I had a fun meeting with my banker today. Incongruous, I know. I was pretty anxious about seeing him since we’d booked the date. The agenda was to look over my meager investments to make sure I was getting optimal returns. I thought that was an excuse for him to give me a lecture about all the spending I’ve been doing on my credit margin while still being out of the job market. Well I needn’t have worried at all. He’s been my banker for some 15 years, but I knew him 20 years ago in an altogether different capacity, when we were both working at a cool little gay bar, him a waiter and me as a barmaid. He was gay and proud then—as he still is now—and was going through my LUG faze (figure it out for yourself). Apparently the first time he saw me I was wearing a turtleneck catsuit and doing my thing on the dancefloor. When he said that to me I was stunned that he’d remember that, especially since I had completely forgotten about that. The very idea that I once had the guts to wear a catsuit is hard to fathom, but then again, I WAS just only 21 and fearless back then.
We spent the better part of our meeting talking about things like our mutual love of perfume; comparing our favourite scents from Jo Malone’s line, and all about his latest restylane and bottox treatments. Incidentally we looked over my investments and he offered to put in a request for a credit card for me, which I was almost certain would be refused as it has been for the past 4 years now. There was no talk about taking away my credit margin or having to reduce my spending. We were having so much fun just chatting that at one point I realized we’d been at it for well over an hour. When I asked him how come he had so much time to devote to me in his busy schedule he said “I always make sure not to book anyone after you”. Talk about VIP treatment. He hadn’t seen me in almost 2 years and had expected to see an obese version of me dressed in rags with greasy hair plastering my face—something he’s seen with other customers of his who are mostly actors and the normally attractive type. By comparison apparently I looked amazing. For some reason, compliments coming from a gay man have always meant more to me, so I have to admit it felt good. Every time I see him I think about how lucky I am to have him in my life. He’s gotten me out of some pretty big pickles over the years asking nothing in return (except a promise to pay off my loans).
At one point in the middle of some light chit-chat, C looked over at his screen, then looked at me with a dramatic expression on his face and said “Oh. My. God. You. Won’t Believe It!” What? He jumped out of his chair and started doing a victory dance involving lots of hopping up and down, screaming “YOU’VE BEEN APPROVED FOR A CREDIT CARD!!! You’re finally in the clear!!! You’re a real person again!!!” I hopped and danced along with him. Finally I’m a pariah no more. I guess you had to be there, but the joy was palpable. It’s the best feeling knowing that old friends still continue caring about me even when I’ve given so little signs of life. For that I’m truly grateful.
July 14, 2009
I’m Good For It Now
July 13, 2009
Peonies
Light is a rare commodity in these parts this summer. We’ve been getting so much rain—one downpour after another. This bunch of peonies was a lucky find this past weekend since the season is usually over by then. I thought they deserved to be immortalized while they’re at their peak. I hope I did them justice considering the limitations.
Photo by Smiler using a Canon Rebel XTi
July 12, 2009
Later
Now Playing: Air - Playground Love
My guests came despite the rain. My neighbour J was blown away by the fact that I was serving real champagne as opposed to some cheap bubbly. Seems to me if you’re going to serve champagne then you might as well serve the best, even if it means going further into debt, right? You only live once. It was nice to drink such a nice champagne with people who really appreciated it, as opposed to taking it for granted. I’ve been around that kind of crowd and they just kill half the fun with that attitude.
Beth brought me a drawing as requested. I had told her that was the price of admission. She drew a gorgeous bouquet of roses which seemed much too sophisticated coming from a 7-year old. There was a bunch of peonies in a vase on the table. I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw them at market today. Usually by the time my birthday rolls around they’ve been long gone and forgotten. So I got two bunches. They smell... well I just wish I could bottle that scent. It defies description but it’s one of the most gorgeous things to experience. We ate the charlotte aux fruits which was quite delicious and also light. Most of us had seconds—Beth and I had thirds—that’s because we know no shame. I made sure to keep a nice big portion for my breakfast tomorrow. Once a year the morning of July 12th I have a large serving of cake with a tall cold glass of milk. It’s a little tradition of mine. I look forward to that more than any other part of my birthday. Go figure.
Once we’d knocked back all the champagne and I’d set Beth up with drawing materials, we realized it was time to scoot out—D and I had agreed to go to the movies this evening, which was actually a big deal for me since I hadn’t gone to the cinema in ages. The movie itself I can’t recommend. It was Public Enemies with Johnny Depp, who plays the role of the famous gangster John Dillinger. The movie had all the elements that I usually very much enjoy; it’s set in the 30’s, there’s cops against gangsters; it takes place during the great depression; there’s plenty of drama, but somehow it all fell flat. There wasn’t much to the script and the image quality bothered me so much that it distracted me from whatever action was going on. D didn’t see what I was talking about, but as an art director having seen tens (or hundreds?) of thousands of photographs I guess I’ve developed an eye and it’s not something I can just shut down whenever is convenient. Still, I loved this outing at the movies. It felt like a special treat. Who says I’m hard to please?
Home. I poured myself a giant serving of Grand Marnier on the rocks. Another thing I got at the liquor store today. I don’t keep that stuff around too often because I tend to go through it in no time. I suppose I’ll have a massive headache tomorrow, but that’s alright. Not like I have to be anywhere. And besides, a breakfast of cake and milk should take care of whatever ails me. I must say I’m feeling quite content right now. I look at Mimi sleeping over on the other couch—she usually starts rolling on her back and making eyes at me when I get up to get ready for bed, and just that little gesture on her part—so eager for her dose of affection—really melts my heart. Life would be mighty different without my kitty cats, so I’m awfully grateful they are with me. And I was also glad to have human company this evening. It made a difference between thinking I’m just a dejected and lonely freak and feeling like I’m a member of society, able to share the good times along with the bad. What more can I ask for? Well winning the lottery wouldn’t be too bad, but I’m not exactly counting on it.
July 11, 2009
40: The Year of Creativity
Quick quick, before they get here. That is if they do make it here at all because it’s been raining cats and dogs in the last couple of hours. I should know because I walked home from the nail salon in the pounding rain after treating myself to a mani/pedi. It was only a ten minute walk or so, but it was raining so hard my umbrella was practically useless. It did keep my head dry but by the time I got home I had to peel off my soaked clothes—5 more minutes outside and my underwear would have been soaked through as well. That makes me think of a day I remember as one of the most fun times I had with my mum when we decided to go into a particularly nice neighborhood to look for a house we wanted to buy—even though we couldn’t afford to buy one—and the pounding rain that came on suddenly didn’t deter us from pursuing our search. But that’s another story altogether. For today, I know my guests are keen on having a piece of cake, but it remains to be seen whether they’re willing to get themselves wet for it.
I made it to market just before noon today, early enough so that they still had an impressive selection of cakes at the local bakery. Chocolate-raspberry cake or lemon pie? Or how about chocolate-hazelnut? Or raspberry-lemon cake? At that moment I truly wished someone else but me were buying the cake because making a choice seemed impossible. So I compromised: I took photos of all my choices and then bought another cake I hadn’t even noticed yet: a Charlotte aux fruits. Very appetizing. I’d already gone by the wine store to pick up a couple more bottles of Lancyre, my favorite rosé wine lately, but when I got the cake I thought perhaps a nice bubbly might be more appropriate for a 40th birthday. Not something you celebrate every day what with ringing in a new decade and all. While I was at it, I decided to go all out and got a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Rosé. Because I’m worth it.
My guests are my neighbours J and her daughter B, whom I’d invited to share last year’s birthday cake, and I’ve also invited D, someone I met at the program with whom I’ve been sharing my daily walks back home. I didn’t have the courage to call any of my old friends. So be it. I haven’t decided whether I’m up to braving the rain again to try to find candles for my cake. I might just make a wish without. I’m sure that works too.
Numerologically speaking: 4+0=4, which stands for Creation. Awesome. I can certainly use more creativity in my life.
... Doorbell ringing, looks like my guests are making it here after all. Gotta run.
Pics by Smiler
July 10, 2009
39
Now playing:
I’m in a reflective mood tonight. There is just one hour left before I leave my 30’s behind and embark on my 5th decade. There’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t stop the progress of time, and no matter how foreign the concept of life is to me sometimes, I can’t evade the laws of gravity and physics. I didn’t see this year go by. It happened in a flash. Probably has something to do with me sleeping through the better part of it. Then again, anytime the question of my age came up this year, instead of stating the simple fact: “I’m 39” I usually got into this whole game of “why don’t you try to guess?” and get a real kick when most people answered anything from “barely 20” to “early 30’s at most”. Yes, that was a nice ego boost. I liked being in my 30’s. I felt that no matter how challenging things got, I was finally more or less equipped to deal with whatever got thrown my way, while still being considered young and filled with possibilities. At times, this year has felt like one long mourning session for the decade that I liked best and which felt most like “me” (so far).
But now that my 39th year is about to come to an end, I can’t help but look back on it and try to figure out what it was all about. My 39th year was about resilience. I learned that no matter how bad things got, my survival instincts always won out, even if at times it meant sleeping for days on end to evade the painful thoughts that plagued me every minute of every day. I learned that even though I can be my worst enemy, I also happen to be the person I most enjoy spending time with, which in turn helped me tap into a pool of self-confidence I wouldn’t have known was there otherwise. I learned that though the path of least resistance is often the best way to move forward, putting in even the most minimal of efforts brings you that much further. I learned that I could give up my ambitions but still keep all my options open. I learned that if you ask for help, it will come in one form or another. I learned to ask for help (no small thing, believe me). I learned to make a truce with my body long enough to get into a bathing suit and enjoy a hot summer day in a body of water. I learned that no matter how selfish I can be, I really do want to help others and when I do, I really do feel like a better person for it. I learned a lot of things. In fact, it’ll probably take me the whole of the next decade to distill it all. Which is fine. Not like I have any other plans for now.
In terms of numerology, 39 has a couple of meanings:
The number 3 according to some interpretations stands for: Communication/interaction. Neutrality.
The number 9: Highest level of change.
3+9=12 1+2=3 (see above for interpretation)
Sounds just about right. The way I see it, neutrality is a good thing. It’s the closest thing to balance I’ve ever known so far... and from there one can go just about anywhere. As for change, I know from an intellectual standpoint that there has been lots of it but it will take me a while to recognize it since most of it has come very gradually and very very slowly.
We have a French show here every New Year’s Eve called Bye Bye. It’s a review of the year from a political, cultural and popular standpoint presented in the form of humorous skits. I don’t know exactly what my Bye Bye would look like, but I’m almost sure it would be painfully funny. And wouldn’t you know it, painfully funny’s a good thing in my book.
Pic: Spherical Planetary Nebula Abell 39
July 9, 2009
Gratitude
I don’t think I’ve said this “out loud” before. Mostly you all hear me bitch and moan but I should say that I’m actually very grateful to be part of the day program. Goodness knows just getting there in the morning is plenty challenging and that it all gets overwhelming with so much to take in. I don’t see myself making much progress so far, but just the fact that I have a reason to shower, get dressed and get out of the house every day is doing me good, that much I know. All the rest, like getting back to being a functional member of society, well that will come in due time I guess.
July 8, 2009
Quote of the Day
Faire demi-tour, c’est une mauvaise manière de poursuivre un voyage.
~ Per Olof Sundman, Académicien et romancier suédois
Retracing one’s steps is a poor way of pursuing a journey.
~ Per Olof Sundman, Swedish academic and writer
I should know a thing or two about that...
Pic: “The Road Home to Reykjavik” by Stuck in Customs, Fickr
Quote of the Day
Quand la loi redevient celle de la jungle, c’est un honneur que d’être déclaré hors-la-loi.
~ Hervé Bazin, Romancier français
When the law regresses back to the law of the jungle, it’s a great honour
to be declared an outlaw. ~ Hervé Bazin, French writer
July 7, 2009
Stuff that Drives Me Crazy
I'm just about to go to bed and I’m so upset right now I just had to take a couple of moments to write about it so I can calm down and hopefully not be plagued by nightmares all night. I left the t.v. on after my show on HBO and a documentary started just a few minutes ago. They haven’t even gotten into the “meat” of the subject (so to speak, and the irony of the expression is beyond being funny right now) yet, as they were just introducing what the documentary was going to be dealing with. It’s called “Death on a Factory Farm” which gives you an idea that it’s going to be pretty hard core. This guy sets out to work undercover at a pig farm where an employee has placed a call to an animal rights group to complain about the especially cruel treatment that the pigs are getting on this farm and his mission is to film and record their cruel practices so that the people running the farm can be brought to justice. I just got to the point where they show the sows being kept in these tiny enclosures that don’t allow for any movement and where they have to drop themselves down if they need to lie down, and are forced to stay there for the entire duration of the gestation. I’ve already heard about this. I know many farm animals get treated this way but actually seeing it is a whole other story. I usually try to avoid seeing this kind of documentary because it just upsets me too much. I imagine this kind of movie would be hard to see for most people (other than the farmers of course) but when you love animals the way I do and “animals are people too” in your way of thinking, it really hurts. I had to switch it off at that point because just seeing those poor creatures being treated like concentration camp victims (except they get to eat—are often actually force-fed) and seeing them looking so miserable and so terribly abused was more than I could take, especially since I knew things were only going to get much worse from there on. Who needs to watch horror movies when there’s this real stuff going on right on our farmlands? I don’t get it. I know there’s incredible justice in this world being committed every single moment of every single day and I try to help out a little as best I can, but every time I see these stories about animals suffering I’m just reduced to a puddle of tears and just feel so helpless. And knowing how helpless I feel, I can only imagine just how miserable these creatures who can’t speak for themselves must be. I say let us stupid humans kill each other off, fine; the planet would be better off without us. But we have no right to take down the animals along with us. I definitely need to find some way to help make a difference. But somehow donating another buck-a-day or whatever doesn’t seem to be enough! Not much I can do right this moment, but at least, thanks for reading and if this encourages you to take any sort of action to help bring relief to other suffering souls, be they human, animal or extra-terrestial, then many blessings to you.
That’s my little unedited rant tonight just before bed.
Now I lay me down to sleep...
July 6, 2009
Gorgeousness
Most of the above images were taken from the following article. If you can’t be bothered to read it, no worries, the images alone speak for themselves. But how will you ever know for sure what they are? Are they galaxies? Are they jellyfish? Are they images of brains on LSD? I’ll tell you: photographer Mark Mawson creates these beautiful images by dropping paint in water and photographs them in the ensuing seconds. Interpreting the resulting images is entirely up to you.
Pics by Mark Mawson Barcroft Media
July 5, 2009
Strawberry Fields Don’t Last Forever
Yay! Good for me! Even though I didn’t manage to get up before noon today or do most of the things I promised myself I’d do, I did get out to market today, and although by then most merchants were packing it up, I managed to get beef brochettes marinated in orange, curried deboned chicken thighs and pecan-smothered porc loin for the barbecue. Then from the specialty shop, a balsamic vinegar at half the price, twice the quantity than the one I usually get, same quality, and organic to boot. All I had to do was mention I wanted a more economical alternative. The last stop was the strawberry stand where they were liquidating their last remaining crates at discount prices. It’s been this way all of my life, but somehow I’m always shocked when just about a week before my birthday they declare local strawberry season all but over. It always seems to come much too soon. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. It made no sense to buy a small basket since the half crate came out so much cheaper. But what am I going to do with all those strawberries? I wondered. There aren’t enough to make jam, but too many for just my breakfast cereal... I know, I’ll go on a strawberry diet and just have strawberries with every meal, snack and dessert. All stawberries, all the time.
I was cleaning a handful of the beautiful ripe berries just a short while ago. A snack to accompany a glass of lovely Masi rosé wine which I’ve stocked up to hopefully last the summer. I get into a special zone whenever the water is running and for some reason I got to thinking that my life would have been so so very much better had I been born three weeks earlier, as I was originally supposed to. For one thing, I probably wouldn’t be chronically late for everything all of the time. I’d be a Gemini instead of Cancer and probably more outgoing, more willing to take risks, less of an introvert, among other things. There would be bunches of Peonies—my favourite flowers—everywhere to wake up to on the day of my birthday. And strawberry season would just barely be getting started. Beginnings are always so much more encouraging than endings, don’t you think? Shoulda Woulda Coulda. I can’t exactly blame myself for being born 3 weeks late, can I? Not like I was lazy or unmotivated right from the womb, was I? And not like I can go back and fix it either (I’m sure my mother wouldn’t be thrilled to go over the whole exercise again—but just think! Three weeks less of dragging my unborn self around in scorching weather!).
Yeh. So what’s the point? Where am I going with all this? Well, not to the Jazz festival, that’s for sure, even though an old friend contacted me today to suggest we go together this evening. But oh! the crowds! And oh! The commotion! No, I’m much better off right here on my balcony sipping my wine and popping one of the last local strawberries of 2009 into my mouth.
Let me take you down, cause I’m going to
Strawberry fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry fields forever
July 4, 2009
Count Me in With the Poodle
During our goal-setting session on Friday, one of the things I determined was that this weekend I wanted to be up by 12 noon at the latest. I did pretty well today, in large part due to my dad who decided to call me just a minute or two after my alarm clock rang and just before I’d had time to fall back into a deep sleep again. I had to really fight the urge to fall back asleep when I was up but by around 3 o’clock, I couldn’t stand it anymore and had to go lie down for a “short” nap, which turned out to be 5 hours long.
This is nothing new. *The sleep thing* is something I’ve been dealing with for the better part of my life. But now that I’m in treatment and that we’re running tests to evaluate my overall health, I’ve decided to make the sleep thing my priority. I had a talk yesterday with the head shrink—a very nice man who is open to discussion and encourages patients to think for themselves and contribute to both diagnosing and resolving problems—very rare qualities for a shrink. I told him about my bout of Mono when I was 3 and how the fatigue I can experience most days feels very similar to what I experienced back then. I had mentioned this to other doctors over the years but so far they had all dismissed the idea before I’d even gotten all the words out of my mouth. This time, Doctor F was willing to consider my theory that since I had Mono so young, maybe some neurological pathways or chemical reactions in my brain were affected by the illness and left me with permanent chronic fatigue symptoms associated with the “kissing disease”.
I’ve started doing a little bit of research online. At first I wanted to find out whether there is such a thing as “sleep addiction”. It seems not. What very little information I was able to glean was from message boards and forums such as the one I found on sleepnet.com where back in May 2000 “blue” had this response about whether it was possible to have a sleep addiction: “Certainly people may seek escape in sleep, but would a normal (even addiction-prone) person actually be able to BE asleep as often as all that?”. The answer of course is no, as anyone who has ever tried to fall asleep on cue can attest. Why it is I hadn’t done any research on this issue before, I really can’t say, but my guess is I was probably just too tired. Just a cursory look at Sleep Disorders on Wikipedia gives me hope that maybe there is a diagnosis for my condition: Narcolepsy doesn’t sound like such a stretch from what I’ve gathered so far. In and of itself, a diagnosis is pretty useless, but for me it might mean 3 things: 1) there just might be a way to “treat” my problem (though I get the feeling probably not) 2) I’ll finally have scientific proof that I don’t sleep so much purely as a form of escapism. And most importantly: 3) I’ll be able to put to rest my concern that I’m just a lazy, good for nothing motherfucker (no offense mom).
