good as gold

It's always Sunday night that I feel a desperation to post something, last minute before the sleeping pill kicks in. Sunday night, the brink of a new week of unknown, where my constant state of anxiety makes the probable monotony to come the welcome alternative.

Tonight I called my parents at a time that I thought they should have been home watching the news or reading in bed and there was no answer. I called my father's cell phone, and when there was no answer there, my mother's. My brother is in Israel and I know he has a bad flu right now. I contemplated calling his phone next, but it was the middle of the night there. There are times when the hysteria would win out over common sense, but I forced myself to wait a little longer. I tried the whole routine again: parent's house, father's cell, mother's cell. Finally she answered.

There were all kinds of things that could have been happening. I have an incredibly vivid imagination [if only I could harness it]. All kinds of things happen all the time, so you can't really say it's irrational. Bad things happen.

Sometimes the things that happen are so bad I find it hard to believe anything good is possible.

That's why statistics never worked for me. Do you know how many times people have tried to use them to talk me out of my fear?

"Do you know your chance of dying in a car accident is much higher than..."

There was a time in university where I went crazy over probability trees. None of my friends could figure them out, and me, the one who had a full-time math tutor from the seventh grade on got them right off. Even loved them perhaps. I thought I had finally discovered a way to take risk out of the equation, to make sure bad things wouldn't happen, but there was still this number at the end. No matter how many precautions there were or how many back-up engines a plane had, the risk was never zero. There is always something.

I admit, being afraid isn't a good way to live. I am so much better than I was. At least now after all of these years I know that calling my brother in the middle of the night on the other side of the world when he is sick with the flu is not going to change the outcome. If it is going to be bad [and I hope with all of my heart that it is not], no amount of vigilance will change that. And even if it could, do I want to spend my whole life in that state to prevent one bad thing from happening? I don't think so. I'm still a little too vigilant, but if it interferes too much with my life I have the capacity to walk away from it. I have the balls to do things I never thought I could do.

There are still things that bring it out in me; bad news and change to name a couple. And Sundays, which are basically a combination of the two.

fresh start

There was a certain comfort I got
From cleaning out the bathroom.
They were coming in the morning
To redo the ceiling in the shower.
I took every single item out.
All that was left was a tin sound.
A hollow echo;
An empty stomach;
An aching beacon.

I never know if I have come far or just gone in circles.
I'm flying in the dark again
Off the coast of Newfoundland
And most of the time
I can marvel in the thrill of it all.

There was a time I craved the comfort of a carpet.
Its feigned warmth and welcome
Like a paid professional
Pretending to be your mother.

down the drain

I dropped a fake diamond stud down the drain; one of my favourite pairs of earrings. I could see it with a flashlight, sitting about 6 inches down, in a bed of who the hells knows what, on some kind of a ledge.

I was running late for work. I put in another pair of earrings and decided to think about what to do during the day and come home with a plan.

That night, I felt like I was at the hospital doing some kind of procedure on a patient, only the patient was my sink. I could still see the earring. I put the flashlight down for a second, went to my purse and took out a piece of gum, which I chewed while I looked through my utensil drawer in the kitchen for some kind of a tool. I found a chopstick that I thought could fit the bill. When the gum was just soft enough I stuck it on the fat end. Holding the flashlight with my left hand, I slowy lowered it into the drain. I felt like I was playing that old game Operation and that if I touched the side it would buzz. I took a deep breath and lowered the chopstick until it stopped. I pressed the gum into the earring trying not to think about what might come back out with it. I carefully withdrew. An inch from the opening, the gum fell off the chopstick, presumeably with the earring attached. And like that it was gone, into the abyss of hair and crud.

I gave up. I even ran the water, like if I wasn't going to get it, I might as well send it on it's way.

Later that night I stood over the same sink brushing my teeth and I remembered a phone call from many years ago. Tears rolled down my cheeks. It's amazing that it still does this to me. It's amazing that my brain takes me to these places. It's like acid flashbacks without the acid.

I was in my childhood room, but already in first or second year university. I picked up the phone to call Tamara back who was living in Vancouver with her boyfriend and their other roommate, the one who answered the phone. Tamara was out, she said, and asked if I had already heard the news.

"What news?"

She stammered something about how maybe she shouldn't tell me. Maybe I should just speak to Tamara. Blah, blah, blah.

"It's about Z", she said. "Apparently he killed himself."

"What do you mean, apparently? What happened?"

It had to be a mistake. Z lives in the same city I live. How would they know before me, all the way across the continent? I was angry at her for saying something like that.

"We don't have all the details, but he jumped off some bridge out there", she said.

As soon as she said it I knew what bridge. I knew it was true. I don't even remember her name.

Every once in a while I am hit with it, like everything else miserable in the world, it is hard to believe that humans can suffer as much as they do. It is hard to imagine he is dead, he died like that, that these events unfolded the way that they did, and that bad things happen every day, everywhere. It is hard to then get into bed and read a book. Hard to get up in the morning, shower and put your make-up on. It's hard to go look at condos with a realtor, to run on a treadmill at the gym, to sit in a theatre and watch the big screen. I've never been good at it; coming to terms with all of the crud. I can't figure out if it's guilt or fear.

It's so much easier when you don't look down the drain.

did, did, did, did, you hear the falling bombs?

Has anyone else noticed that the birds are louder this year?
Maybe there are just more of them.
Or maybe it's that the winter was so long and cold.
It's a good sound.
It makes it seem like everything is going to be alright.

wet nurse

Anna called me mid-morning. I was preparing for my first big meeting with the head of the department.

I was pressed for time but I put my notebook down. She was telling me about the house she was looking at when I remembered my dream.

"I had a dream last night that I was breastfeeding a newborn baby."

For a moment I forgot about the meeting and I forgot about the phone, lost in the details; the dark haired baby, swaddled firmly in white flannel. There was a time when swaddling sick babies was my specialty. But this was different.

"It was so real."

"Ew", she laughed, bringing me back to the conversation. "You were a wet nurse?"

She might as well have kicked me in the stomach.

The more I think about it the more it bothers me. I mean, is this how my friends see me? I can't be a mother even in my own dreams?

I am the best friend a girl could ask for; I have perfected the science. I love their children. I am their Tia Rachel or their Auntie Rachel. But I am more maternal than most of my friends put together—they would tell you that—and yet a dream like that to Anna could only mean I am lending out my services in some sad role straight out of the dark ages or some la leche breastfeeding cult.

If she had time to consider her reaction she wouldn't have said it. I know that. She didn't mean to hurt me. I guarantee she doesn't even know she did. But the message was loud and clear, from a place that never lies.

As I type this the phone rings. It's Anna.

"Fuck you", I say to my empty apartment. I let it ring.

my indents

My two indents,
One on the left hand side of the couch.
One on the right side of my bed.
Those are the two places I spend my time
And somehow the self-indulgent ramblings matter
When there are no other people to bear witness.
If I die tomorrrow
What will I leave behind?
The many items of clothing
Hundreds of books
Hopeful furniture
Blue bag of recycling
Canned diced tomatoes
Zinfandel I've been saving for the right time.
Three boxes of whole wheat matzoh
Take out menus
Photographs of my friends and their children.
My artwork
And the spaces;
I have two.

if the dizzying highs don't subside overnight

This weekend was exactly what I needed. Sunshine, glorious sunshine. Double digit temperatures. Finally it feels like spring has arrived. I even saw a robin when I was running today. It was the first time I've been running outside since the fall.

I bought some clothes for work, did laundry, pressed my own shirts for the first time since I worked in the restaurant industry ten years ago. In fact back then I used to pretend I didn't know how to do it so that my roommate would do it for me. That and sew on buttons. As the granddaughter of tailors, I should be ashamed of myself. Truth is, I know how to do both. I am actually pretty good at it, and I like it. How did I not figure that out until now?

Friday night I found a new burrito place in my neighborhood and a friend and I tried it out along with a very good bottle of wine. Burritos and malbec; a great combination.

Wait, let's go back to Thursday night. Went for dinner at mini market with my brother's girlfriend. That's my second time there and I have to say the food is great. The grilled calamari is perfection. I can't wait to go back just to have that with the spicy chinese long beans. Plus little italy never gets old for me.

Went to see Emily Haines a week ago tonight. Stayed out pretty late for a school night. Haven't had that many vodka and sodas since... Well, a long time. Let's not go there. I was so much better behaved this time around.

One week later and my night looks very different. I am sitting on the couch watching the Junos [Go H!] in my PJ's, with a tomato sauce stain on my left boob, in a t-shirt that says, 'that's how I roll'. So it is.

Back to Emily. I love her voice; I love the music, although I am more of a metric fan. Apparently she is too. She wasn't really into playing her solo material.

"Maybe I'm just happier now", she suggested at one point when she was having trouble remembering how to play a song on the piano.

She said she was working on a new Metric album and maybe that's part of the reason she wasn't feeling it.

Still, she was incredibly interactive and she captivated the audience. She even sang a little sex pistols. A girl after my own heart.

About 45 minutes in, in the middle of Dr. Blind [my favourito], she stopped playing. She asked if anyone in the audience could play it and then she sat off to the side and let three or four people come up, one by one, and make their attempts. A few minutes later she joined them back on stage and sang a Metric song while one of them played guitar. Part way through that she thanked everyone and walked off stage, leaving the group of audience members to finish the song without her. And that was the end of the concert.

Some people were annoyed, but she sounded great, she kept the audience on their toes and completely engaged. She was unpredictable and I loved it.

As you can see, I can not for the life of me take pictures properly without a flash [I kind of like this one though]. I was given some good advice on this once, but I clearly need to review that lesson.

lights out

On the train home I overheard a conversation between two guys, early thirties, one heavy, hair matted down with sweat at the front like a little boy coming in for a drink after playing outside. The other, thin, pale and powder dry, had a hint of a British accent. They both wore suits stuffed under their coats, which reminded me of when my mother used to make me wear a snow suit to school over my clothes.

These two guys, they talked about their office jobs in a generic sort of way, but somehow you still knew what they were saying. Their words were so benign, but maybe that was part of the trouble. It was something like, "Yeah, these guys just keep putting shit into these files and then they pick them up, make their presentation and never touch them again". Whatever they said, it made just enough sense to start that dull ache in the pit of my stomach, and like drips of water, all of that joined up with the threads that had meanered their way through my fresh new job this week, and suddenly there was a current.

Its just so damn depressing to see the truth so clear and up close. It takes you out of the moment. Makes it hard to go along with things when you see we are just animals doing odd little things; copies of a copy of a copy of a copy. It's a mess. A sad performance.

I don't know, but I can tell you that it is something about this life I find incredibly lonely and hard to take. It makes that little black fleck seem like the only sensible thing in the universe.

black hole

You probably see it as a small black fleck
In a sea of swirling color;
Flashing lights,
Your name in lights,
Memories to be made,
If you see it at all.
I do.
It's all I can think about,
That little black fleck.

messy writing

By the time I ever get up the inspiration to write, I've been sitting on my couch in the living room, curtains drawn, watching mindless television and drinking cups of instant coffee for so long I'm restless and I need to get up and do something before I feel like a complete failure. A sloth.

'Go to the gym, you lazy ass', I tell myself. 'Are you even gonna leave the house today?'

The phone rings periodically and car horns beep on the street below, which irritates me more, furthering the sense of urgency. It's as if people are waiting outside for me. Life beckons and staying in to write is a waste of time.

"You're not even going to take a shower? Your hair is in knots. Filthy knots', I continue. I can be mean.

'Your a mess. The apartments a mess. Do something!'

All of this usually coincides with a moment of inspiration.

It's always a dirty back room deal, my writing.

If nothing else is on the schedule, if no one else wants me, only then do I have permission, if you can even call it that. It's uncomfortable. It's crack filler.

Like today, a few sentences in.

'You should clear off the coffee table.'

It's a modern dark brown table where I do almost everything. Sitting on the couch, I eat there in front of the television, especially for breakfast, and so I am in the habit of leaving a black placemat for my coffee cup and dishes on the table so I don't scratch the surface. But this morning, as I look up from the screen, I notice how dirty the placemat looks.

'It always does', I add. Sometimes I hate myself.

However, in all fairness to the part of me I hate, the placement does show up everything. I wash it, I shake it out over the sink when there are crumbs, and yet, like a black car, even a speck of dust is annoying.

I take it away, shake it off and put it back on top of the fridge with the others. No more. I will risk a scratched table. While over there, I clear the dishes from the counter into the sink and fill it with soap and hot water to soak. I go through the pile of mail on the counter, determined suddenly to put everything away. There I come across a T4 slip. I go to the closet and pull out the other tax documents. I decide I need to organize this stuff right now, knowing that if I do it, I'll feel better.

But first I should at least brush my hair and put it in a ponytail so I don't feel so grungy and uncomfortable. In fact, maybe I should just shower now, but then I want to go for a run in a little while, so it would be a waste.

'Of what? Water?'

Well yes, in fact it is a waste of water. It is also drying to the skin if I shower twice in one morning, and bad for my hair.

I pull my hair back and return to the kitchen where I come across a long hand-written letter I got from my father before I went away, which reminded me of one my mother wrote me many years ago, when I was in my late teens; pages of lined paper folded into thirds and stuffed into a small envelope.

Is it me? Do I have some flaw that brings pleading letters out of people? Forces threm to desperate measures?

My father's letter was long and very neatly written. My mother's too, as I recall. It's funny, no matter how hard I try I can't write neatly. Almost no one can read my writing.

My father always wants something from me. The letter was just another angle in. It is always the same. He wants to erase history and create storybook endings. He wants to eradicate his guilt. I suppose one of these days I could let him have that. It's probably time.

I stopped cleaning the kitchen, sat down at the computer and logged into my email to reply to my father.

Dear Dad:

I came back from Cuba last week and started my job and with the long weekend I finally have a few minutes to write you. So far things are going well. I had a two-day general orientation and then I spent a couple of days getting familiar with the project I will be working on. It seems like it is going to be interesting and probably a pretty busy place to work. So far so good.

It was nice to get a letter from you. It arrived right before I went away. Nice card too. Loved the photograph on the front.

It sounds like turning 60 is a good time of life for you. It seems like its all coming together. I hope you will be able to continue on with that and fully enjoy how far you have come for many many years.

In your letter you said you hope I don't feel that you are indifferent with me and with what I am doing. I can assure you I have never felt that way. While there have been problems and differences of opinion between us, I have always felt you were proud of me and interested in what I was doing. I appreciate that.

I think that the hardest thing in the world is to live in the moment and not focus on the past or the future. Just as difficult I think is to be true to who you are. I think the best thing a parent can do is set an example. You are doing that by taking this trip you are going on in May, enjoying life in the moment, and contributing to the world through your charitable work. I think your kids will learn a lot from what you are doing, each in our own way.

I look forward to hearing about your trip. Be well.

Love Rachel

It felt a little like sandpaper writing that, and although I didn't tell him everything he wanted to hear, I didn't ignore him, which is what I would have done in the past, inadvertently taking all of the guilt for myself.

What he wanted me to say is that yes, I think we should get to know each other, spend time together, make our relationship into the father-daughter relationship we have probably both wished we had, but I didn't say those things.

And after I sent the email to him, I stayed seated and I wrote this out. I needed to write, more than I needed to clean. Turns out I did both. Also turns out the two are really not that different.

my own space

The first week on the job is going pretty well. I think the work is interesting already. I have my own office. It's small but it has everything it needs: desk, file cabinet, a wicker chair for patients or guests, and a beautiful abstract painting on the wall. It's hard getting used to a new space. I did what I could to make it my own. Re-arranged the thumb tacks on my bulletin board by color, organized the office supplies and familiarized myself with the files. I am still waiting for the computer guy to hook me up; hopefully tomorrow.

It's nice being in a large teaching hospital with good coffee shops and stores. I bumped into a girl I went to nursing school with and hadn't seen for 8 years. She's been working in the same unit since we graduated. Of course she's had two kids since then. Who hasn't?

Oh yeah. Me.