Here it goes.
Twenty-six started slow. At the Keg. But not Leslie. The Mansion Keg. Where I was. Filling a shift. After midnight sitting. The bar alone. But for Nikki. I’m twenty-six. Disbelief set in. Drink in hand. Far from home. Far from sanity. Years from sanity. But hopeful nonetheless. Twenty-something-hopeful. Hope springs eternal. In your twenties. That is, only.
Back from Keg. In basement apartment. Lived below family. A loud family. With two children. With weight issues. And stomping issues. They rose early. Earlier than me. I sat outside. To avoid noise. With New Yorker. My tanning lotion. My current book. Sunglasses and water. Alone, reading, thinking. The whole summer. Two jobs going. One at night. One all day. Every day, endless. But I persevered. The backyard, grass. My tan, golden. Talking on phone. Standing in shower. Watching the rain. Learning, eating, alone. In bed, alone. Watching TV, alone. Underground, with wallpaper. Open-concept kitchen. Air-conditioning, cold. Watching the crows. Conversations with God. Sitting on steps. Watching cars drive. Listening, my head. My head, spinning. Short-story reading. Answering the phone. Ordering Chinese food. Rolling the carpet. After the flood. Lots of rain. Loved the crows. Followed the crows. Through the park. On running shoes. On roller-blades. Falling, tripping, embarrassed. Got over it.
Back to backyard. Then the snow. White, falling, quiet. No loud noise. Discovering new shows. Another twenty-birthday. Thai food, Rosedale. Ernest Hemingway book. Chili in food. Friends at table. Birthday candle-blowing. New Yorker renewing. Toronto Life arriving. Getting thrown out. Or, evicted out.
New apartment hunt. Late October, fall. Move-in date. Hallow’s Eve Night. Black and orange. My new windows. The church outside. The loud street. A Toronto street. My new couch. My old bed. My endless loneliness. My constant books. Summer next year. Hottest in years. New century, hot. Hot summer weather. Hot brick building. No air-conditioning. No mercy, ever. The fourth storey. Facing the east. The morning sun. Beaming in, always. The a/c unit. My parents bought. My friend installed. I read a lot. The Fountainhead summer. Sitting at window. In a chair. Getting into Rand. Getting into myself. Turned twenty-eight. End of summer. Pre-September eleventh. Pre the collapse. Falling in love. Another October month. My sister’s engagement. Her wedding plans. My laryngitis, voice. Nothing to say. The time marching. My love affair. My subsequent heartbreak. Recorded in walls. Etched on heart. My heart died. It awakened later. But never fully.
The next season. Wore in, out. No date to. Take to my. My sister’s wedding. Bright blue day. Lots of people. Sister in white. Smiles, hugs, toasts. I’m twenty-nine. In the photos. Bright blue dress. Birks’ box-blue. Had to cut. Myself out of. The blue dress. A few months. And, suddenly, thirty! A new decade. A new heart. A new spirit. Where is that. Twenty-something girl? I think, mirror. Where do I. Go to now? Who do I. Go to now?
Life on Bathurst. Continued unabated, slow. The walls unpainted. My unwillingness to. Settle into home. To accept it. To accept myself. It-what was. Not-what if. My hair, short. My hair, long. My skin, pale. My skin, tan. Is that it? Just each season? Not each day. Can’t remember “each”. Just the “every”. Everytime I cried. Everytime I failed. Everytime I folded. Up into myself. A small chair. By the window. Looking out, dreaming. I still dreamed. On the fridge. Poems I loved. The Table poem. The Mutilated World. Poems from Globe. The paper drew. Me back into. My own world. Then one day.
I went out. Back out in. To the world. The one out. There, the window. The door open.
My heart open. Not fully there. But open nonetheless.
August, thirty-one. Another hot summer. Not much changed. Same Bathurst apartment. Same two jobs. Same little car. Same little life. But I adjusted. My outlook on. The future, somewhat. Less fear now. More hope now. What changed, when? Can’t really tell. Just..hope and. More hope and. Some more money. Did that help? Maybe it did.
I can’t recall. Just knowing that. I could keep. It up alone. Helped, maybe, maybe.
What was read? That random summer? Maybe 1984 again. Maybe some Hemingway. Maybe Chick-lit only. Dulling my senses. Not my memory. That remained intact. I could remember. The past clearly. The white walls. The tangled sheets. Who was there. Who I was. With that person. Then you move. Onto someone else. You both do. You have to.
Thirty-two came. And gave back. The first age. In a dog’s. Age to give. Something back to. Me, myself, I. Renewal, new person. Something special, real. Safe, comfortable, chess. Games, not really. Love, yes, maybe. The golden compass. Another warm October. Along Lake Ontario. Turning to winter. But this time. With a friend.
Trips, births, deaths. I’m thirty-three. I’ve dreaded it. For many years. Is it cursed? Seemed to be. My mom’s illness. My nephew’s illness. My own anxiety. A new home. But I can’t. Enjoy it yet. Not while everything. Is upside down. In my life. In their lives. In all our. Collectively screwed lives. I lose weight. Alot, without thinking. I go away. On a trip. With an acquaintance. And her viewpoint. Opens my eyes. Just like that. Life’s beauty and. Endless power to. Surprise, comes back. Open my eyes. And look at. My life, earth. It’s sliding by. The ocean surf. The jet-ski rides. The little houses. The ragged streets. I come home. Changed forever, in. A good way. Tanned, happy, calm. I feel peace. Never feel that! Thirty-four arrives. Just in time. I’m still calm. Nothing seems to. Rattle my cage. Like it used. To do, always. I don’t react. I just live. I can’t control. What will happen. What won’t happen. Life will happen. I want to. Make it happen. But I don’t. Obsess over it. Anymore, at all. Heartbreak can arrive. At any time. It can also. Leave whenever you. Can let it. I go away. Again, and again. It changes me. Back to my. Old young self. Carefree, unfettered, unwilling. To give up. This late date.
Those three words. Look at what. They have done. And then undone. And done again.
Eight quick years. Running across pages. Only two more. To finish writing. This little post.
Thirty five, August. A nice party. With good girlfriends. The year flies. More than ever. I visit Europe. For the first. And last time? I prefer heat. And beach and. Not a city.
Another long winter. But I persevere. I reunite with. Him, the him. Of three times. Third time’s a. Charm, they say. Are they right? I hope so. We witness love. A lot of it. It’s all around. Us, and me. It changes him. Too, I hope. We move in. Not a big. Deal or fanfare. Just us, together. No illusions and. No real surprises. We’re two confirmed. Singles who just. Happened to find. Single each other.
Thirty-six just. Under two months. Ago, really, without. A big realization. I’m just at. That stage of. New mid-life. Where you can. If you try. Hard, still look. Pretty good, and. You can, if. You really want. To, lie shamelessly. About your age. Which I don’t. Re-connecting with. An old friend. One who has. Known me for. More than years. More than these. Ten little years. And has been. Away from my. Life for almost. That amount of. Took an opportunity. For some introspection.
An opportunity to. Evaluate when, exactly. My dream to. Write went away. Or rather, when. I filed that. Dream under “later”. But guess what? Later is now.
Later is ten. Years old today.
Happy birthday later.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Artistic Temperment
As soon as you accept the idea that you are in control of your
thoughts you will be able to create your own happiness.
When I try to classify where it is I fall on the spectrum of "personality type", I always have a hard time. Partly because I get the sense, say, if I'm trying to describe myself, that I'm all over the place, which really, depending on whom I'm interacting with and where, I am.
It's kind of like those quizzes you sometimes complete in a magazine that you might read at the gym, you fill it in with your head, you're on the elliptical and you don't have a pen. If you get this many "D's" you are a gregarious, instantly-befriending type; if you get a certain amount of B's you are shy, retiring, and someone who never goes after what they want; if you amass a bunch of A's, you are a go-getter, ruthless, a true "type A".
So my personality type is part type A, with that 'get it done' instinct, but then I have a thoughtful dreamer thrown in there too. Over-sensitive to the plights of this world? That's me, too.
So describing myself in any realm is never that simple.
The day began at 5 am, because this is the time my mind decided to wake the rest of me up, ready or not, to think about things that are best left alone.
My boyfriend's step mom summed up what one needs to do when niggled with those mind-gone-wild thoughts at 4, 5am, and it's this: "Let the thoughts just drift away like a leaf blowing in the wind." It sounds SO amazing, so simple, so d0-able, and yet, unlike the lovely quote that heads this post, at 5 am I HAVE NO CONTROL. It starts with the Next Day, as in what do I have to do the Next Day, or, at 5 am, That Day, and why I can't control my mind, or at least corner it into pretending to think positively. No leaf blowing was going to happen.
I turned to the state of the desparate, trying to get a few more precious minutes, minutes, I'm saying, of sleep. I decided to count sheep. Not just any sheep. The clay-mation sheep from the Serta ads, that look so forlorn on the commercials, when the person gets a new mattress and no longer needs the clay-mation sheep. Well, I needed them. I tried to count them all, their sad, forlorn faces imprinted on my brain from the ads.
Guess what? Yea. Yup.
NOTHING.
So I saw this quote today on a 'positive thinking' website, and it seems so ...easy. But I sometimes have trouble controlling my own thoughts. They've controlled me for so long. Listening to a church sermon at the baptism of a good friend's little baby on sunday, the minister said something that really struck me: "No amount of worrying will add even one hour to your lifespan". It was almost like what Oprah defines as one of her "aha" moments. I literally have used worry as a shield for years, decades, eternities. And the minister is right. Time will march on, fate will chalk up what it wants, your life will unfold, streets into streets on the folds of the map of where you're going, taking whatever route it wants, ending up in the same destination. That is, where you're meant to be. Do you have a say in it? To some extent, yes. Meaning, you get to decide where you turn left or right. But, as I mentioned to a friend in a conversation of "discourse" the big decisions in life are sometimes made for you--meaning, you don't make them, so they make themselves. All those big things, the ones that you mull over at 5 am, are things that occupy your deeper mind, where, no matter what, you aim to meet your number one need, whatever that might be. Work-related, love-life, or that crazy idea that just won't go away.
In the daylight, waking hours, you can shelve what you think you may really need to do, at the time, but maybe, at 5 am, it's when the real thinking is going on.
There's no hiding from inside your own head at that time of the morning, let me tell you.
thoughts you will be able to create your own happiness.
When I try to classify where it is I fall on the spectrum of "personality type", I always have a hard time. Partly because I get the sense, say, if I'm trying to describe myself, that I'm all over the place, which really, depending on whom I'm interacting with and where, I am.
It's kind of like those quizzes you sometimes complete in a magazine that you might read at the gym, you fill it in with your head, you're on the elliptical and you don't have a pen. If you get this many "D's" you are a gregarious, instantly-befriending type; if you get a certain amount of B's you are shy, retiring, and someone who never goes after what they want; if you amass a bunch of A's, you are a go-getter, ruthless, a true "type A".
So my personality type is part type A, with that 'get it done' instinct, but then I have a thoughtful dreamer thrown in there too. Over-sensitive to the plights of this world? That's me, too.
So describing myself in any realm is never that simple.
The day began at 5 am, because this is the time my mind decided to wake the rest of me up, ready or not, to think about things that are best left alone.
My boyfriend's step mom summed up what one needs to do when niggled with those mind-gone-wild thoughts at 4, 5am, and it's this: "Let the thoughts just drift away like a leaf blowing in the wind." It sounds SO amazing, so simple, so d0-able, and yet, unlike the lovely quote that heads this post, at 5 am I HAVE NO CONTROL. It starts with the Next Day, as in what do I have to do the Next Day, or, at 5 am, That Day, and why I can't control my mind, or at least corner it into pretending to think positively. No leaf blowing was going to happen.
I turned to the state of the desparate, trying to get a few more precious minutes, minutes, I'm saying, of sleep. I decided to count sheep. Not just any sheep. The clay-mation sheep from the Serta ads, that look so forlorn on the commercials, when the person gets a new mattress and no longer needs the clay-mation sheep. Well, I needed them. I tried to count them all, their sad, forlorn faces imprinted on my brain from the ads.
Guess what? Yea. Yup.
NOTHING.
So I saw this quote today on a 'positive thinking' website, and it seems so ...easy. But I sometimes have trouble controlling my own thoughts. They've controlled me for so long. Listening to a church sermon at the baptism of a good friend's little baby on sunday, the minister said something that really struck me: "No amount of worrying will add even one hour to your lifespan". It was almost like what Oprah defines as one of her "aha" moments. I literally have used worry as a shield for years, decades, eternities. And the minister is right. Time will march on, fate will chalk up what it wants, your life will unfold, streets into streets on the folds of the map of where you're going, taking whatever route it wants, ending up in the same destination. That is, where you're meant to be. Do you have a say in it? To some extent, yes. Meaning, you get to decide where you turn left or right. But, as I mentioned to a friend in a conversation of "discourse" the big decisions in life are sometimes made for you--meaning, you don't make them, so they make themselves. All those big things, the ones that you mull over at 5 am, are things that occupy your deeper mind, where, no matter what, you aim to meet your number one need, whatever that might be. Work-related, love-life, or that crazy idea that just won't go away.
In the daylight, waking hours, you can shelve what you think you may really need to do, at the time, but maybe, at 5 am, it's when the real thinking is going on.
There's no hiding from inside your own head at that time of the morning, let me tell you.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Real
Years ago, from a psychotherapist I was visting after experiencing a robbery at the place I was working at the time, I received a list of what some might call "instructions", a photocopied sheet that my dr. may have given to all of her patients. It was a list with some interesting suggestions, one of which was to come up with a "mission statement" for your own life, and my previous post triggered it for me.
The mission statement I came up with was that I was going to live my own life, my way, to the end. Meaning, I wasn't going to allow anyone else's view of what I should or should not do in my life, or with my life, colour any of the decisions I was going to make, or any of the things I wanted to be. And so far, I've managed to keep this theme, this mission statement going.
I will admit I've had some meagre bad luck, the first paragraph of this post gives a nod to that (it's not an event I ever give my full headspace to anymore); I've also done alot of growing up to get to where I've gotten to, shedding those unrealistic expectations of what life is supposed to be, and what life may or may not owe me (life owes me exactly nothing); and because of these beliefs of mine, this little credo, I've managed to get through alot more meagre bad luck, to prove, as one very close friend once put it, how resourceful I really am.
Over the last two years, I've had to really monitor the amount of time I spend worrying/obsessing/over-analyzing, and allow myself to really do alot less reacting, alot more observing, and it's allowed me to come to some amazing conclusions about what I call "sorority living." Let me explain.
My sister drives this point home as describing people as "Real". Or "Not Real."
Real means genuine. Real means caring. Real means concern, and real means feeling really happy for others when they have something great happen to them. Real also means feeling the pangs others feel when something goes really really wrong. It means participating in someone's life, if you are there as a friend. It means going the extra mile. It means not keeping score. It means giving that person some slack when they need it.
Not Real. Not so good. It means that you will hear white lies. And, being real, you won't call a person on those white lies. You are generous enough to let them have them. (by the way, you're not doing them any favours.) It continues. It means that you will probably do them alot of favours, ones that they often won't reciprocate. Sometimes, being Real goes hand-in-hand with being a giver. Not real's are often takers. It means un-genuine, un-original behaviour. They will hide behind their own lies, because they are motivated by envy. Not Real's will probably be very jealous of the Real's. The Real's are there, staying the course of their own life, navigating with the truth, and this gives them a clear conscience. The Not Real's don't know WHAT that feels like.
I have recently caught up with some of my very very Real "old" friends, meaning that, we've all been in each other's lives for a long long time, even if we are unable to communicate as frequently as we would like. They each reminded me, each in their own way, how important real-ness is. They are all some of the most real women I know. Genuine, passionate, stubbornly original. I contrast this with some behaviour I've fallen victim to recently, both in my personal and professional life. It doesn't go unnoticed. But, like a Real, I don't call them on it.
Because I don't have to.
They already know what they're like.
The mission statement I came up with was that I was going to live my own life, my way, to the end. Meaning, I wasn't going to allow anyone else's view of what I should or should not do in my life, or with my life, colour any of the decisions I was going to make, or any of the things I wanted to be. And so far, I've managed to keep this theme, this mission statement going.
I will admit I've had some meagre bad luck, the first paragraph of this post gives a nod to that (it's not an event I ever give my full headspace to anymore); I've also done alot of growing up to get to where I've gotten to, shedding those unrealistic expectations of what life is supposed to be, and what life may or may not owe me (life owes me exactly nothing); and because of these beliefs of mine, this little credo, I've managed to get through alot more meagre bad luck, to prove, as one very close friend once put it, how resourceful I really am.
Over the last two years, I've had to really monitor the amount of time I spend worrying/obsessing/over-analyzing, and allow myself to really do alot less reacting, alot more observing, and it's allowed me to come to some amazing conclusions about what I call "sorority living." Let me explain.
My sister drives this point home as describing people as "Real". Or "Not Real."
Real means genuine. Real means caring. Real means concern, and real means feeling really happy for others when they have something great happen to them. Real also means feeling the pangs others feel when something goes really really wrong. It means participating in someone's life, if you are there as a friend. It means going the extra mile. It means not keeping score. It means giving that person some slack when they need it.
Not Real. Not so good. It means that you will hear white lies. And, being real, you won't call a person on those white lies. You are generous enough to let them have them. (by the way, you're not doing them any favours.) It continues. It means that you will probably do them alot of favours, ones that they often won't reciprocate. Sometimes, being Real goes hand-in-hand with being a giver. Not real's are often takers. It means un-genuine, un-original behaviour. They will hide behind their own lies, because they are motivated by envy. Not Real's will probably be very jealous of the Real's. The Real's are there, staying the course of their own life, navigating with the truth, and this gives them a clear conscience. The Not Real's don't know WHAT that feels like.
I have recently caught up with some of my very very Real "old" friends, meaning that, we've all been in each other's lives for a long long time, even if we are unable to communicate as frequently as we would like. They each reminded me, each in their own way, how important real-ness is. They are all some of the most real women I know. Genuine, passionate, stubbornly original. I contrast this with some behaviour I've fallen victim to recently, both in my personal and professional life. It doesn't go unnoticed. But, like a Real, I don't call them on it.
Because I don't have to.
They already know what they're like.
6 word Saturday
As instructed on The One Minute Writer, I am describing my life in 6 words:
My life is my own book.
My life is my own book.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Good Days and Sad Days
It happens to everyone, you get older, you amass a certain amount of time on this revolving door planet, you collect, in all spaces of your head, a catalogue of memories, ones that you hold onto tightly, and ones that you wish didn't take up quite so much room, but they're there, all the same. Part of you, your consciousness, your ghosts.
The good days zoom by. By the time you're in your mid-thirties, as I am, they still stand out. Maybe good days is not the right term--maybe it's the great days, the ones you can't believe you were ever lucky enough to have. For most people, that's the day they had their child, or children, or their wedding day. Graduation can rank high too. All those things that mark achievements, the passing of time. Mine are random and special. The day I moved into my condo, the one I saved for all by myself, and did the closing process on my own. The first day of my first real job, how I didn't know where to eat lunch, but I'd succeeded something all by myself nonetheless, even if I was making it up as I went along. My first day driving a car on my own. The day I picked up my black lab, Shadow and brought her home to my dad for Father's Day. Summer days, birthdays, good Christmases, when you realized you're in love with someone and felt like you couldn't live without them.
The more mediocre good days share head space too. Recognition at work from someone you value, getting that great parking spot, that amazing dinner.
But you can't have the good without the bad, right?
I remember all the sad days, the saddest saddest days. I've had my share. Cherished friends move away. You lose an opportunity you thought you had in the bag. A crime shatters some beliefs about people that were helping you get through life. Your dog comes to the end of her short life, and you berate yourself for not giving enough time.
Or someone you love is hurting. And you have to witness the whole thing.
Yesterday for me was one of those days. One of the people who I count as my favourite, out of a small pool, came to a conclusion of a long-suffering problem yesterday. I couldn't do much--you never really can in these situations. You are there as a comfort, a kind of talisman, touchstone, so that they can place this portion of their life, one of their sad days, in some kind of order, thinking that even though it was a sad day, an important person in their life provided some type of routine, of just sitting there, even if there wasn't much to say.
I thought that as I got older, I would get more into myself and feel other people's pain less, but that hasn't happened. Especially because I'm an older sister. And somewhere inside myself is that older sister, be it 6 years old to her 4, or 15 years old to her 13, that, despite our many differences and choices, I would do anything to spare the pain and take it on myself.
Yesterday reminded me that we are all on our own path, walking it in our own way, and the outcome sometimes doesn't really matter. It's more about the process, getting yourself there, in the way that you need to.
I will have this sad day with me for the rest of my life, especially the very end of the day, contrasting the beautiful happy day a few years ago, where anything seemed possible.
That's life.
The good days zoom by. By the time you're in your mid-thirties, as I am, they still stand out. Maybe good days is not the right term--maybe it's the great days, the ones you can't believe you were ever lucky enough to have. For most people, that's the day they had their child, or children, or their wedding day. Graduation can rank high too. All those things that mark achievements, the passing of time. Mine are random and special. The day I moved into my condo, the one I saved for all by myself, and did the closing process on my own. The first day of my first real job, how I didn't know where to eat lunch, but I'd succeeded something all by myself nonetheless, even if I was making it up as I went along. My first day driving a car on my own. The day I picked up my black lab, Shadow and brought her home to my dad for Father's Day. Summer days, birthdays, good Christmases, when you realized you're in love with someone and felt like you couldn't live without them.
The more mediocre good days share head space too. Recognition at work from someone you value, getting that great parking spot, that amazing dinner.
But you can't have the good without the bad, right?
I remember all the sad days, the saddest saddest days. I've had my share. Cherished friends move away. You lose an opportunity you thought you had in the bag. A crime shatters some beliefs about people that were helping you get through life. Your dog comes to the end of her short life, and you berate yourself for not giving enough time.
Or someone you love is hurting. And you have to witness the whole thing.
Yesterday for me was one of those days. One of the people who I count as my favourite, out of a small pool, came to a conclusion of a long-suffering problem yesterday. I couldn't do much--you never really can in these situations. You are there as a comfort, a kind of talisman, touchstone, so that they can place this portion of their life, one of their sad days, in some kind of order, thinking that even though it was a sad day, an important person in their life provided some type of routine, of just sitting there, even if there wasn't much to say.
I thought that as I got older, I would get more into myself and feel other people's pain less, but that hasn't happened. Especially because I'm an older sister. And somewhere inside myself is that older sister, be it 6 years old to her 4, or 15 years old to her 13, that, despite our many differences and choices, I would do anything to spare the pain and take it on myself.
Yesterday reminded me that we are all on our own path, walking it in our own way, and the outcome sometimes doesn't really matter. It's more about the process, getting yourself there, in the way that you need to.
I will have this sad day with me for the rest of my life, especially the very end of the day, contrasting the beautiful happy day a few years ago, where anything seemed possible.
That's life.
Monday, September 7, 2009
24 Songs for a 24 Girl
I keep reading the Celebrity Playlists on iTunes and trying to see if I have similar tastes...so far, the closest ones I can identify with are Chris Kattan and Rachel Zoe. The former, too funny. The latter...scary. I think a playlist, to qualify, needs to be at least 15 songs. Here are a few of my "all time favourites..." in no particular order.
1) Miles Away--Madonna. Ah the Material Girl. I've followed her career since I WAS a girl, several years back. I had a replica of the Papa Don't Preach outfit at age 13, minus the pregnancy--pale denim jeans, and a striped top. My idol. One of the influences on the woman I am today. In this song, Madonna reminds us she doesn't have it all. No one does. Ever.
2) Drowned World (Substitute for Love). I know. Another Madonna pick. But this one is special, too, in it's own way, from the Ray of Light album. The sacrifices she made to get where she is today (the highest selling tour ever with Sticky and Sweet). The price wasn't cheap. Remember that.
3) Mystery Girl--Roy Orbison. Well, he was hell bent and determined to work with U2 in his lifetime, and didn't he have Bono pen him a tune? My dad has always been a big RO fan, and I concur, but this song takes his voice to another level. You can hear Bono's lyrics coming through loud and clear in this song--he takes the doomed love affair to another level.
4) Nowhere Girl--B Movie--this is a song I discovered on a wicked 80s retro station on live365.com, posted by none other than Java Jane, my 80s retro dj hero. It has a classic 80s back beat, with ubiquitous lyrics..."Nowhere girl...you never go outside...nowhere girl..cause you prefer to hide..." It describes my persona in my late teens/early 20's.
5) The Beatles--there are several songs, I Love Her being one, and Something being another. My dad played them on the piano when I was a little girl.
6) So Young--Suede--the soundtrack of me being 21 and learning to snowboard.
7) Is Your Love Strong Enough?--Roxy Music--a favourite of me and my boyfriend. Also reminds me of another good friend and her love of 80s musics, of which she has an encyclopedic knowledge of.
8) Just Like Heaven--The Cure--There is nothing better than the first few lines of this song, in music.
9) Atomic--Blondie. Another ground breaking female artist. I can't say enough about this song. See number 10.
10) Sunday Girl--Blondie. Playing right alongside me as I go through this life.
11) Some Kind of Stranger--Sisters of Mercy--This song is every mistake I ever made. Someone knocking on the door at the wrong time of night, and answering.
12) Sand in my Shoes--Dido--Ahhh vacation. I remember St. Maarten vividly.
13) Warning Sign--Coldplay--Me in 2003. I didn't even have a date for my sister's wedding.
14) Black Metallic--Catherine Wheel--Driving home from the Keg when I was 19 and I had a huge crush on the guy who introduced me to this song.
15) Candy--Iggy Pop--See number 7. The lyrics really touch me in this song, as does Kate's voice, filled with longing for her lost love. The song needed a third verse, but the talking works well, too.
16) Somebody's Crying--Chris Isaak--Reminds me of how you forget all the bad relationships once you're in a good one.
17) Back to Black--Amy Winehouse--But sometimes you still remember those lying, cheating bastards.
18) The Ghost in You--Psychedelic Furs--All the memories of people in your life, especially the ones who have left you, either in geographical terms, or taken a leave psychologically, they stay with you. Isn't that amazing? You can call up their ghost, their memory, anytime you want.
19) Kite--U2--I've heard this song is about Michael Hutchence, which makes sense, but in my head, it's about me.
20) Message--Coldplay--My song is love. Love, love, and more love.
21) Song for the Lovers--Richard Ashcroft--Dinner at my boyfriend's Port Credit apartment when we were first dating. I play that song, and I'm right there.
22) 4 in the Morning--Gwen Stefani--Her voice is at its best at this song (my opinion only) and like Kate Pearce in Candy, you can hear her longing, for love, for completion, from another person. It's something we all want.
23) Pocketful of Sunshine--Natasha Bedingfield--Another song that makes me think of vacation, and being on a cigarette boat on the Caribbean ocean with no life jacket. You had to be there.
24) In God's Hands--Nelly Furtado--This song got me through a difficult time. I still love her voice and she does a great ballad.
1) Miles Away--Madonna. Ah the Material Girl. I've followed her career since I WAS a girl, several years back. I had a replica of the Papa Don't Preach outfit at age 13, minus the pregnancy--pale denim jeans, and a striped top. My idol. One of the influences on the woman I am today. In this song, Madonna reminds us she doesn't have it all. No one does. Ever.
2) Drowned World (Substitute for Love). I know. Another Madonna pick. But this one is special, too, in it's own way, from the Ray of Light album. The sacrifices she made to get where she is today (the highest selling tour ever with Sticky and Sweet). The price wasn't cheap. Remember that.
3) Mystery Girl--Roy Orbison. Well, he was hell bent and determined to work with U2 in his lifetime, and didn't he have Bono pen him a tune? My dad has always been a big RO fan, and I concur, but this song takes his voice to another level. You can hear Bono's lyrics coming through loud and clear in this song--he takes the doomed love affair to another level.
4) Nowhere Girl--B Movie--this is a song I discovered on a wicked 80s retro station on live365.com, posted by none other than Java Jane, my 80s retro dj hero. It has a classic 80s back beat, with ubiquitous lyrics..."Nowhere girl...you never go outside...nowhere girl..cause you prefer to hide..." It describes my persona in my late teens/early 20's.
5) The Beatles--there are several songs, I Love Her being one, and Something being another. My dad played them on the piano when I was a little girl.
6) So Young--Suede--the soundtrack of me being 21 and learning to snowboard.
7) Is Your Love Strong Enough?--Roxy Music--a favourite of me and my boyfriend. Also reminds me of another good friend and her love of 80s musics, of which she has an encyclopedic knowledge of.
8) Just Like Heaven--The Cure--There is nothing better than the first few lines of this song, in music.
9) Atomic--Blondie. Another ground breaking female artist. I can't say enough about this song. See number 10.
10) Sunday Girl--Blondie. Playing right alongside me as I go through this life.
11) Some Kind of Stranger--Sisters of Mercy--This song is every mistake I ever made. Someone knocking on the door at the wrong time of night, and answering.
12) Sand in my Shoes--Dido--Ahhh vacation. I remember St. Maarten vividly.
13) Warning Sign--Coldplay--Me in 2003. I didn't even have a date for my sister's wedding.
14) Black Metallic--Catherine Wheel--Driving home from the Keg when I was 19 and I had a huge crush on the guy who introduced me to this song.
15) Candy--Iggy Pop--See number 7. The lyrics really touch me in this song, as does Kate's voice, filled with longing for her lost love. The song needed a third verse, but the talking works well, too.
16) Somebody's Crying--Chris Isaak--Reminds me of how you forget all the bad relationships once you're in a good one.
17) Back to Black--Amy Winehouse--But sometimes you still remember those lying, cheating bastards.
18) The Ghost in You--Psychedelic Furs--All the memories of people in your life, especially the ones who have left you, either in geographical terms, or taken a leave psychologically, they stay with you. Isn't that amazing? You can call up their ghost, their memory, anytime you want.
19) Kite--U2--I've heard this song is about Michael Hutchence, which makes sense, but in my head, it's about me.
20) Message--Coldplay--My song is love. Love, love, and more love.
21) Song for the Lovers--Richard Ashcroft--Dinner at my boyfriend's Port Credit apartment when we were first dating. I play that song, and I'm right there.
22) 4 in the Morning--Gwen Stefani--Her voice is at its best at this song (my opinion only) and like Kate Pearce in Candy, you can hear her longing, for love, for completion, from another person. It's something we all want.
23) Pocketful of Sunshine--Natasha Bedingfield--Another song that makes me think of vacation, and being on a cigarette boat on the Caribbean ocean with no life jacket. You had to be there.
24) In God's Hands--Nelly Furtado--This song got me through a difficult time. I still love her voice and she does a great ballad.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Learning
Working out is therapeutic, although it can sometimes seem to have the opposite effect, ie, causing guilt and panic when one doesn't follow through the schedule one has set for oneself.
But at the gym that is often where my best thinking occurs.
On Sunday ("storm day") I was thinking about my past, my years as a young girl, and what motivated me to do my best, all the time.
At the age of about 8, I was bitten by the track and field bug. I couldn't shake it as I moved through grade school, then on to junior high. It was the perfect sport for me, solitary, completely dependant on my own motivation, competitive to the second, very cutthroat.
By the time I'd reached about 13, somewhere in the neighbourhood of grade 7 or 8, I was very involved in the sport. My strongest events were short sprints, although I could be depended to on to give a very good showing in relay events and running long jump.
Then I discovered hurdles. What a metaphor for the rest of my life.
Hurdling is racing, at top speed, with obstacles placed at a measured distance at certain points apart, the same height throughout the race, designed to test the runner's coordination and pacing. I only knew one thing at the age of 13--I really wanted to compete in this sport on my school team.
I'm 5'-3" now. Then I was probably a couple of inches short of my final height. That's a bit short for the hurdles. Long legs are a real asset when you're flying over thin wooden beams. But I was too young to appreciate this fact. I wanted a new event, a new challenge, and I wanted to succeed at it.
The team was pretty much picked and I was left to last, one of the spares, to compete with the other girl who wanted a spot on the team. She was also 13. Unlike me, she had sprouted up to a height, un-reachable to me, of 5'-9". At 13. Was she faster? You better believe it. Was she better at getting over the jumps? Of course. I was discouraged. But determined.
Every morning at 7 am, leading up to the final team picks, I would be running out of the house through the schoolyard that led to my junior high school (the run there was my warm-up) to make it for practices. I did that every day for three weeks. 5'-9" took it a little easier. I guess she could afford to. She showed up for every second, sometimes every third, practice. It irritated me, beyond belief, but a talk with my dad helped me focus on just worrying about my own performance and attendance at practice, and I put the blinders on.
At one of the near-to-last practices, I suffered a brutal fall, flat on my face, that knocked the wind out of me. Despite this, I got up and finished the practice heat.
The last day of practice, after about 3 weeks, the coach, a wry, yet devestatingly honest female geography teached, announced that I had the last spot on the team, not 5'-9". I couldn't believe it. But then, I could. 5'-9" wasn't even there to hear the announcement.
I competed at the meet, came in third, the smallest, shortest girl there.
I was beaming when I finished that race, one of many I competed in that day.
But more than learning that hard work is its own reward, I also learned that, often, a seemingly insurmountable competitor will do away with themselves. The ones that talk a good game, with nothing to show for it. The ones that buzz around, touting their accomplishments, while seething with their own insecurities. That hare and tortoise thing can't be all wrong.
But at the gym that is often where my best thinking occurs.
On Sunday ("storm day") I was thinking about my past, my years as a young girl, and what motivated me to do my best, all the time.
At the age of about 8, I was bitten by the track and field bug. I couldn't shake it as I moved through grade school, then on to junior high. It was the perfect sport for me, solitary, completely dependant on my own motivation, competitive to the second, very cutthroat.
By the time I'd reached about 13, somewhere in the neighbourhood of grade 7 or 8, I was very involved in the sport. My strongest events were short sprints, although I could be depended to on to give a very good showing in relay events and running long jump.
Then I discovered hurdles. What a metaphor for the rest of my life.
Hurdling is racing, at top speed, with obstacles placed at a measured distance at certain points apart, the same height throughout the race, designed to test the runner's coordination and pacing. I only knew one thing at the age of 13--I really wanted to compete in this sport on my school team.
I'm 5'-3" now. Then I was probably a couple of inches short of my final height. That's a bit short for the hurdles. Long legs are a real asset when you're flying over thin wooden beams. But I was too young to appreciate this fact. I wanted a new event, a new challenge, and I wanted to succeed at it.
The team was pretty much picked and I was left to last, one of the spares, to compete with the other girl who wanted a spot on the team. She was also 13. Unlike me, she had sprouted up to a height, un-reachable to me, of 5'-9". At 13. Was she faster? You better believe it. Was she better at getting over the jumps? Of course. I was discouraged. But determined.
Every morning at 7 am, leading up to the final team picks, I would be running out of the house through the schoolyard that led to my junior high school (the run there was my warm-up) to make it for practices. I did that every day for three weeks. 5'-9" took it a little easier. I guess she could afford to. She showed up for every second, sometimes every third, practice. It irritated me, beyond belief, but a talk with my dad helped me focus on just worrying about my own performance and attendance at practice, and I put the blinders on.
At one of the near-to-last practices, I suffered a brutal fall, flat on my face, that knocked the wind out of me. Despite this, I got up and finished the practice heat.
The last day of practice, after about 3 weeks, the coach, a wry, yet devestatingly honest female geography teached, announced that I had the last spot on the team, not 5'-9". I couldn't believe it. But then, I could. 5'-9" wasn't even there to hear the announcement.
I competed at the meet, came in third, the smallest, shortest girl there.
I was beaming when I finished that race, one of many I competed in that day.
But more than learning that hard work is its own reward, I also learned that, often, a seemingly insurmountable competitor will do away with themselves. The ones that talk a good game, with nothing to show for it. The ones that buzz around, touting their accomplishments, while seething with their own insecurities. That hare and tortoise thing can't be all wrong.
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