I Want to be a Writer

There has never been a time in my life when I didn't want to be a writer. Plenty of times when I didn't think I could but never a time when I didn't want it. My problem is, though, actually putting myself out there. I write a lot. I've got enough so that if, god forbid, anything happened (oh my, how far I've come from suicide-watch 2010! Hurray!) there'd be enough for a meager posthumous collection, but I do nothing with those stories except fret over them for months before abandoning them to the ethers of my hard driver.

So, how do I become more ambitious or motivated or less terrified of failing? For real, I need help, advice, mentoring, some sort of sadist to push me past my limits. And until someone says, "I will lead you, Alex, I will kick your ass into gear!" I am going to have to work on it on my own. Fortunately, another one of my personality traits is that once a gauntlet is thrown I will do anything to make that shit happen. Exhibit A, reading War and Peace until my eyes crossed and I got a migraine because I was in a race to finish (full disclosure: I took up the non-existent challenge when my friend said he was giving himself a month to read the thirteen hundred page behemoth).

Now, I'm issuing another challenge to myself and, with you all as my witnesses, my ego (the same ego that assumes that A) people are reading this blog and B) that you, possibly imaginary, readers care) will not allow me to drop this one. I am going to submit every story I write, repeatedly if necessary, until I either get published or drop dead from heart break over my failure.  

Wish me luck!

Fun Times Over at Once Again, to Zelda

Mosey on over to Once Again, to Zelda all new and shiny and with giveaways!

Stop Calling it a Ground Zero Mosque and Start Calling Out Islamophobia

Ordinarily, I try to stay out of the crazy politics of America. I admit that I followed the last election with glee because of that lovable Mama Grizzly train-wreck, Sarah Palin, but for the most part I try to remember that I'm Canadian and there is really absolutely nothing I can do (besides, we have our own dictator-style government to worry about).


But, I do consider an article written by a Canadian, for a Canadian newspaper fair game. Today, Rosi DiManno of the Toronto Star threw in her two cents on the whole hyperbolized "ground zero mosque" quagmire. She believes (like the Harry Reids, Newt Gingrichs and everyone's favourite crank, Glenn Beck) that just because they (that inflammatory, exoticisation of any one not white and middle-class) have the right, doesn't mean it's right. And the earth spins a little faster, fueled by an overwhelming self-righteousness. You see, they are not Islamophobes, nooooooo, they just think Muslims shouldn't rub it in American's faces that they have a right to their religion.


Aside from the obvious, rational, logical and, well, smart reasons that building a Islamic community centre two blocks away from where fringe radicals committed a horrifying act of terrorism isn't a slap in America's collective face (um, I think I actually just listed them anyway), the best part of this article is where DiManno writes off that racist, hateful piece of human garbage, Pastor Jones (the fuckwit who proposed burning Qurans as a measured response to the Cordoba House) as a fringe radical who isn't representative of the rest of America. "If such vast opposition has not always been articulated well and too much attention focused on the most fringe elements of ignorant bigots — especially that ridiculous Florida pastor who threatened to torch the Qur’an — this stubborn swell of resistance can’t be brusquely dismissed as Islamophobia."


Wait a second, so a few (ha!) racists in America who hate Muslims and want to burn their holy book shouldn't be held up as typical, ordinary Americans? Then why the fuck are we judging an entire religion by the actions of a radical minority? Paradox!


It is painfully obvious that Republican politicians are using this polarizing issue for political gain (crazy? I know!) because it is an issue that is not only up for debate (zoning was approved ages ago) but the two politicians who should actually have a say, President Obama and Mayor Bloomberg, have both backed the project. Not to mention that the people who were most affected by 9/11 and who will be most affected by Cordoba House, Manhattanites support the plan by 53%, with a luke warm 31% opposed.


A couple of years ago, my imaginary best friend, Sarah Vowell, was on the Daily Show and basically summed up what has always rubbed me the wrong way about the right-wing's treatment of 9/11: "They wrap themselves in our attack and then they leave and talk about what snobs we are...If the East Coast Is American enough For Al-Qaeda, It should be American enough for them."


Some wack-job dude in Florida, as well as all those Fox news "pundits" should not get to co-opt a non-existent rage on behalf of those liberal elite that they so hate. Same goes for Canadians who beg the whole not to be judged by the actions of a few crazies but condemn millions of people based on the actions of a few... crazies. 

Pa's Life Part One: Riding the Rails

My grandfather, Howard Jamieson, did more with his eighty-three years than most people could accomplish in three lifetimes; he did so much that it actually seems more folk-lore than actually possible, truly the stuff of legends. It really doesn't matter if it is all true or if there are exaggerations here and there because these stories were, are the essence of Pa; they illustrate his personality, his dreams, the life he lived.

Pa was an only child, a late gift to his mother and father; they were an inseparable trio and if his parents, my great-grandparents, had ever promised a higher power that they would shower their child with love and adoration in return for said child then they kept up their end of the bargain until their last days. There was a story told at Pa's funeral last week of his childhood friend getting up early, completing two paper routes, mowing the lawn and getting his hair cut before heading over to call on his friend Howard only to be told by my great-grandma that "little Howdy was still sleeping". Spoiled but not rotten.

Pa got kicked out of two high schools, one of which was the same high school that spit Neil Young out a few years later, Kelvin High School. He then (now the exact details, locations, dates and time lines get a little murky) decided to follow his dreams and head down to America to become a boxer. This dream lasted approximately five minutes into his first match, as a spectator no less. Luckily, Pa was a man of many dreams and so after ditching the boxing he legged it down to the racing track (dogs, I think) and was waiting in line to place his first ever bet when a smooth-talking chap wandered up and told him all about a sure thing and well, now he could go on down and place the bet for Pa. Unfortunately, Pa bought this hook, line and sinker and thus our guy was left penniless in a foreign country. Having no other choice, in order to get home Pa hopped the rails and proceeded to be chased from the US by a state trouper; he was told never to return. 

After spending some time as a door to door salesman in Montreal, Pa returned to Winnipeg and did what few high school bad-asses attempt: he got into med-school and became a plastic surgeon. Oh, and at some point between med-school and Montreal he played a season for the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. 

Next: Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose

And We Liked It!

Tonight I was hanging with my sister at my grandpa's when he brought out a photocopied article from the National Post (gag) that he thought I might like, "I Remember When Music Wasn't Crappy"; a lament on the so-called decline in music since the 1950's, the main example being Nickleback.

Now, I would like to step on Chad Kroeger's throat as much as the next person but come on, as if they are representative of all modern music but that is what people, especially old people, freaking love; they love trotting out the old back in my day statements that tell us yootes how times used to be simpler, nicer, better. I am so exhausted of hearing that crap; you know what, I'm so glad that I didn't have to walk four miles to school everyday, in a foot of snow, uphill... both ways; and I'm glad that music has evolved past the I love you, please love me, love is so great, don't ever leave me lyrics of days of yore.

I wish for once that a in my day rant really told things how they were: Back in my day, women didn't vote, heck neither did African Americans* or Aboriginals* *; we were small-minded and prejudiced; we had segregation and the H-Bomb and the McCarthy witch-hunts and Vietnam; we helped wreck the earth and basically we fucked over just about every group of people except white dudes! And we liked it! 


* Usually one of these rants would use a slightly more, ahem, offensive term for African Americans.
** Ditto, for Aboriginals.

Sundaes on Saturday

On Wednesday evening I had the privilege of bearing witness to my grandfather's last breath. With my grandmother hugging him, my mother holding his hand he opened his eyes for the last time and smiled at my mum before his six year battle with Louie Body Dementia came to a close. A disease that masqueraded as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's and stole his mobility, his memory but never his humour, his love, his dignity, his bravery.

I have had a video playing through my mind since, a continual stream of images and moments of Pa. There I am jumping into bed between him and Barber (Pa is what I christened him as a wee one, Barber for my grandmother Barbara, shortened compliments of my little brother), careful not to land on my brother, sister and who ever else found themselves congregating in the heart of the home.

Now, he is tickling me and giving me whisker burns -- you know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where that dude reaches into the guy's chest, pulls out his still-beating heart and kind of shakes it, grinning? That is my Pa to a T. The rattling jewelry (Pa always wore three watches; two on one wrist, one on the other), the maniacal grin, the slightly crazy eyes; it's a similarity that my brother and I laughed about as recently as last week.

Skip ahead to Christmas morning when I was eleven, thoroughly ensconced in my tom-boy phase; the year when I was determined to be the new Huck Finn. I had been asking for a sling-shot and boy, did I get one. Pa gave me a state of the art, army issued sling-shot complete with metal ball-bearings (which were taken away almost immediately). As soon as the snow melted, he was at the cottage, building me a proper target. I was going to be the best damn shot around.

And now, he is serenading us with Russian sounding gibberish songs, and dancing with Barber, taking a break from the dishes.

And baking a cake with green icing five inches thick for my birthday. I remember that even as a sugar-crazy six year old, feeling that a cake that rich could not be good for me.

And suturing up my brother's head, again and again (Dave was, is a bit of a wild daredevil and he could afford to be with a plastic surgeon for a grandfather).

There we are talking and I am telling him that I will be the first woman in baseball's Major Leagues and he is telling me that he will send me to the best baseball camp in the States (never mind that the camp wasn't for girls). And he wasn't just indulging me, a ten year old who was mediocre at best at baseball (I had only played one season but, oh man, was I obsessed with A League of Their Own and Sandlot), he genuinely believed that I would be the first woman in the MLB.

Our tradition was that we used to go for Sundaes on Saturdays at an old ice-cream parlour called Dutch Maid in Winnipeg where we would indulge in Sundaes the size of our heads.

I have a huge collection of shells and stones from beaches across the globe because on every trip Barber and Pa went on he would walk along the shore specially to pick me up a present. There are shells from the Adriatic and stones from the Dead Sea, the Pacific, the Atlantic, every gulf and bay you could name.

In my mind he is walking up to my grandmother, after disappearing for several hours, with a bouquet of wild flowers, saying "beauty for beauty".

And more recently, at Christmas, seeing him get out of his wheelchair and sprint down the hall because he "felt like exercise". This when a couple steps drained him to exhaustion.

The last time he recognized me was when I visited in April. He looked at my sister and I when Barber told him who we were and he said "oh! But they've gotten so big!"

There are steps at our family cottage, his cottage, on one of the decks that he built specially for me. I was three; the steps are only fit for a toddler yet they end a couple feet short of the ground (actually, a rock-hill that rolls into the water) and so are completely unfit for a toddler.

But that was the way he was, he went full gusto into everything he ever did but always did so with a sense of humour and whimsy. Not everything made sense -- at one point he put huge castor wheels on to all the furniture at the lake and so all the furniture was elevated by a foot -- but he went for it anyway and if nothing else, we his loving, adoring family have a plethora of amazing stories to tell.

It is surreal to imagine the rest of my life without my Pa. He has touched my life so profoundly, shaped so much of who I am that the pain seems as though it will never dull. My tongue doesn't seem to be able to form the word Barber without following it up with and Pa.

Being able to be with him at the end, able to help wash him and wrap him in his and Barber's favourite quilt, able to hold him and kiss him goodbye was the greatest gift I could ever have asked for. And that was all made possible by Barber.

Barber, the love of his life, his wife of fifty years and mother of his four children, kept him in their home. She cared for him when it seemed impossible. She was with him everyday for the past six years, never away for more than a couple hours; there was never the option of him not sleeping in her arms every night. I feel richer in my life for having witnessed their love.

Ah, I am a blubbering mess -- time to go curl up beside my mum -- but there is more to come... So many stories, so many memories and Pa was larger than life, he deserves more than one measly post!




Next post: Riding the Rails, Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose.

Goddamned Right, It's a Beautiful Day

Today was the first day that I felt grateful to be alive. Fucked up, I know. I don't know why it has taken me so long to feel like I dodged a bullet; I have had plenty of good times since my suicide attempt; lots of pints with friends, the best gig of my life (Flaming Lips, OMG!!!), going to the beach, exploring my city, parties, amazing food, amazing company; but for whatever reason, I kind of took it for granted, kind of even resented that I survived.

Thinking about that day, the overdoes day, is pretty hard both physically (I was a little, ahem, drugged out so it's pretty hazy) and emotionally (for fairly obvious reasons). It's hard to fully accept what happened; what led me to the biggest fuck you, but I know I wasn't myself, I know now that I was in an abusive friendship and that helped spur me along. I know I was angry; I know I was in the deepest possible despair.

Shit, I was so frustrated, still am, with my life. My life, that I have always valued and grabbed ahold of the happiness no matter how small, where that for so long wasn't enough. I don't understand what it is that makes me undateable; or what spurred on a friend to treat me like I was lower than dirt, that I had nothing to contribute to the world. I don't know why my dad brought me up to fear him or why I am here, in Toronto, my home, and not a priority to anyone within a thousand mile radius. This shit sucks. I wish I was successful. I wish I had money. I wish there was someone who wasn't related to me who was thinking about me right now.

Waa-fucking-waa. I am healthy. I am intelligent and I am pretty. I am going to school to learn Latin and Greek and how to dig up bones and why Anna Karenina is relevent. I have amazing tits. I have best friends scattered over the globe and places to stay in Edinburgh and Tirana and Copenhagen. I live in a beautiful city where I can get shwarma until four am and where I have seen some of my most favourite bands ever. I not only get along with my family, both extended and immediate, but I really really like (most of) them. There is an adorable dog who loves to stick her tongue in my mouth. I live in a world where Arrested Development exists and Deadwood and Firefly and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I live in an age where I, a white woman, can be almost as good as a white man (I wish all woman, all people of colour were as fortunate as I am, but right now I'm trying to be grateful for anything I have -- and I plan on fighting until we are all equal). I am glad I learned to read and that I have access to the greatest books of all time. I am so happy that my biggest physical impediment is being a little overweight, something that is completely within my ability to change. I have friends that love me and whom I love. I have friends that when I text them to come for a beer, they show up. I throw fucking awesome parties and I can blow minds with my cooking. I can make people laugh and I, in turn, can laugh with people.

There is so much to give me hope, to make my life worth living and for whatever reason, it has taken me five months to see that. It doesn't mean that tomorrow I will see rainbows or the next day or the next. Tomorrow something might happen and I might look to my wrists longingly but right now, this moment, while I sit at my local with a delicious, cold pint I want to live.