Sun" was a song belonging to another generation, but to me it will always represent the train. I will forever envision a bunch of strangers, at two in the morning, in the bar car when somebody produced a guitar and knew how to play this number. That feeling of never wanting the morning to come or the ride to stop.

I cannot help but notice that most of these memories are tied with youth. People will refer to "their song"' ; the one that they remember from their first date. Why does this connection to music stop as we grow older? I still love all varieties (except country and rap) and a sad bit of music in film can move me to tears when I am alone. Yet, I cannot think of one song, past a certain age, that really has that same bonding element. I will enjoy it---but it does not pull me back. I think that's sad, somehow.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY

Just a note wishing you all a Happy Valentine's Day. But remember, it's a manufactured holiday. It this is the one day of the year when people opt to go out for dinner or buy gifts, there is something wrong. People need to do that sort of thing all the time. Besides, one does not need to produce an actual item to prove that one cares. It is actions that count; the day to day being there. All the flowers in the world mean nothing if a person doesn't listen or isn't supportive. Furthermore, there is nothing wrong either with chosing to be single. There is such a double standard in how we view that status. Men are "bachelors" Note how the word sounds. Women, on the other hand, are "spinsters". Look at how society perceives Jennifer Annistan in comparison to any of the men on the prowl in Hollywood. Somehow, there is the hint of desperation in the way she is viewed.
There's also a double standard about the age issue. Older men constantly date younger women as a matter of course, yet if a woman does it she is a cougar.
I find it bizarre how people still think they can pry into the lives of single people. I get asked numerous times why I am single. Why I don't date. I would never take it upon myself to go up to somebody who is married and ask them why they opted to marry or have children. It's rude and insensitive. And please, don't get me started on those who feel it their business to try and set me up with somebody.
When I was involved with somebody I always told them not to get me anything on Valentines. I saw it as phony and it just made me feel awkward. I'd much rather go out for dinner on a night when it wasn't busy.
I was talking about this the other night with a male friend of mine who called from back east. We're both in a bit of a depressed funk as of late and neither one of us has chosen to be involved with anybody for our own reasons. Yet he doesn't get the questions as much as I do.
Tonight, I shall embrace my Cat Ladyness with pride.

THE MIRROR

`````There is something mystical about the bathroom mirror at four in the morning. Nothing "Magical Mystery Tour" or Alice in Wonderland. Rather, it is all harsh lights and sharp focus; it is reality magnified ten fold. Every fault is highlighted-with little arrows pointing-just in case you missed it. If it were merely one's physical defects it would perhaps be tolerable, but here comes every "should have", "could have" and guilt feeling dredged up to be newly raked over.

`````There is a dump in New York City called Fresh Kills. I have a vision of all the bad stuff in my psyche just lying there in the open air and festering, waiting for me to pick over and analyze it...at four in the morning.

`````The mirror at that time is main lined sodium pentathol. There is no hiding from that light. No detective in a dime store novel ever had such an effective interrogation device.

`````That mirror is like The Magic Eight Ball; turn on the light and POW! You're confronted with some truth that you didn't want to know. It's the thing you didn't realize was bothering you, yet here it is. It's the reason you're in that room, awake, at four A.M. in the first place.

IGNORE IF POLITICS BORE YOU: CAN IT BE CALLED A HOLY WAR?

+++++Now that Obama has taken the reins he has to review policy on foreign affairs. This includes the question as what to do in Iran and Afghanistan. It has always been clear to me that we had no business in Iran, yet there were parties in Afghanistan that attacked the United States; not the country itself as it was not an elected group or a declared war. Yet, that was their home base.

+++++In the time since the September 11 attack there have been many phrases used and comparisons made in order to try to comprehend the event. Most of them invoke the idea of opposites; contradictory forces unable to coexist. President Bush himself said that "If you're not with us, you're against us." This is a simplistic catch phrase to account for an extremely complex and perhaps incomprehensible situation. It is akin to the Cole's Notes version of current affairs that has been presented to the public during the last decade. Whether due to the shrinking attention span of the mases or a decreasing intelligence we seem able to speak of local and world events only if condensed into bumper-sticker sized slogans. For example, repeat criminal offenders are not analyzed on a sociological or psychological perspective but are presented to the public in a "Three Strikes and you're out" political ad campaign. Capital punishment is not undertaken as an ethical or economic debate. Rather, it is dismissed with an out of context Biblical quote: "An eye for an eye." Likewise, homosexuality is not a discussion of nurturing versus genetics but if often left to debate on talkshows by callin pundits offering such wisdom as "It's Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve." Such limited thinking takes us periously close to the cognition, or lack thereof, displayed by our enemy.

+++++Yet, for arguement's sake, let us proceed with this thinking and see where it takes us; if it were as simple as us versus them---offence and defence. There has been much discussion of this battle in terms of good against evil. The Taliban has referred to this as a Jihad. President Bush initially used the term "crusade" before his handlers pointed out to him that the very group we're fighting found the term offensive.

+++++It's interesting that this war is couched in terms of the forces of light against dark. During the Administration of the first George Bush there was much reference made to the "thousand points of light" in relation to the "New World Order". While a free market economy is desirable andn serves us well, some amongst us crossed into the cult of greed. Financial gain was the raison d'etre or mantra of these people. No thought was given to the human suffering or environmental dmage that resulted. The ticket to heaven came via a higher corner office in our steel towers. Everything was made available for sale in this market without means; anthrax by mail order and assault rifles at Walmart. After all, as the film said, greed is good. This thinking has resulted in what can surely be called a depression.

+++++The actions and thinking of the Taliban epitomize the historical period referred to as the Dark Ages. Kknowledge is limited to clerics. Enlightenment, open dialogue and artistic creativity are negative attributes met with harsh punishment. Hundreds of years ago Western church leaders put Gallilleo to death for his scientific beliefs. The Taliban do this today. The infrastructure is so poor that people literally live in the dark in stone hovels. At the start of the war, I read that one out of five citizens was dependant on aid from the evil infidels they purport to hate. The women are encased in dark shrouds that restrict their movement while their minds and spirit are similiarily deadened by starvation and forced ignorance.

+++++The truly spiritual have a conviction which allows for exposure to the opinions of others. Debate of idealogical principles is welcomed as an exercise to further formulate one's beliefs. Enlightenment is attained via a broad base of knowledge.

+++++These men, the Taliban are ignorant and fearful. Like schoolyard bullies they strike out at those they do not understand those they fear. Through their own short fallings they are unable to attain and achieve that which they covet. Thus, the targets of their rage are the very symbols of our civilization's achievements. They used our planes to destroy the very best of our commerce, just as they ransacked the ancient artwork of Buddhist dynasties. They could earn none of this on their own and like the sandbox bully they broke our toys. It is this mentality that prohibits our reasoning with them and forces us to finally strike back militarily. Their tantrum is not a Holy War but more a symbiosis of Marx's class antagonism and sociopathy. It is a case of want by a group of people unable to do for themselves. They resent our competency and put the blame everywhere but on themselves. Their lustful misdeeds are the fault of women; therefore females must be covered and hidden. Their nation's economic and cultural dismalness is the responsibility of the west and therefore we must be wiped out. These are not Holy Men wish a Holy Grail, but hoodlums and thieves bent on destruction and vandalism. It is in this way that they might be perceived as the dark force. But, it is not in the way described by George Bush. Rather, the darkness derives from the lack of insight they have into themselves or that which actually propels them. Without this introspection upon ones own consciousness (our soul, if you will), one cannot reach or define the goal we seek.

+++++The irony is that in this fight between the forces of the dark and the light we both end up suffering the same malady. We both end up blind; unable to see the path before us. The Taliban cannot see because they have shut their own eyes to the world around them. Those who suffer under their regime cannot see because they have been wilfully blinded by those in power. Education and knowledge of the most basic sort is illegal for all women. For many boys, only religious education is made available.

+++++We are blilnd from staring at those thousand points of light in our frenzied and materialistic pursuit. Like the moth that destroys itself in reaching the light, we have harmed our very planet and health to achieve our ends. Now our economy itself may be beyond repair. We have handed over the tools of our own destruction to the Taliban and other terrorist groups in allowing destructive weapons to be sold for profit.

+++++To end this blind, curcuitous flailing we must both find another way of seeing or risk losing our way forever. Perhaps the new regime in the United States will seek a new means of dialogue with other nations which will at last end their harbouring of the Taliban. More than ever it should be evident that our global economy depends on this, whether or not all nation states care about the well being of their citizens.

REMEMBERING "W"

One of my part-time jobs when I was younger was with the school board. That's where I met "W", who was a guidance counseller at one of the high-schools. I'll call her Jane for the duration of the blog.

There was no hiding my problem at the time. I was 83 pounds; I know that as I weighed myself everytime I used the washroom. I had been told that I'd risk death when I hit 90 pounds. Yet, here I was---doing maintenance and working hard for eight hours a day. What did the doctors know, I thought. People with eating disorders can often spot each other and I knew that there was something up with Jane. She wasn't all that thin, but there is still that vibe. She was always on her bike and had a very driven, manic quality about her.

Jane and I started to talk and we soon realized that we had a lot in common. She'd been very ill years earlier, but had gained weight. While she looked healthier, she was still slim and certainly not recovered. Like many people with eating disorders, she passed. Jane was what some people might call an exercise bulimic. If she ate too much she would spend hours on her bike. Eating too much was anything beyond her diet of Metamuicil and Cup-of-Soup.

She told me briefly of some abuse and neglect in her childhood. I didn't push it as I could tell she didn't want to say more. Her face was cherubic and always smiling. It hid so well all of the turmoil within. Jane had a fantastic rapport with the students.

At the time there was no treatment in that small town for eating disorders. The doctors had no clue. A person could spiral out of control for a very long time.

When I left the job and returned to school I would talk to Jane every once in a while. After I graduated university and started working I got a call from her. She was desperate. One of the students had a bad eating disorder and her parents were refusing to see it. The girl could not talk to her family doctor as he'd probably disclose all to her family. There wasn't a crisis centre available in the town at the time and even if there had been, no sixteen year old would call in there. Her family was very religious and psychiatry did not correspond to their beliefs. Jane was stymied; she couldn't cross boundaries and share too much with the girl nor could she see her outside of school hours too often.

Jane had a proposition. According to the experts, I was headed down the road to recovery. After all, I had gained weight. I had a new job in a nontraditional one for women and I had to meet a standard of physical fitness to do so. Would I be willing to take calls from this girl and listen to her? Without realizing it, Jane was setting up a peer support network.

It was a hard choice as, had her parents found out and made a fuss, I would have been fired. My job had a strong code of conduct and it could have looked bad. After all, who was I to help their daughter? But, nobody else was doing it either. So, I agreed and for a while she would phone me up and I would mostly listen. She did not know who I was, nor did I know her. I was a number that she could call.

After a while my commute became too hard and I had to move. The shift work made it impossible for me to continue to take the calls, but when I ran into Jane years later I heard that the girl was doing okay.

I've not heard from Jane in about ten years. I think of her when people start on rants about school teachers and counsellors not doing enough. Sometimes, they are the only people willing to step up to the plate; even at great risk to themselves. I hope that Jane is doing well, but my last sighting of her indicated that she had seemed to have slipped back into starvation.

HOW VALENTINE'S DAY ALMOST LED TO AN HARASSEMENT CASE

Many years ago, the stars aligned in such a way that three women ended up working together who must have had secret aspirations at Martha Stewart's job. Certainly, their minds were not on the ones they currently held. So, whatever holiday happened to hit, they would decorate the office.

I was working at the other end of the hall with two males. St. Valentines Day was fast approaching. They were at their office decorating. The Red-Light District in Amsterdam had not seen the likes of it. The heart dingle balls dangling from the ceiling made me think that perhaps a drag queen heart surgeon's convention had orchestrated this. They were spritzing cinnamon scented air freshner to such a degree that we had to shut the emergency door to keep it at their end of the building. Cut-out angels adorned the doors.

"What fresh hell is this?" I said to my male coworker as we walked by, quoting Dorothy Parker. He laughed.

"Sartre"s No Exit, is more like it." He said.

When the angel soaps were found in the washroom he could take it no more and war was declared. We added our one contribution to the decoration at our end of the building. We'd found a photo of a dead cupid---shot through the heart and prone on the ground. Surprisingly, the photocopy machine actually worked and held paper. We enlarged it.

HAPPY V.D. DAY. wrote my coworker.

One would think that given the six or seven marriage break-ups between the three women that they wouldn't be so devoted to the dreaded day, but I guess they were. We later heard that they'd ripped the offending dead cupid off our wall, and with lower lip pouting and near tears had gone to their manager about it. It took a while to placate the one.

So, it's best to leave valentine's out of the office(especially if there's a lot of males around). And incidentally, a year later, the husband of one of the women left her for another man. Best to leave dead cupid's alone too.

CHANCE ENCOUNTER ON A TRAIN

A number of years ago, I took a trip across the country alone on the train. I had only recently graduated from university so I could only afford the Day Nighter seats, which reclined for sleeping. This precipitated one of those events which, although it seemed minor at the time, has become something which has taught me a lesson.

I had brought my headset with me and some books. In the day I loved to watch the country reveal itself to me, but at night I read. I've always been an insomniac. I'd gotten some odd looks when I'd told people that I was going to take the train across the country alone. But, I wanted to think and I enjoyed my privacy. It was April and the seat beside me had remained unoccupied thus far.

When the train stopped, a woman and a boy got on. Throughout the evening I noticed her fussing with him a lot and I could not help but reflect that this kid had to be very spoiled. The woman continuued to flutter over him. Finally, when it came time for the boy to sleep, she covered him with a blanket and then she laid down in the aisle.

I took off my headset and walked up to the woman who was full out on the floor of the train. Although the company did the best they could, it was still a well trod upon floor and cold, as the door compartments at either end were constantly being opened. When I bent to speak to her and she responded, I realized that she spoke French.

As much as I'd loved my privacy all across the country, I invited her to come sit in the empty seat beside me. As it was across the aisle from her son and only one down, she had an excellant view of him. My French faltered but she understood and gladly accepted. I could tell she did not want to sleep on the floor and she was embarassed about blocking the path.

Thus began my lesson. It turned out that we had somebody in common. Years earlier I'd taken part in a French immersion program in a small town in Quebec and stayed with a host family. This woman was from that small town and friends with this lady. What were the odds?

As the country blurred by in the dark, with the forced intimacy of the seats and the knowledge that we weren't total strangers, we began to talk. Or, she did. The language barrier fell. Her other son had died of leukemia only weeks earlier. Now I understood why she'd seemed to be an overly indulgent and fussy parent. I was beginning to learn something about myself and how things were not always what they seemed.

My bad accent did not matter as she did most of the talking. Her weeks of pain were permitted to come out in the rocking of the train and in the intimacy of the dark. She didn't have to be strong in front of me like she did in front of her child. Then, finally, she slept.

There's a saying that "God is in the details". I'm an atheist but I shall appropriate it for the time being as it works. It really is the little things that count. One never knows how that quick smile or kind word can make a difference. Merely listening to somebody or allowing them to vent may allow a person to get through another day. Some people are grasping for anything that works, much as the drowning person flailing away. Conversely, that which we do can also be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back. The one final thing at the end of a very bad week that pushes somebody over.

As the economy sinks deeper into an abysmal quagmire, the stress on people will only worsen. I think it's important that I remember the lesson learned on the train.

I'M NOT RELIGIOUS -SO WHY DOES EVERYTHING FEEL LIKE A SIN?

I remember the first guy that I ever liked was Dominic T and I was ten years old. To this day I am still drawn to that dark, Italian look. There was a craze in school that year that one had to write down your secret crush on a piece of paper and little tidbits of information and then share it with your friends. So much for secrecy. My mother found it. She called me into the kitchen and I knew right off that i had done something wrong.

"If you're old enough to be doing that sort of thing..." she began. She then let go on a tirade. I cannot remember the rest of it. I just remember the shame. I felt the heat starting in my ears and filling my body. My cheeks stayed inflamed for the longest time. The gist of it was that if I was old enough to do something like that I was old enough to basically undertake the duties of the Oval Office.

What I had done was obviously bad. Liking a boy was evil. I would not do it again.

I was reminded of this a while back because my neice has a crush on the Jonas Brothers and my mother was joking about it as though it were no big deal. She thought that it was cute.

We were not religious and I was not the sort of person that my conduct warranted any lockdown of the prison gates. I was not boy crazy. Far from it. I took books with me when we went camping, for God's sake.

Something about that day stayed with me for I did not date in school. I opted not to attend highschool dances. The message got reinforced by something that took place later on.

I spent the summer of my eleventh year with my Grandparents in Europe and met some of my cousins. Afterwards, we kept in touch by mail. Finally, a couple of years later, it was time to return. I was really looking forward to it and I had purchased gifts. Due to the frequent letter writing, I had included some stationary. When we arrived at the large family gathering, my cousins were waiting and waving.

"Oh, you can't give them the gift." said my Dad. "They've changed." It took me a second to get what he meant and then it dawned on me. Oh...they'd grown up. They had breasts. I guess as we were now 15 that was normal. They were the same people that I knew from our correspondence. They had not turned into the Whores of Babylon. Yet, somehow, I picked up the very clear message that there was something wrong with their having matured. I was fairly thin and a late bloomer. I pulled back and I know that the visit was marred by it. We never kept in touch again. To this day I do not know what they have gone on and done with their lives. As for the stationary, it sat in a drawer in my bedroom for years.

Not only did I not partake of the normal rights of passage in highschool, but I did not wear makeup. Somehow I also sensed that it would not be okay. After I graduated I went on a student exchange program. Away from home I felt freer and let loose. I bought some tasteful, subdued stuff. My Mother and brother scoffed about it when they saw it on me. I felt like I was the painted, scarlet woman.

Had we been Southern Baptists I could have rationalized all of it. We were not. I really don't think my parents even remember this and I certainly would never bring it up. But, as an adult I still have not introduced anybody to my family as a parter, date, significant other, fill in the blanks or none of the above. Nothing. I start to fidget when somebody so much as hints at asking me out.

It was in university that my anorexia manifested itself. I never had treatment. I always say that my love of reading and my natural insight was my therapy. And hey, it was all free. But seriously, I would not recommend it.

REFLECTIONS ON SEPTEMBER 11 AND REGRET

(Background: A while back I was at work. Technically, we are entitled to a break but it doesn't happen. I like to write or read. While doing it, Blair called and asked what I was doing and I told him that I was reworking something I had written. We started to talk about regrets. I asked him---what would you regret more should you find out that you had a short time to live? That which you did or that which you did not do with your life. He did not hesitate in giving me his answer. Sadly, about a month later he became ill. Tests showed he had cancer. Blair died this past month. So, I finished the piece and it's dedicated to my friend.)

The beauty of the day somehow added to the unreality of the event. There were blue skies over much of the continent that morning. Though it was the first week of school for most, it was so much like summer that the impetus to play hooky must have been felt by many. Even the jaded worker drones had to have heard the faint laughs of Tom and Huck and contemplated calling in sick.

The initial incomprehensibility may have been as a reult of the spate of l970's disaster movies we'd watched. It was the hijacked plane, the towering inferno and Black Sunday group somehow interspliced into one film. Perhaps that without the laugh track, musical score or commentary by Larry King we're no longer capable of processing events on our own. Reality, however, did finally hit. This was no "War of the Worlds" with relief at hand during the next commercial break.

Each year as September 11 comes around, I chose to reflect on how this traumatic event has really affected my life. I do not fly, but as a result of my finances I didn't travel before. I am not in a job negatively impacted by that day. I have never mistaken the white powder on the counter for anything but spilled sugar or salt and I do not scan public places for mysterious packages. My only fear of the postal system relates to my Visa bill.

What I can't get beyond, however, is the last minutes in the lives of those people who fell or leapt from the skies. The people on some of the planes kn ew after the first furitive phone calls what awaited them. They had several minutes to appraise their lives; to become their own St. Peter.

Who did these people choose to call? Did they profess their love or their apologies? As they sat huddled in the back of those planes and went through the balance sheet of their lives did they have more regrets over what they did or what they did not do? Did they lament not smiling at the person on the train that they'd always secretly liked? Did they finally accept their talents and recognize the waste in not developing them? Was it the silence over last night's dinner that haunted them?

The reports that we heard via the media conveyed the concern towards others that these final calls displayed. Not only did they talk about love for their families, but they wanted to reassure them somehow that everything would be all right. "Don't worry, it will be quick", said one caller. They did not seek an outlet for their own terror, but rather wanted to alleviate that of others. "Be happy, I love you and go on."

The ultimate form of altruism was displayed by the rescue personnel and the passengers on Flight 93. The fire staff were proffesionals of whom many must have assessed the situation and realized that they would not make it out. They nevertheless put on their gear and headed up the stairs. There were reports even of untrained civilians who stopped to help strangers in those two towers; this in a city that once embraced its brusqueness and where aloofness was a badge of cool. Some of these people died in the staircases as they could not leave another human alone in that hell. It would seem that the inherent strength and goodness of these people was magnified at the end; they became even more of their true selves.

In the end it is this that I cannot get beyond; the final minutes. The people that even as they jumped to their deaths took the hand of another. Those passengers who had mere minutes to assess, comprehend, plan and act to avoid a far graver catastrophe. As they looked out at that beautiful blue sky and knew that it would momentarily be gone to them forever they somehow saw beyond that horizon and past themselves.

I think of the lines spoken in commemoration of another conflict..."Never have so few sacrificed so much for so many" and ask myself what would I do in those last few minutes? More so, what are we capable of doing now? Finally, why do we allow those regrets to build and why are there far too many moments not taken? So on September 11, I will think of the profound sadness of the day itself but also of the waste and neglect we allow to happen each day.

FILLING THE HOLLOW

I feed the hollow,
Hard, heavy pit within.
Yet all that I swallow,
Doesn't fill, doesn't kill
Doesn't keep the feelings in.

But still I eat.
Frenzied, fast; a furitive game,
Mad dash, a clock to beat.
To shove it down---dark and deep.
All the guilt and all of the shame.

'Til at last, how it aches
Bloated, bleary. A greasy feast.
A carnage of boxes of candy and cakes.
But the void has been silenced.
Numb now, this sleeping beast.

Not a good call

I got off the phone with my mother a while back and my father went to the hospital today. He is back home now, but must go in for tests tomorrow and surgery on Wednesday. At least I am on rest days and I had booked a vacation day for that day, so I shall drive out.

Dad had gone in for Lasik eye work a while ago and he'd had a bad reaction...a detachment. The doctor made sure that he was prone in the vehicle as he was driven to the hospital for the check up so as to not do any more damage. That's how bad it was.

I wrote of guilt the other day and there it comes again. I guess I am feeling now how they felt every day for the longest time with me when I was ill. They need not have done so of course, as they did nothing wrong.

My parents came to this country from Europe with nothing and basically learned the language on their own. Mom was so young and it must have been so scary. Back in those days when you left, you were gone. You came with whatever goods you could pack into a couple of trunks. To make a long distance phone call you had to get on the phone with the operator and book an appointment. The link was always terrible. I doubt anybody now remembers telegrams, but they existed for a reason. When they got here, Dad became ill and had to spend half a year in a TB ward. It was a shameful thing, as only poor people got that disease. Mom found a job in a hospital and then visited him daily after her shift. It was a long, hard recovery.

Years later, my Dad developed cancer. It was one of those ones that most people died from. Through absolute tenacity he made it. But it was so hard to go in to visit him. In days he went from this big, strong guy to a man weighing nothing. He refused morphine as he didn't like how it messed with his head and he had a theory that he needed his faculties to fight it. I had to shut down to go in to visit him. I didn't want him to see that it hurt to visit. I have become really good at doing that with my job.

Mom worked as a cleaning lady despite arthritis. They gave her this thing called "gold treatment shots" (layman's term) to treat it. The side effect almost killed her. The doctor said that had she not gone to the hospital when she did, she had hours to live. Her blood platelet count was almost nothing and she wasn't clotting.

They have gone through so much and really deserve to enjoy their retirement, yet I never see them sitting still. Always worrying about others and fussing around.

Ah, guilt. Me and my shadow, as the song goes. I may be healthy weight wise, but I can never forgive myself. I will go and visit and hope that all is well.

WHO? Controversy and Claire Culhane

A while back I was speaking with a newly minted graduate from a Criminal Justice Institute and much to my surprise he did not know who Claire Culhane was.

Claire was born in Montreal in l918 to Russian, Jewish immigrant parents. Early on, her social activist roots came forth when she joined the Communist Party. This was done as they were the only people at the time speaking out or doing anything about the regime in Spain. It put her on the RCMP watchdog list for life, but was nothing compared to what would have happened had she lived in the U.S.

Her job managed to get her a posting in Vietnam in the l960.s in a medical facility. It was the events that took place at this hospital which really inspired her. She saw that Canada had dirty hands in its dealings with the CIA. She was sickened by the comments made by some of those she encountered towards the civilian population.

When she returned to Canada she became heavily involved in the peace movement and went on a hunger-strike in a "tiger cage" on Parliament Hill. I cannot help but think that had she been younger, people now would remember her more. After all, we still talk of the 60's radicals from the States as they were young and sexy. Claire was 50 when the Tet Offensive took place.

In the 70's she became involved in the prison abolitionist movement. These were turbulent times for the prisons on the west coast there were numerous hostage takings and riots. One culminated in the shooting death of a female classification officer. After this, when another incident took place, Claire was seen by the inmates as a trusted advisor and go-between, as were some people in the media.

My path first crossed briefly with Claire in the l980's at a conference at SFU. She must have been 65 years of age at the time. The topic was prison privatization and as Reagan and Thatcher were in power, this was increasingly the plan of action in the U.S. The learned professors had spoken and Claire, if I recall correctly, was not a slated speaker but nobody was going to stop her. I heard a seat move behind me and up she stood. She gave a talk and a phrase she used still stands out. She called this the "privatization of misery".

Over the years I saw her a couple of times. I'd nod hello and ask how she was. She was active well into the 80's in picketing jails. Until her death in l996 she continuued to write to inmates.

I have met and spoken with people who were involved in the various incidents described in her two books "Barred from Prison" and "Still Barred from Prison". The inmates all consider her a very kind and caring woman. Others state that her facts were wrong. They pointed out that during one of the incidents she was caught removing letters (contraband) on behalf of the inmates.

In truth, I find her thinking on abolition deluded. There are people who must be locked up. You cannot safely allow them to roam the streets. Although mistakes have been made, on the whole our justice system is fair. By the time they hit prison, most people have had several kicks at the proverbial can. Peace, love and understanding does not cure all. But, I admire her for trying and being true to herself. While it was ultimately the work by lawyers such as Michael Jackson who brought down the walls of the B.C. Pen in his landmark cruel and unusual punishment work, Claire was the heart.

A controversial woman. Not somebody that I would always agree with. But, she does deserve to be remembered.

(Photo from Mcmaster University Archives)

As an aside, a quick book review. I haven't read any of these in years, but here goes:

Prisoners of Isolation: Solitary Confinement in Canada

author-Michael Jackson

University of Toronto Press

This is hardly reading for the bedside table, but this is a great overview of landmark, cruel and unusual punishment court cases. For all those people who don't understand why the system seems soft, I may recommend this book. The ruling in McCann changed how the jail system works. You do not need a law degree to read the book.

Barred From Prison: A Personal Account

author-Claire Culhane

Pulp Press

As stated, this is a personal account and includes clippings from newspaper articles. It is Claire's side of the story and is thus slanted. It is a classic in the prison abolitionist movement. It includes photos of the damage done during the riot; large holes in solid concrete and brick made by the force of toilets and beds smashing into it. It is very much a book of it's time (like Abby Hoffman's "Steal this Book").

Still Barred from Prison: Social Injustice in Canada

author-Claire Culhane

Black Rose Books

This time Claire takes on the new, sanitized system. Same old problems, as she describes the riots at Matsqui and Kent. Once again, Claire is only telling one side of the story. It is a larger overview of the system than her previous book. She looks at management this time also and not merely the frontline dynamics.

Book Review---Losing It

Losing It-And Gaining My Life Back One Pound at a Time
Valerie Bertinelli
Free Press

In this book, Valerie Bertinelli offers a biographical overview of her life with emphasis on her struggles with her marriage and weight. The two go hand in hand.

Growing up I remember wishing that I looked like her. I was always thin when I was young, but it's the old adage of wanting what we don't have. Being blond and blue eyed, I thought her dark hair looked more exotic. She also had that bubbley and cute personality that I envied. As I read the book I came to realize that she too felt ill at ease around the much slimmer Mckenzie Phillips and the classic blondes of the era.

While perceived to be the "good girl" she did her fair share of drugs. Her marriage to Van Halen rocker Ed obviously enabled that to take place, as did her working relationship with the aforementioned Mckenzie.

It was the failure of her marriage that caused her weight problems to intensify. But hey, we read all the time how happy and perfect the marriage was---didn't we? Imagine how hard that must be? Not only would she have to act on stage but all the time. To some extent we all do that (we, being women), but the pressure is all the more intense in Hollywood with the ever present tabloids. Whether or not one is given a role is also dependent on how one looks. Young and thin are de rigeur.

Ms Bertinelli came to realize that her weight struggles were not merely about what she ate but more a mirror of her psyche. As she came to terms with that, the roller coaster of her diet stopped.

The book is a quick read. To some extent I think she doesn't fully ask the really hard questions. For example, why would she show up smelling of wine and give her husband a kiss when he was in rehab? To some degree it shows passive aggressive behavior. Other than that, she does admit to some naughty business, such as having an affair. That's fairly bold of her as her script offers really do depend on her being perceived as being nice.

It's a good read if one wants entertainment. It is not a primer on eating disorders. I did like it, however.