Oh My Site, It Is A-Changin'

Dear Friends,
I've decided to quit blogging. On this site. I'm switching from Blogger to WordPress, so please update your RSS feeds and favourites with the new URL:

blog.melaniejones.ca

Hope to see you there!

Love,
Me

Courage, Friends

Thanks KB for sharing this. I can't think of anything better for today. Go get 'em, tigers. XO

Day 235: Back In The Stirrups Again

The video's kinda quiet because I recorded it at 12:30 am and me blabbing on the Interweb about my CERVIX is not how people want to be roused from slumber. Trust me.

There's also a spot in the middle where it skips. That's the part where I tell you how the columnist misquoted me to the point where everyone in Southern Alberta thought I was dying of cervical cancer. I'm not dying of cervical cancer. And unless something went horribly wrong between now and three months ago, I don't HAVE cervical cancer. I have the thing that comes before it.

For those of you who are interested, here is the highlight reel:
The post that started it all.
The newspaper story – read it and tell me you don't think I'm dying tomorrow and unable to bear children. Gaa!
My surgery a.k.a. date rape by BBQ utensil.
And for the truly brave, the entire emotional rollercoaster in which I get really woo-woo and weird and eventually turn into a raw foodist for several months. Ech.

My test is at 3:30 pm MST if you wanna go ahead and send some good vibes my way. If I had an iPhone, I would go Lance Armstrong on all of you and Tweet while I'm in there, feet in the stirrups and staring at the ceiling. Got the visual on that one? Ha! Happy Monday.

Day 232: Hey, It's All Right.

I'm heading off to the second and final day of shooting for the Depression Project. There's a ton left to do, but I'm also feeling really sappy and take-stock-y. Because this shoot has been three months of hard-ass work in the making. And in many ways fifteen or so YEARS of in the making.

I wouldn't be standing there in front of the camera for those kids if I hadn't been depressed. And I wouldn't have gotten depressed if I'd stood in front of the camera more in the first place...if I'd let my Big Dreams turn into my Big Life earlier.

So it's poignant for me that not only am I living my dream by performing, but my dream has come to include the darkest points of my life. And the capacity to help other people.

I think that's one of the coolest things about this Just One Year idea. Is that not only did it come at a low point in my life, but a low point in history. Who takes a year off just as we're heading into the worst economy of our lifetime?

I do!

But that's the beauty of it. The challenge. The impossible odds. The worst case scenario. Adversity gives it drama. It gives it power.

People are getting laid off left and right. Half of them are scrambling to find new jobs to fill in the blank their old jobs left. Half of them are relieved to be let go. They've embraced the sense of freedom and possibility and are happy to leave the life they SHOULD have liked but didn't. They're using the opportunity to create the life they LOVE.

"I'm EI-ing it and loving it...am I allowed to say that?" one of my friends wrote me.

There's no good time to break up with your shitty life and go find a great one. No perfect moment when you've got everything together and you've saved a bunch of money and have everything under control. That perfect moment will never come. Except for the fact that it could be right now.

I don't know why it all worked out the way it did for me. Why I got depressed and depressed again. Why I chose to take this risk when I did. How I ended up helping kids who are going through what I went through.

But I do know I don't need to be afraid. Being unemployed during the worst economic crisis of recent memory means you'll never be afraid of NOT having a job. This is the worst case scenario and, hey, it's all right. The worst time of my life is now being used to help other people. That's all right, too.

I guess what I'm saying is, yes, everything happens for a reason. But oftentimes we don't get to see the reason for a long, long time, so the best thing to do is always remember that there IS ONE. Whatever is happening right now has a purpose. Your job is not to reject it or try to "fix" it. It's to embrace it and dive right into it. Use it. Benefit from it.

My tenant is leaving my condo. She's quitting her PhD and moving back home to Vancouver. And I'm going to have to either find another tenant to pay my exorbitant mortgage or sell at the WORST point of the housing market. Worst case scenario, right?

Hey, it's all right.

Day 231: Coming Soon To A Sound-Stage Near You

Hey, remember that jumping-out-of-my-skin day I had last week? The one where the idea to start a theatre company emerged out of nowhere? And how we were supposed to meet about that theatre company TODAY but both the other girls canceled? And remember how I got discouraged about that and wondered how I'm ever going to get my ass on a stage again as though one canceled meeting can determine the entire fate of my life?

Have no fear, friends.

Because two performance opportunities landed in my lap within days of each other. Mmm hmm. For real.

The first is a reading at a new recording studio this weekend. I'm performing along with a bunch of other spoken word people and musician types to celebrate their grand opening. Only I don't know the name of the business or if I'll be abducted and forced to join a polygamy cult because the girl who invited me only writes one-line emails. All I know is the address and that it starts at 6 pm on Saturday.

Maybe you should come...just in case.

You should also help me pick what to read. Currently, the options are:
Crotch Management, always a crowd-pleaser.
Celebrity Cervix, based on this post.
Better Known as Bacon Strip, a morality tale about stained underwear.
Or Who's Your Hammama? from my Parisian adventures with topless women.

Based on this list, it appears all I write about is boobs and boxes. I'm comfortable with that.

The second performance opp is with Mr. Laid Back & Under 30, Mark Hopkins – remember the Freak Show? He's baaaaack! That show will be sometime the week of April 28th. It's called Shhhh! I'm sure there will be many hilarious tales of unwritten scripts, beer-soaked rehearsals and last-minute panic attacks to come.

P.S. I would have written about yesterday's shoot for the Depression Project, but it went so smoothly, there's nothing to say! (Besides eavesdropping on the slumlord screaming match out back in the parking lot.) Hopefully something horribly humiliating will go down tomorrow. Fingers crossed...

Day 229: The Three Day Rule

The really irritating thing about being a spiritual person is you can't get Just Mad anymore. You're always looking for The Lesson or The Message From The Universe and you can't just throw dishes and be done with it. Everything has to have "deeper meaning" or lead to "personal growth."

It's frickin' annoying.

So it really IRKED me when – after getting blindsided by the Depression People AGAIN at the ELEVENTH BLOODY HOUR – I descended into a blind rage the likes of which I've never experienced.

It was the kind of rage I can only describe as ALCOHOLIC – the rip-the-sink-off-the-wall, eat-a-plate-of-cocaine, drive-a-truck-off-a-bridge kind of fury reserved for addicts and outlaws. An out of control cocktail of self-destruction and homicidal mania.

This? Is not like me at all.

It scared the hell out of me. And I wondered how I'd let things get this far. I'd ignored the Three Day Rule for far too long.

I've learned the hard way that I've got three days without creative Me-Time before the time bomb starts to tick ominously. Before the jungle drums start beating and the air raid sirens start to howl. Before I start yelling for Boyfriend to TAKE COVER because goddamnit SHE'S GONNA BLOW!

It's strange, but it's true.

Creativity is as much a part of my self-care as getting eight hours of sleep at night. If I skip it, there are consequences. If I keep skipping it, things get ugly for those within a 30-foot radius. If I neglect it altogether, the rage goes inward I get suicidally depressed. This is how it works.

Three days to crazy.

But every once and awhile I, very mistakenly, try to get away with it and push my self-care to the bottom of the list.

I don't know how thought I could gut out a couple more weeks of balls-to-the-wall writing for the Depression Project, survive a four-day full-frontal-family weekend (where the only Me-Time I got involved a toilet and a wad of Charmin double-ply) and have enough gas in the tank for two days of shooting a hundred pages of script.

I was very, very wrong.

And I emerged from a molten white rage last night around midnight to find myself tearing a journal almost in two like some kind of steroid-addled Monster Trucker. Smashing all the car windshields on my street with a baseball bat also seemed like a very good idea. It was fucked.

But, since I knew from whence the white rage came, I chose against baseball bats and turned to Julia Cameron instead. I opened up Vein of Gold to a section entitled 'Voluntary Victims,' which goes a little something like: "Sooooo. You didn't give yourself the creative time or space you needed and said Yes to everything everybody asked you and now you're A CERTIFIABLE MENTAL CASE and what exactly did you THINK was going to happen? Hmm?"

I did one of her genius little exercises (in my ravaged journal) and felt better. But I wasn't done yet, so even though it was a quarter past late o'clock, I opened up a story I've been working on (pssst...one of the PARIS stories!).

I felt the train wreck of rage in my head clear away and the knot of barbed wire in my chest loosen. I was WRITING! For the first time since Paris and it was glorious.

I wrote until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore and then slipped into bed beside Boyfriend. Who was still wearing his riot gear and clutching his pepper spray under his chin. Adorable.

Day 228: Insert Bloodcurdling Scream Here

Dear Depression Project Team:

I have read over your changes to the Module 8 script. While I appreciate the new theme of Celebration, I have some serious concerns.

The first half isn't about celebration at all – it simply sums up the previous seven modules intercut with overly cheerful and content-lite wahoo music videos. The exercises, which we created for the original theme of Module 8, are now no longer relevant or related. What does a visualization about the road less traveled have to do with celebrating? I notice you've left the second half of the content as-is even though it was written for an entirely different theme and no longer makes any sense whatsoever. And the story for the story section was, I suspect, written by someone from the research team.

You sent me this new content at 6 pm on Monday night. Today is Tuesday, the day before the shoot where I, as an actor, need to deliver over 50 pages of script authentically and honestly. It will be a long day and an exhausting one – and I want to do my best for the production team. It is Day One of two days like this. In between the two shoot days, I need to prepare the next 50 some-odd pages of script I need to bring to life.

What you are asking me to do is completely rewrite and refocus the script of Module 8. This will take a full day of writing. A day we don't have in the current schedule.

So when you say you'd like to find a way to approach this without putting pressure on me, I'd say it's a little late for that. Once again, I feel the timely delivery of the product resting a little too firmly on my shoulders.

I am a human being. I have given a lot to this project and am just about to enter the most vulnerable phase of it. Baring my soul and history on paper is one thing, baring it in front of the camera is another. Asking me to shoehorn an entire day of reworking a desperately under-realized module into this week is not acceptable and it's not going to happen.

Melanie

P.S. You owe me money.

Day 223: Hittin' the Road

We are driving to BC for some Easter fun with my parents and a chunk of Boyfriend's MAMMOTH-sized family.

But before leaving, there's the ORDEAL of Boyfriend's Getting Ready To Leave process. This entails washing every single piece of clothing he owns – even though we're going for only four days. It requires purging the fridge – even though there have been Tupperware containers with Biochemistry PhD projects brewing in there for MONTHS.

It also means cleaning the truck, kitchen, living room and bedroom from top to bottom just in case we die in a car crash and our loved ones judge us posthumously.

I am a big-picture cleaner. I feel that if I've put in the effort with a couple half-assed swipes to the dash with some ArmourAll or a quick smear of a cloth on a counter, that oughta do it. This makes it all kinds of No Fun to share cleaning duty with someone who is...um...what's a nicer word than COMPLETELYEFFINGANAL?

Anyhoo. Cleaning ANYTHING with Boyfriend usually means I do a shamelessly shoddy job, he chases after me re-cleaning and I get huffy and indignant.

WHAT BETTER WAY TO PREPARE FOR EIGHT HOURS IN A CAR TOGETHER?

Day 222: Because We Can

I spent most of yesterday jumping out of my skin. I was working on the last module of the Depression Project and, being creatively tapped out, every sentence was like giving birth. I drank three giant cups of tea. I danced it the f*ck out. I made strange grunting noises in some misguided use of sound therapy.

But it wasn't the project making me antsy. It's my need to perform.

While in Paris, I had this idea to turn my stories into a performance of some kind: one woman show, storytelling, spoken word, something. And then I had the idea to turn it into a fundraising event: perform it, invite all of you, charge you money, feed you booze.

And then I freaked out.

Meanwhile, my need to perform has been sitting like a shaken-up pop can in my belly, waiting not-so-patiently for my attention.

And then yesterday, I visited a friend who has recently come out of the closet as a performer, too. And she says she's ALSO been waiting not-so-patiently for me to be finished this effing Depression Project.

"We're starting a theatre company," she says. "Just so you know." I stared at her. And laughed.

Because, come on. Like. You can't just START a THEATRE COMPANY.

*Snort*

Can you?

And then I visited with another friend and we went for a walk – my anti-skin-jumping solution. While we're walking she tells me she's finally admitted SHE'S a performer.

WTF.

And suddenly, these words come FLYING out of my mouth: "We're starting a theatre company."

I screamed a little and stopped walking.

And the words just hung there in the air. We both looked at them. The words didn't explode or catch fire or turn into murderous lightning bolts of nuclear energy. They just sat there. Staring back at us. Blinking placidly.

Because...the thing is...we COULD.

And really. None of these 'outings' are surprising. Friend #1 worked in theatre in New Freaking YORK before bailing on the whole idea when she came back to Canada. And Friend #2 is so good at writing dialogue it freaks me out. She has this genius play gathering dust in a drawer. And then there's me.

We kept walking and the words tagged along behind us like little balloons on little strings.

We talked about all those thoughts that air-pop popcorned into our heads seconds after we realized we are performers:

"I can't be a performer. They don't make any money."

"Actors are so over-dramatic and annoying."

"I'm a morning person...I can't work nights."

"Performing's all about the ego anyway."

All those weird beliefs that keep us from being who we are. As if we have any choice about it. As if working NIGHTS even matters. As if we're going suddenly going to become ANNOYING over night. We laughed our heads off and kept walking.

And those words? They're still with us. Little balloons on little strings. Our first meeting is next week.

Uncertainty...Unplugged

Okay, so here's my first-ever attempt at a video for this blog. It's too long and I ramble and almost start crying at a couple points. Also note the wide-eyed look of shock and awe.

God. Sounds like a Monday.

Day 220: The Occupational Hazard Series

Hazard #1208: Crushing Creative Drought
Hey, I know it's not sexy to blog about why you haven't been blogging, but I think enough creative-types read this that it's relevant:

I'VE GOT FRICKIN' NOTHING.

Banging out these effing Depression scripts for three weeks straight has completely tapped me out. And this is what happens when you exist in that middle space where you're working a job that you thought was Close Enough to your dream but you're still dying to do your own creative work. The effing job steals all your juice!

So instead of your crafty little Writer Brain perking up when your 95-year-old grandfather refers to Skype as 'Psych,' you just stare dully into space and pick at your hangnails. It's a travesty.

Hazard #491: Carpal Tunnel WTF Is Going On With My WRISTS
Or there's the times when you have an idea – like how wine menu descriptions could easily be human personality profiles – but your wrists have been on fire for four days and the idea of typing that story/blog post/whatever fills you with dread.

Last week there was some kind of horrific convergence of me typing for 10 hours a day and getting back into Ashtanga (50 Push-Ups A Class) yoga and my wrists are brutally sore. Because writing is my vocation and I have an incredibly active imagination, I let my crazy spin out into a world where I could no longer write for a living and lost all use of my hands and went slowly insane and ended up dying homeless and alone with coyotes gnawing on my face.

This is what happens in my head.

It's scary in there.

And then (after a few gins) Ross says: "Wash a couple Advil down with a large glass of Suck It Up and you'll be fine." Thanks, pal.

Hazard #902,035: Clutching, Sleep-Preventing Financial Panic Attacks
Hey remember that Artist For One Year thing I'm doing? Remember how SELLING MY CAR was a key factor in making in happen? Remember how that hasn't happened yet and how I took on a pro bono project where I'll have no way of generating income all freaking summer?

And then – omigod this is hilarious – remember that PERFECTLY timed cherry on top of the $500 water damage bill, $375 special assessment and a condo fee increase? And the fact I haven't done my taxes...for three years?

BAAAAHAHAHA!

*Sob*

Day 219: Read This Immediately If Not Sooner

Thursday night we went to a Spoken Word Festival event at The Auburn. Evalyn Parry performed and when she read the poem below, I bawled my face off. A lot because I, too, feel passionately about outsiders and our great potential to make serious and awesome change in the world. And a lot because it was the first time I understood that Boyfriend (geek) and I (artist) are in the same category. More on that later.

I asked Evalyn if I could publish this and share it with you. She said yes. Love her. Now...read it and weep. And then please continue kicking ass and living like you effing mean it. This one is for you.

This one is for

the non-conformers and the system buckers
it’s for the girly men and the lady truckers
the organic farmers, the local food growers
the old-school, mechanical, push lawn mowers
the two wheel riders, the trouble makers
the public-transportation-takers

it’s for the girls who cut their hair, and the ladies who refuse to shave
it’s for everyone who has ever been brave
it’s for the time you didn’t behave

it’s for those who remain hopeful when hope seems lost
it’s for my first year women studies prof
hell, all my patient first year professors, my true hearts,
my midnight confessors, for all the dressers
I’ve ever found at the curbside
and all the things that have saved my backside

it’s for the Michigan Womyn’s Festival founding foremothers
my tranny sisters and brothers
the straight-but-not-narrow
all my ex-lovers
the crunchy granola hippies who dance
aviators, horse back riders, gals who wore pants
before pants were something a proper lady should wear
it’s for the bleeding hearts, and the ones who care
and the ones that march and the ones that fight
the people who bother to write
a letter to the editor, who stand up to their managers
the union organizers, the city counsellors
it’s for everyone that dares and everyone that speaks
for those who listen, for those who can’t sleep
and those who can’t rest
for those who are trying their best
for the freaks and the punks, the misfits and the nerds
for everyone who ever contributed words
and meanings
to the Oxford English Dictionary
for those who know they will never marry
for the rebels and the genderqueers and polyamorous
for my grade 11 boyfriend who drove a VW bus
for the outlaws, and the in-laws who got over their misgivings
and attended their first same sex wedding
for everything with wings

it’s for the radical thinkers and the babies in incubators
for second-chancers, and the morris dancers
for those whom, given the choice, always chose “other”
it’s for Stephen Lewis and all the grandmothers
for the fearful who took to the streets anyway
for the artists who keep going even though it might never pay
for those who light the way
for those who made it through another day without a drink
for all those who think
for anyone who chooses to get things done
for the catholic priests who are handing out condoms
for the improvisers, and the bathhouse raid committee organizers
and the war tax resisters and the brave fighters
for those who go to serve in anyway they can
for the ones who were shot down and for those ran
for those who defied their orders, for the doctors without borders
the single mothers, the sperm donors and the Henry Morgentalers
the crisis phone line callers
for those who refuse to give up and refuse to give in
who won’t shut up
who know it’s not about whether you win
or you lose
but about the scope of your dream and your right to chose
an opinion and your right to change your mind
for those who are kind
it’s for those who hold fast
and for those who are outcast
or downcast, for those who can’t move very fast
for the flags at half mast
for the tired organizers and the ones who outlast
and all those who have already past
this one is for you

this one is for you

this one is for you

to

wield.

Read more Evalyn goodness here.

Speaking of Genius...

Watch this:

(Don't know who Elizabeth Gilbert is? She's the author of Eat, Pray, Love – a beautiful, hilarious, bestselling memoir that Oprah fell in love with. Which catapulted her to ridiculous, freakish, unwieldy success.)

Day 217: I Heart Steve's Mom

My friend Steve is on a journey of self-transformation, but his mom is knocking on Enlightenment's door as far as I'm concerned. I need to meet the lady who wrote this list. (I'd also love a play-by-play of Steve's childhood.)

Some highlights:

2. Sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day.

3. When you wake up in the morning complete the following statement, “My purpose is to __________today.”

9. Don’t compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

14. No one is in charge of your happiness except you.

16. Get rid of anything that isn’t useful, beautiful or joyful.

18. Spend time with people over 70 and under 6.

20. Don’t forget to call your Mother, you will never get that unconditional love from anywhere else.

Day 216: When The Magic Got Lost

My wrists are sore from writing. My brain is sluggish. My body fatigued. My creative well depleted and dry. My deadline...tomorrow.

For more than two weeks straight, the pace of the Depression Project has quickened and the intensity increased. We were like horses: hitting our stride and running full-tilt across the prairie, then fatiguing, straining, sweating and bleeding, gutting it out until we saw home.

I got to that point where I was done with the journey, but the journey wasn't done with me. And so I kept going. And past that point – that limit – I found something.

This project is amazing.

What we've made here is so incredibly powerful, the fact that only depressed teenagers get to see it is a crime. It's that good.

I wish I'd taken it when I was young – at that point where I started to second-guess myself and look outside for answers. The point where I started to let my childhood dreams die. Where there was no more Santa Claus and the magic started to fade.

This course we're making is a lesson in dreams and possibility and purpose and connection. It's like an arsenal of weapons against the tidal wave of bullshit a person has to wade through on the inelegant passage to adulthood. Those soul-sucking expectations that weigh down your wings and tarnish your shine. The choices that took you off your true path and onto the superhighway of Someone Else's Life.

How do you expect to make a living at that? Get a real job. Make money. Lose weight. Get married, have babies. Look out for Number 1. Find a hobby. Buy more, save more.

School Rules. The Cult Of Cool. How We've Always Done It.

Normal. Better. More.

The damage we spend our twenties undoing. The person we spend our thirties finding.

No wonder we got depressed. It's shocking more of us aren't. No wonder we're angry, confused and feel ripped off. No wonder.

I wish all of you could see this course. I wish all of you HAD seen it...when you were twelve or thirteen. Whenever the magic got lost for you. When you stopped believing in fairies and dragons. And resigned yourself to something more ordinary.

I miss it. The magic. Don't you?

Day 215: Go See This Movie...With Me

Dudes. Seriously. Go see 'Letters from Litein' at The Globe on the weekend of April 24th. It's produced and directed by the film guys I'm working with on the Depression Project and YOU MUST SEE IT.

Not because it's a documentary made right here in YYC.

Not because it's about Africa and y'all better get used to hearing A LOT about Africa.

Not because it's about school children from Calgary traveling to Kenya to help orphans.

Not because Canadian independent filmmakers rilly, RILLY need bums in seats ON OPENING WEEKEND.

But because you're gonna watch this and fall madly and hopelessly in love:

Chills, no? Mistiness in the eyes? An intense desire to bring ten friends to opening weekend?

It opens on April 24th at The Globe Cinema in Calgary for two weeks. Go to the film's web site for more info. Or if you want to get in touch with Matt Palmer (producer/director) directly, email him at mattrix at telusplanet dot net.

ALSO! I'm totally going on April 24th. I want to rally a massive crew to show my support. If you want to be part of a bad-ass posse of cool kids, email the words PINK BANANA and your contact info to: blog at melaniejones dot ca.

Day 213: I Think I'm So Smrt

Why does the Universe INSIST on reminding me who's boss? Seriously. I'm flowing, things are awesome, I'm going to frickin' Africa and then BOOM: I burn out, my computer crashes and I have to spend my Sunday afternoon chipping a 6-inch tall speed bump of ice so my tenant can get her car out of the parking lot of #426 Slum Street USA.

WTF.

I have this weird innate Doom Reflex that kicks in when things start going too good. When I got the Africa-India Water Project, every time I talked about it out loud, I kept expecting a bolt of lightning to streak down and fry my brains. Since I got home from Paris, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Me = SUCKER.

Because feeding all that energy into the doom-y feeling is like sending a very nice party invitation to Doom itself. Not that losing two files and chipping ice necessarily counts as Doom. It doesn't hold a candle to hurricanes and economic nuclear winter. But still.

That incredible flow I'd had in Paris – the one that turned into an out-of-control Raging Rapids theme park ride when I got home – has caused me to rethink my approach. This week is all about slowing down and tuning in. Turning the Crazyhorse River into a nice, manageable babbling brook.

I need to get this Depression Project finished. Need to. And in order to do that, I need to NOT do 4 million other things. Full stop. So despite the fact that I just signed up for Twitter and am tempted to tweet every passing random and slightly dirty thought that enters my mind...I'll just say, 'See you tomorrow Internet.'

Day 211: What Too Busy Looks Like

it looks like losing
things you can't afford to lose at the moment you can't afford to waste
you should learn
you should learn
you should learn which you would if you weren't
so bizzy,
frizzy,
overwhelmed,
too hanging-on to see

anything
but that day off-off-off dangling, sun-warmed
off-off-off...if
you hadn't lost those files with those notes from that client
those phone-talk hours distilled
into capital letters
misspelled
and hasty

and now
too tired to remember
two documents to finish
that job
that leaves you drained dry and empty on the friday
when you forget to save

that snapping circle
and you think you're faster
faster more cunning
running
the next thing the next thing the next thing
runs the battery down

in so many ways

things switch off suddenly
and everything is gone
except consequences

Day 209: Water Project World Tour UPDATE

Today I took a break from the grind of the Depression Project and spent the whole day on the Water Project. It began with a meeting with the woman from the NGO, where my questions included: Did I just agree to work for free for two years...and will I get shot while I'm doing it?

Yes, I'm working for free – they didn't budget for a writer when they got their massive grant from CIDA – but they are paying for flight/travel, accommodation, food, visas, vaccinations and insurance, including being airlifted by commandos on the off-chance I do get shot. Which I won't because that's not how I'm gonna go down.

Unless it involves a blaze of glory. In which case, I might consider it.

Anyhoo. Working for free. Or...getting to travel the world for free. Which is how I like to think of it. It's all good. I'm already plotting magazine articles and columns to pitch, book proposals, generating massive blog traffic (tell all your friends) and a Top Secret Fundraising Extravaganza you're all invited to if I can pull my wicked idea off. Stay tuned.

I also got some insight as to why NGO Lady decided to send an outside writer and not go herself as originally sort-of planned: she's PREGGO. The Universe works in mysterious ways...and with impeccable timing.

After that meeting, I jumped in my car and headed home for a Skype meeting with the photographer, where we started zeroing in on travel plans and creative concepts. So, the scoop as of today is something like:

Leave Calgary around July 10th and take a couple days to travel to Ndola, Zambia – just in time to celebrate my 33rd birthday. Meet our contact there, whose name is Blessed. For real. Stay in the guest house of the partner agency in Ndola and take satellite trips from there, connecting with families in several townships in the Copperbelt province. Possibly visit an internally displaced persons/refugee camp. Visit the chimp orphanage (I KNOW!) near Ndola.

View Larger Map

Then at the end of July, we take off for the Tamil Nadu province of southern India, where we'll spend most of August and where the plans are still vague because we haven't gotten that far yet.

View Larger Map

The creative concept is still forming and will be HUGELY shaped by what we see and who we meet when we're there, but we're both drawn to the women and children.

The big statistic for all water-focused development efforts is that of the 4,900 people dying every day from waterborne illnesses, 90% of them are children under 5. When you see a statistic like that, it doesn't tell you the story of how those losses impact the mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. And what being healthy now means to these families.

I want to have some fun with the kids if I can – bring some sketchbooks and crayons, record them singing some songs or telling me stories. I'm hoping, perhaps naively, that being healthy means they actually get to be kids.

Day 208: And Now...More Depression!

I've had a request for an update on The Depression Project. After the Parisian Panic Attack followed by the Great Boundary Setting of 2009, I haven't said boo. Inquiring minds want to know. So. Here's the scoop:

Two days before I returned from Paris, a meeting was scheduled for five minutes after my plane touched down at home. POUNCE. I, Grade-A Sucker, agreed to it largely because I want this godforsaken project out of my life as quickly as possible and if that means hauling my haggard, jet-lagged ass into a meeting the day after I get home, so freaking be it.

On my way home, I turned my cell phone on for a period of fourteen seconds in the Toronto airport. Just long enough to inform Boyfriend that my plane didn't go Oceanic Flight 815* over the Atlantic. During that microscopic window of time, who should call but...The Depression People.

EEEEEK!

It was good news though: "We've worked ahead on the scripts. All you have to do is tweak them." This means less work and gutwrenching hell for me. This makes me happy.

We get into the meeting and talk timelines and moving forward.

Then, Dr. Guru shows up. The man whose work in spirituality and depression forms the bedrock of this project. The man who cuts right to the effing chase: "Last week in Halifax, nine teenagers were rushed into the emergency room because of a suicide pact. One was dead by the time they arrived. Four are in ICU. The rest were treated and released. This is why we're here."

Oh.

Right.

For the next hour, Dr. Guru spins a mesmerizing web of personal stories, no-BS project management and super-clear communication about what HE needs to get his part of the project done. He, like me, is sick and tired of the zig-zagging, where's-my-mommy progression of this thing and he wants it the eff DONE.

"Tell me what you want," he says to the two ladies in charge of executing this thing.

My thoughts. His mouth.

Dr. Guru turns to me and asks how I'm feeling. I give a bullshit answer like, "Fine thanks, how are you?" But perhaps he sensed from the emanating waves of murderous rage that simply wasn't true.

And so, I started talking (God help us all):

"For two months, I've been shooting in the dark because all I hear is: 'We don't know what we want.' Well, you sure know what you don't want: EVERYTHING I GIVE YOU.

You want my voice and style, but not when it actually comes out in the writing. You want my sense of humour – which was what hauled me OUT of depression in the first place – but not around people who are depressed(?!). You want authentic, personal stories (VERY, VERY PERSONAL STORIES), but then rewrite them as though I am a MAN.

I am frustrated, isolated and defensive. The closer we get to being done, the farther I feel from the truth. If I'm not true and real, the kids are going to see right through me and I AM GOING TO LOSE THEM. In every sense of the word."

There was some silence in the room.

"But...we think you're the right person for the project," Lady #2 said, patting my arm.

As though I needed validation of my existence and not a CLEAR SOLUTION TO THIS PROBLEM. Teenagers are killing themselves...but you're a good person, Melanie. Thanks.

Other Film Guy, in charge of schedules, offered: "I think we had to go through all THAT to get where we are NOW."

YOU didn't go through anything, Mister. I did. Next?

Matt, the Original Film Guy, says it's a Test From The Universe. Personal growth in the form of the writing contract from hell.

Bizarrely, this made me feel better.

Somehow, there's a POINT to this gong show cluster f*ck and somehow I will benefit from it...eventually. I drove home, nursed a massive, full-body tension headache and went to bed early. Then, when I woke up the next morning? BOOM. Clarity.

I wrote an email:

Laughter was my way out of depression, but it's also a defense mechanism for me. It's coming out in my writing because I'm shooting in the dark. I'm GUESSING what you wanted the kids to get out of every section and it's making me (and my writing) tentative and nervous. Now I'm frustrated...so the stabs I take will likely get more wild and off the mark.

It's time to get grounded in the point of all this. On a segment by segment basis.

If I know what you want, I have the confidence to explore a range of emotional voices in order to communicate with the kids. But if I'm on my heels all you'll get is defensive jokes and people-pleasing B.S. Not authentic content written for the people we are trying to help.

It's not often I use the words "people-pleasing B.S." with my clients. There's a first time for everything.

Since then, I've been talking on the phone with The Ladies for an hour every day, going through each segment with a fine tooth comb and rewriting everything for the THIRD (and in the case of Module 1...SEVENTH) time.

(Can you say Contract Renegotiation?)

It's a grind and it's hellacious, but it's happening and we're moving. There's a point to every sentence and every story. And for the first time since the beginning, I feel like I'm not only speaking to depressed kids but actually helping them, too. Yesssss.




*A reference to the TV show Lost for those who don't watch it. Short form for 'Catastrophic Plane Crash Involving Lots Of Blood And Death And A Magic Island With Mysterious Hatches And The Occasional Touch Of Time Travel.'

Day 207: So I Think I Can Dance

I got a 10-pass to a rec centre in hopes of finding the Calgary version of that glorious dance centre in Paris. There was a Monday evening class called Latin on the schedule and it sounded hot: aerobics with salsa moves and sweaty, sexy Latin beats. I could seriously get into that.

So I was more than a little confused when I walked into a roomful of 60-year-old Chinese ladies wearing panty hose and dancing shoes.

And when the chubby white guy teacher strode in, well, let's say Sexy was officially off the menu. "Sorry I'm late everyone," the teacher breathed. "We just got back from Vegas."

Of course we did.

"Let's warm up with rumba," he said, clapping his hands and starting the music. "And 5, 6, 7, 8." I followed along with a basic rumba box step, trying not to laugh at White Guy's flamboyantly swishing hips.

But I wasn't laughing four counts later when he yelled, "And turn. And turn. And switch. And back," while I flailed along in the back row. Apparently "warm up" means "perform this complicated seven-minute choreography."

Oh.

"So," he said, stopping the music to stare at those of us who sucked at rumba. "We have new people." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. And then he listed off all the medals he's won in Latin dance competitions all over the world. I wasn't clear on what I was to do with this information, except for maybe clap.

"Let's move on to the Paso," he called out before turning back to me and the other newbies. "Who has seen Paso Doble danced before?" A few of us put up our hands. "Oh," he said in a withering tone. "On TV, right? Dancing With The Stars?" He sighed and faced the mirror. Clearly, we were a waste of his time.

And so I learned the Paso Doble. There was a lot of stamping and stepping and flinging of nonexistent capes. "Let's try it with music," the teacher said and suddenly the speakers unleashed the most hilariously cheesy bullfighting song of all time. It was like a Disney cartoon bullfighting soundtrack.

"A 5, 6, 7, 8!" the teacher screamed and off we went, stamping and swinging scarves and hankies and sweatshirts over our heads.

Then he stopped the music and pointed at me. Oh God.

"You. What's your name? Melody. Nice cape work. Verrrry nice cape work. Everyone – watch Melody's caping this time." And then the roomful of little old Chinese ladies turned to stare at me...with unconcealed hatred.

We did the same passage over and over again. Then we stared at the teacher who was clearly losing his shit. He crumpled a piece of paper and muttered to himself.

"We can't move on until next week," he said, sighing and rubbing again. "I need to figure things out. I mean, this is Paso – it has to be on the music. IT JUST HAS TO. Or everything falls apart." He paced up and down mumbling while we all looked at our feet.

"I know we'll move into a Sneak Attack followed by a Grand Circle," he said searching the paper for some kind of existential validation or military strategy. "But there's a cymbal crash coming and I NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT."

Clearly, Paso Doble is a huge responsibility. One I couldn't possibly understand.

Day 206: First World Problems

As the honeymoon of 'OMG I'M GOING TO AFRICA!' wears off and the reality of 'OMG How Am I Going To Pay My Mortgage While Working For Free?' kicks in, my concerns strike me as a little tacky in light of people who DON'T HAVE HOMES in the first place.

Maybe I could take on some freelance work while I'm over there. Nothing says irony like writing about condo developments while living in a dirt hut in Zambia.

Also? I'm now obsessed with water. I am conscious of how much I use when I brush my teeth. Of taking showers and (God forbid) taking a bath. I look at SNOW differently, for God's sake.

I was flipping through a health magazine the other day and noticed the headline "Drinking Enough?" I snorted with laughter that here we WRITE ARTICLES about getting our 8-10 glasses per day and in the places I'll be traveling, people WALK ALL DAY to find enough to drink.

These are the things you start to think about when you take on a project like this.

I find myself swerving drunkenly between profound gratitude that I was born where I was, weird white-girl guilt for having SO much when others have so little and fear that I'll turn into one of those strident Save-The-World types screaming at passersby, "Yeah?! At least you have LEGS, you selfish bastard!"

Stressing about your summer plans really isn't as fun when people really are dying in Africa...you know?

Day 205: Until the Aircraft Comes to a Full, Abrupt Stop

To no one's surprise, my plan to hit the ground running here in Calgary led quickly to hitting the WALL running.

The idea was to maintain a sort of momentum upon my return from Paris in hopes of avoiding Suburban Wasteland Culture Shock And Psychic Paralysis. A good idea...in theory.

Of course, I didn't anticipate racking up a spectacular sleep deficit and having to manage the convergence of an emceeing gig/all-day conference, two work deadlines and the sudden beginning of a massive, 2 to 3 year, possibly pro bono project involving leaving for Africa in FIVE MINUTES.

Meanwhile, there's still the idea of theatre school (and its $30 grand price tag) and a boyfriend who keeps saying mean things like, "But...I thought we were going cycling in France this summer."

It's all amazing and spectacular and TOTALLY OVERWHELMING. I feel like I got invited to the Oscars but forgot to wear any pants.

And when I woke up yesterday morning to find the house in complete and utter disarray and a good-looking man (target) walking around in blissful ignorance of my exhausted, jet-lagged, which-effing-way-is-up panic, well...

Any guesses what I chose to freak out about? The dishes, of course. At the very least you'd think I could get some new material.

Luckily, my month of 24-7 creative solitude served me well. Because as soon as Super-Bitch reared her head, I stopped talking (nagging) and got out my paints. And today, when SB stopped in for breakfast, I shut her down by baking banana muffins and listening to Bach.

I don't know much, but I know two things:

FACT #1:
Creativity is the antidote for bitchiness, misery, panic and possibly depression. Let me repeat this: CREATIVITY IS THE KEY. Playing around with paints, cooking, dancing, taking photos, whatever. It's the magic bullet for getting present and into a state of flow. Period.

(Feel free to forward this post to your PMSing wives and girlfriends.)

FACT #2:
Getting into a snit about having to take care of someone else is an excellent indication that I haven't been taking care of myself. This is a new realization for me. Brand new this morning. Late-breaking navel-gazing news. So now my biggest problem is Nap or Bubble Bath? Sigh. Life is hard.

Day 203: Emcee Emjay In The House

Last night, as part of my Hit The Ground Running plan, I emceed an event for the Alberta Magazine Publisher's Association. Because performing in front of hundreds of people three days after I arrive is a GREAT way to combat the stress of transatlantic travel.

I was encouraged to hear that last year's emcee sucked balls, so the bar wasn't high to begin with. Yessss. Nothing like shooting low.

There was only one awkward moment. I returned to the mic after AMPA's vertically challenged executive director did her speech. This woman is short. Like REALLY short.

And as I moved the mic up toward my mouth, I muttered a poorly timed, "Whoa. Midget."

A statement which was then amplified and reverberated through the room.

Despite that, after the big show, the Cool Editors invited me for a drink. There is one rather sexy, sought-after publication in this province and getting invited out with them is like getting asked to sit with the popular girls in the lunchroom. So I went. Obviously.

We drive to a chic wine bar and sit down. We talk about this and that and somehow talk turns to People With Depression And How We Would Never Date Them EVER EVER EVER.

Apparently one of the cool girls dated a guy who struggled with depression and now it's a total dealbreaker. Only she doesn't just stop at the person she's dating – no one in the FAMILY can have it either. So I guess depression is a form of the black plague and their advice if you see someone INFECTED is to run screaming as though your head was on fire.

The conversation was interesting to me, not in the least because these editors KNOW about my struggles with depression based on the articles I've written FOR THEIR MAGAZINE. But clearly, they'd forgotten and having learned from my Anti-PC Microphone Moment Of The Week, I chose to keep my big mouth shut.

Seconds later, one of the cool girls says, "So, my Person gave me a new trick for my anxiety."
"Your...Person?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says. "I see a Person about my problems with anxiety."

Ah. Is that what they're calling them these days.

She then went on to describe some kind of strange finger tapping exercise where you tap each finger on a table one by one, naming off the fingers as you go: thumb, index finger, middle finger, etc.

"I just go through highland dancing moves in my head," piped up Cool Girl #2. "A leap is a form of elevation where you take off from the balls of two feet and land on the balls of one foot."

After this baffling bit of dialogue, Cool Girl #1 turned to me and said in that slightly embarrassed manner of people who see People, "I highly recommend having a Person."

I nodded and sipped my wine demurely.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Cool Girl #1 then said to me apropos of nothing. "How does your boyfriend feel about you abandoning him and going to Paris?"

Hmm, Cool Girl #1. How do YOU feel about it?

Day 202: The How of Happiness

In the Toronto airport, I passed a book shop and a book called 'The How of Happiness' caught my eye. I'm deep into 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' (ahem) so I didn't buy it, but the Table of Contents gave away the farm anyhow, so maybe I don't have to.

As I went through it, I thought it would be nice if I could offer you, my dear readers, something other than 'A Month In Paris' as a key to lasting happiness. Its basically a bullet list for a fabulous freaking life as far as I can tell:

Practicing Gratitude and Positive Thinking
No.1 Expressing Gratitude
No. 2 Cultivating Optimism
No. 3 Avoiding Overthinking and Social Comparison

Investing in Social Connections
No. 4 Practicing Acts of Kindness
No. 5 Nurturing Social Relationships

Managing Stress, Hardship and Trauma
No. 6 Developing Strategies for Coping
No. 7 Learning to Forgive

Living in the Present
No. 8 Increasing Flow Experiences
No. 9 Savoring Life's Joys

No. 10 (which warranted its own category) Committing to Your Goals

Taking Care of Body & Soul
No. 11 Practicing Religion and Spirituality
No. 12 Taking Care of Your Body (Meditation)
No. 13 Taking Care of Your Body (Exercise)
No. 14 Taking Care of Your Body (Acting like a happy person)

There's one glaring omission in this list (in my humble, completely biased opinion): CREATIVITY. But if you look again, you could easily apply creativity to most of these activities. Which is what I did in Paris. I coped with stress THROUGH creativity – dancing it the f*ck out (which is also exercise), drawing pictures, writing in my journal. I achieved flow experiences through creative play. The goals I set were purely creative. You see what I mean.

You could probably apply any kind of approach you wanted to this list. Mine's creativity in general, but maybe yours is Advanced Military Operations (random acts of bombing) or Erotic Scrapbooking (savoring your glue stick) or even Career Necking (developing strategies for groping).

Day 201: Major Concert Announcement

There's a woo-woo personal growth theory that if you want to invite new opportunities into your life, clear out your closets. The idea is that if your life (and closet and garage) is so packed with old stuff, you don't HAVE ROOM for the new and exciting.

For the past several years, I've been working with the belief that a full bookshelf made me look smarter or more well-read. Maybe I'm smart, maybe I'm not, but my bookshelf was home to so many old ideas (literally) that it was time to trim the fat.

For example, my ex-husband gave me a lovely hardcover edition of Plato's Republic...IN TWELFTH GRADE. I still have it. WTF. Seriously.

It was high time for a purge. So, any book that wasn't fun or exciting or applicable to where my life is TODAY, I tossed. About halfway through, I felt a weight lifting. I'm not talking a metaphorical weight. I LITERALLY felt lighter. (Get it...literally? Ha!)

By the end of it, my shelf had half the books it did and a bunch of delicious wide-open spaces – magnets for new and exciting ideas.

Well. I didn't have to wait long.

Today, Paris. Tomorrow...ZAMBIA. As of this afternoon, you people need to ready yourself for the Melanie Jones World Freaking Tour. I'M GOING TO AFRICA. Then India. Then Haiti.

What the freaking hell, you ask?

Vancouver-based photographer Cate Cameron and I are documenting the impact of clean water on third world people on behalf of CAWST (Centre for Affordable Water and Sanitation Technology...least sexy NGO name ever). The resulting photo documentary and stories will be exhibited in several galleries across Canada. (And I really want to write a book.)

I met with Alison from CAWST about the project before I left for Paris, but have been biting my nails ever since.

Well, I got word today that I'm the chosen writer and it's GAME FREAKING ON, YO. We're heading to Zambia in the next couple of months. Boom. Just like that.

Can somebody please slap me? Seriously. I think I stopped breathing.

Day 200: Today, Tuscany Vista Crescent

Dudes! Happy Day 200! I'm home!

Epic, EPIC travel day beginning with an accident on the Metro, forcing me to brave Parisian cabbies and Parisian TRAFFIC. Oh my God. Twenty minutes, two blocks. Are you kidding me? It took 40 minutes to get back to where I came from in the first place, which is at the edge of the city.

I don't deal well with gridlock. Especially gridlock that's seven cars thick and is all about HONKING every seven seconds. I briefly considered leaving my bags and running fast and far and free.

Finally we're ripping along the highway and I begin to have hope that I'm not, in fact, going to miss my flight. Then I see the exit to the airport flash by in a blur. Because the cabbie decides to take the "back way." (WHY do they do this? It never, ever works.)

We drive ten more minutes PAST the airport. He throws 0,80E in a toll booth only to find out the sneaky back road is closed to traffic. Of course. He swears, turns the car around, puts ANOTHER 0,80E in the toll basket and drives ten more minutes back to the right exit.

Meanwhile, I'm watching the meter wind itself up past 40 Euros (60 bucks), past 50 Euros (75-80 bucks) and into the 60s. I have an internal debate about how to handle this given my limited cash supply and my limited French insult supply and at one point the ever-climbing meter became like a thermostat for my inner rage. We pull into the terminal and I'm looking at a hundred dollars.

"I'm not paying 70 Euros," I tell him.
No, no, he says in French, it's only 68.
Thanks, buddy.
"But you went the wrong way," I whine, all the steam gone out of my argument at the slightest whisper of resistance on the cabbie's part.
He shakes his head.
"Je ne comprend pas," he says. I don't understand English.
"Ah," I say. "How convenient for you."

I sigh. I begin to weep softly and bitchily pay the full amount because I'm a Grade-A passive aggressive SUCKER. Gaa! The rest of my trip went super smoothly, though. All 20 hours of it.

I got home to a dozen roses, a bunch of bright yellow tulips, 64 brand-new Crayola markers (SIXTY FOUR!) and a giant sketchbook. Oh, and wine and hugs and a fire.

Somebody? Loves me.

Day 198: Opéra Means Goodbye

Paris, Last Day. Been running around like crazy the past couple of days, soaking in my last moments in Paris. Dinner at Nancy's. Swing dance. African dance. Gospel show. Meeting with another of Philipe's students – this one from Calgary. Fielding calls from everyone I know here: I HAVE TO SEE YOU BEFORE YOU GO.

Today, I woke up to a schedule of dance class, lunch with Maud, more dancing with Nancy and a jazz club with Justine From Canada.

On the last day of Paris Part I, I ended up at Opera, taking melancholy photos of the gold-crusted facade and wondering if they'd let me live in the lobby or even a broom closet. I just didn't want to leave Paris. Yesterday, I found myself in the same state and the same place – staring at the building thinking, 'This is where I come to say goodbye.'

But this morning I woke up feeling so good, I didn't have time to be sad. The chill had cracked open and it was a beautiful day. The bird were singing like crazy. I still had the rhythm from African class in my head.

I canceled all my plans and decided to spend the day alone with Paris.

One of the great lessons of this trip has been about flow. It's been about opening up a channel in myself, my creativity and my life and saying YES to the crazy intuitions and opportunities that arise.

In that spirit, I decided to embrace the Opera – that place where Paris seems to end – and went to a matinee of the ballet.

There were no normal tickets left, unless I wanted to pay 100 Euros, so I bought a cheap rush seat they refer to as sans visibilité. Meaning you can't see. "Maybe we can hear the music," the woman beside me wondered.

I was tucked into the back of one of the side boxes – the ones where the fancy people used to see and be seen. And, if the play got boring, have relations with their mistresses in the vestibule near the door. (They still keep velvet chaises there...just in case.)

I could see fine, and when I couldn't, I just stood up and leaned a little. The ballet was boring as hell, but there was something delicious about standing-room-only dance.

It was the theatre itself that stole the show. A visual hallelujah of gold foil and sumptuous velvet. I feel the same way in a theatre as I do in a church. (Especially one where Louis XIV used to hang out.) High, high ceilings with lots of room for hope.

I'm going to be needing all the hope I can get these next few days. Coming back to Calgary is always a shock. And this precious, protected time will be harder to come by in the flurry of welcome home events, project deadlines and figuring out what the hell to do next.

I must remember what I've learned. Those tricks for connecting to joy: dancing, singing, drawing, play. I've gotta find me some markets – I don't care if they're selling CATTLE – and take my camera with me.

I need to build on the knowledge that if I do a little every day – of learning French, of writing, of asking for guidance – I'll get there. Wherever there is. I've got to protect that still, quiet place I found here. No matter what.

I found a long string of prayer beads the other day. I'm wearing them as a belt. I don't know why, but it feels good. Maybe they will be my private anchor, that magic golden thread that ties me to this precious, precious time I've spent in the place that feels like home.

Day 197: Dance It The F*ck Out

Paris, Two Days Left. Aha. The Fear arrives. It's not that I've been waiting for it per se, but the feeling of 'Who do you think you are?' started niggling in my brain as soon as I posted about my balls-out-holy-effing-sheeeeeeet idea about coming here for a year to study. And today, with two days left and that horrible I-don't-wanna-go feeling filling my guts, The Fear is here.

Luckily, I have a magic bullet. It's called African dance class. And it's also called Buena Vista Social Club.

Because the thing I always forget is that fear isn't real. It feels real. Oh hell yes. But it isn't. There isn't ACTUALLY impending doom knocking on my door right now. Nah. Financial ruin is WEEKS away. Failure and embarrassment, at least a couple of months off yet. Dying cold and alone? Hell, that's not on deck for DECADES. We're good.

Yesterday, my Gospel friend Nancy told me about a swing dance accident she had a couple of years ago. Her husband lifted her in some crazy upside-down-over-his-head thing and she overshot it and pitched backwards behind him. She landed on her face, broke her nose and a vertebrae in her neck.

She told me that when she'd fallen, she lay there for a long moment, not moving and not wanting to move. She was aware of her husband and dance teacher freaking out around her, but she herself was perfectly calm.

There was good reason for their panic, of course. Nancy is four-foot-eight and over 50 years old.

But what struck me was her calm. Because this is exactly what happens when something goes horribly wrong. I remember this when I disassembled my right arm on a ski hill five years ago and three bones went three different directions. My arm was blown to shit, but I was calm, detached, observant.

I never snowboarded again.

But Nancy got right back out there. She didn't want the fall to be her last memory of acrobatic swing. And there's the lil' surfer girl who got her arm chomped off by a shark in Australia. She was back on her board in three weeks. Why? Because she loves to surf.

And hey, remember way back when I coined the MENTAL JUDO thing? How you take the energy of fear/anger/whatever and you kung fu that shit into something you can use?

Today, right now, that kung fu is dance. I stick on the Buena Vista Social Club CD and I salsa-fy it in the living room. Or I go to Le Marais, like I'm doing in fourteen seconds, and fill my boots with the most joy-filled dance form I know. I'm going to dance it the f*ck out and keep going because that's the kind of life I want to live and that's the person I want to be.

Day 196: Failure is Cool

Paris, Day 25. I've been following Fail Blog for a while and I seem to have amassed a few fails myself. In no specific order, here they are:

Toothpaste Fail
I theorized at the tail end of Paris Part One that if I indeed committed to using a "pea-sized amount" from the travel-sized toothpaste tube, I'd make it to the end of the month. So, I merrily bought my teeny-tiny tube of Crest and have tolerated mediocre breath for the past 3.5 weeks in the interest of toothpaste conversation (and proving a point). Everything was going okay until an air bubble popped in the tube two days ago revealing that I AM SO NOT OKAY. That wasn't toothpaste Silly, that was Fresh Mint flavoured air! Now I'm shoving the bristles of my toothbrush INTO the tube opening hoping to scrape out three more days worth of minty fluoride love.

Fridge Fail
I don't know what it is about Parisian refrigerators, but they REEK. Something about the omnipresence of stinky cheese mixing with the seventeen kinds of mustards and pickles that appear to be obligatory in France makes for a positively eye-peeling odour. It got to the point last time that I was afraid to open the fridge. I'd have conversations with myself about how long milk could last sitting on the counter. This time, same deal. Only this time I have the feeling the stink is due to my poor chevre wrap job and not the bubbling, fermenting LIFE FORM formerly known as Grandma Producer's homemade Sicilian olives.

Flickr Fail
Boyfriend has been encouraging me to get myself a Flickr account. And by encouraging I mean asking me about it constantly until I finally submit. So, I get my technological shit together and sign up for a Flickr account. Then I get the gold-star by actually uploading my photos. Only all my photos are massively high-res for some reason and I ate through the entire 100 MB limit in a matter of minutes. So now there's no room for new photos until I get home and my Geek In Shining Armour bails me out. Don't even bother clicking this.

Garbage Fail
Dana's building has a locked garbage room. I have a fear of unfamiliar keys. It was traumatic enough getting into the flat when I first arrived, reefing on the lock for fifteen minutes before it released its grip, but this garbage room is Fort Knox. I cannot get in. I tried every couple of days for the first two weeks, but now I just walk it down the street, saying bonjour to passing neighbours and casually throwing bulging, dripping bags of personal trash into other people's garbage cans, lawns, flower pots, cars...

Classy Lady Fail
One of the gorgeous things about being in Paris is that no one ever calls or comes to the door. This level of peace and quiet lulls you into a false sense of security and so when the door buzzer went the other day, I freaked out. I ignored it. But it buzzed again and again and again until I opened the door. A young man was there to check the water meter. I was super-grubby-to-the-max in sweatpants, glasses and bed-head and Dana's bathroom is, in a word, bizarre. The walls are covered with chalk messages ("Dear Mike Hunt..."), weird magazine photos (naked chick, creep in a balaclava) and stickers ("This Is A Sex Ad"). Not to mention the pile of toilet paper rolls, plastic wrapping and (of course) tampon paraphernalia I've been meaning to get to.

Paris Day Fail
It's actually Day 27 today, not Day 25. I don't know how I've ended up in life counting two separate sets of days – Paris days and JOY Plan days – when I am so violently allergic to and terrible with numbers. Now, what the hell do I do? Go back and renumber where I went wrong? Skip ahead to the right day, leaving an unexplained gap? Abandon numbering altogether? Go back to high school and take Remedial Algebra? What?

Fail = Cool
One of my favourite shops in Paris is a little store in Le Marais called I Love My Blender. (How could you not love a store called I Love My Blender?) It's a mix of English books, French books, kids books, postcards, candles, journals and random stuff all falling in the Funny/Hipster/Cool category. I found this series of postcards with simple illustrations of children wearing t-shirts. On the shirts were written messages like: Save Me From What I Want, Failure Is Cool, Too Honest To Fake It, Look Out For Hope, Take No Shit. The kind of stuff I LOVE. Anti-mindless consumer. Pro-creative process. Pro-live it like you mean it. Glorious. I bought five. FOR NINE EUROS. 15 frickin' dollars for a couple of pieces of PAPER?! Aaaaa! I'm okay. It's art, right? I'm okay.

Day 195: Send In The Clowns

Paris, Day 24. On Tuesday afternoon, I got on a train and headed south. I got off in a little town called Sceaux and became immediately lost.

I had a street address for where I was going, but when I got there, something seemed wrong. The sign read France Telecom, decidedly NOT the sort of operation I was looking for. I ran frantically up and down the street, asking several people if they knew of this place. No one did.

I went back to France Telecom and pressed my forehead to the door. I took a breath and looked up. There was a tiny silver button next to a tiny printed label: École Philipe Gaulier. I pressed the button and went inside.

Inside there was a big staircase and several unlabeled doors. I walked up and up and up wondering about the aversion to adequate signage. It felt like a secret society, and in many ways I think it is.

I heard a door creak on the top level. I was greeted by a small Asian man with bright eyes and crooked teeth. His name was Alvin, which seemed somehow appropriate. He's in his second year of studies and works at the school in order to pay for his classes.

He swooned when I asked him how he liked working with Philipe. "That man," he said, clutching his chest. "That man." He went on to describe how he got 'killed' in clowning class. How Philipe told him he was shit. How he thought he was funny when he arrived, but it turns out he's really not. All the while, his smile never faltered.

I started to get nervous. I steered the conversation to safer ground.

"What about the summer workshop?" I asked. "The three-week one?" Alvin shrugged and shook his head. "If you take the summer workshop, you'll end up staying for a year," he said. I swallowed and nodded.

"Why are you here?" Alvin asked, a good question. "I don't know," I said. "I was led here, I guess." He nodded. "You should join us," he said. "Start with Le Jeu." A shirtless man with a pregnant belly walked by. He was accompanied by another man in a tuxedo. "Bon soir," they said in unison.

A door opened and a mob of people ran noisily down the hallway. Their faces were glowing and as they disbursed, they revealed a lone figure ambling slowly down the hallway. He looked just like a clown – shortish and rounded, frizzy white hair spilling out from under a black beret, a bulbous nose balancing a cartoon-like pair of round red-framed glasses.

He looked up at me from under his bushy eyebrows. "Bon soir," he said and shook my hand. I followed him into his office. "You are canadienne?" he asked. I nodded.

"Philipe finds us Canadians boring," piped up an older woman who had tagged along. I told him I knew Karen Hines, another Canadian and a former student of his. He looked at Alvin. "Karen?" he shrugged. "We get a lot of Karens."

"How old are you?" he asked. I told him. "Ah, you are still young," he said and I felt the tears spring up immediately. Again, I grappled for safer ground: the summer workshop. "If you come to the workshop, you will understand," he said. "If you come for the year, you will transform. That is the difference."

He told me to join the other students in the café to find out what it's really like studying with him. "I like to say very nice things about myself. Ask them if you want the truth. Where is she?" he asked of the now-absent Canadian woman.

"She's changing," Alvin volunteered. Philipe raised his massive eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Is taking a long time, no? Maybe because she's so fat."

He moved toward the door. I pointed behind him.

"Your iPhone," I said.
"My phone?" he said.
"Yes, you left your iPhone...iTouch."
"You touch?" he said.
"No, your phone."
"You touch my phone?"

His eyes twinkled as ambled off to class.

I joined a group in the café. They all told me to come for the year. "Start with Le Jeu," they said. They said it again and again. Le Jeu. Le Jeu. The Game. The Game. They told me how they all got slaughtered in Clowning. How they get slaughtered almost daily and mostly what they do is "shit." But they love him. And they love the work.

They kept telling me to join them and I kept wondering why I'd come. Would I have gone all that way just to learn about a 3-week workshop? I doubt it. I mean, what's to know: you pay your fee, you do it, you go home.

I started to wonder if I really had been led there. By something larger than me and larger than what I had conceived of for myself. Something Larger said three weeks is not enough. You don't want to merely understand, Something Larger goaded. You want to transform.

Back in Paris, I got off the train in a daze. I stumbled into a café and ordered the biggest glass of wine they had. I pulled out the brochure, thinking it would be some advertising copywriter's gussied-up version of things. Instead, I saw photographs of children, crazily written stories, fictional interviews, randomness. There was a letter from Sacha Baron Cohen (he was shit, too) and one from Emma Thomson.

I saw a page about Le Jeu:

"An actor is beautiful when he doesn't hide his soul beneath the personality of his character. When he allows us to perceive, behind the character, the face he had when he was seven.

You can't revive the face of a child. You remove the layers of bad make-up piled on by adulthood, messily, by landing punches and tearing at them with your fingers."

I started to cry in recognition. That child of seven is someone I've been searching for since I felt my creative life start to slip through my fingers almost ten years ago. That child is the true artist. The brave, fearless creator who painted, drew, sang, danced, wrote and performed. She's the person I'm trying to get back to.

I had a glimpse of her on Monday – my day of colour and dance and play. I even dressed like a child that morning, putting on all the colourful clothing I brought, layer after layer of improbable combinations and clashing hues. I was like Drea's daughter whose favourite outfit includes a pink dress, purple pants, rubber boots and a tiara.

The next day I met a man whose life's work is recovering these hidden children. I do not believe this is coincidence.

I sat weeping in Café Coeur Couronne faced with the notion of coming to Paris for a year to study with a man who looks like a clown and who will tell me I'm shit and make me cry. Of uprooting my life at an age when most people I know are settling down and settling in. Of mobilizing one hell of a lot of money in one hell of a short amount of time. Of taking a sharp left instead of a gradual right. Of living in Paris for a year...of studying with a master...of finding my true voice...of living my true life. This wasn't what I signed up for, was it? Oh, yes. Yes, it was.

Day 194: The Qi Gong Show

Paris, Day 23. Why is it that every time I am on my way to some Relaxation And Inner Peace Experience, like the spa or yoga class, I turn into a total spaz? Invariably, I end up rushing in late, panting, hair frizzed out, eyes wild...while the teacher looks kind of fearful and the rest of the class just stares in silent judgment, thinking: 'We are SOOOOOOO much closer to enlightenment than you.'

Why?

And while we're on the topic of Why, let's discuss why I thought it would be a good idea to take my first-ever Qi Gong class yesterday. In Paris. IN FRENCH.

It weren't easy.

Well, no, let me restate. It was very easy. I just sat there doing nothing because I didn't know what, in fact, I was supposed to be doing. Because it was all in French. And it's not like this kind of Asian energy work is the kind that comes with diagrams, flow charts, flashcards or, in the case of this particular Qi Gong class, any movement to follow along with.

There was a series of super-simple postures, like Yoga For Dummies (but you had to memorize this series, so I guess it was Yoga For Not-So-Dummies). And I had to breathe through both my mouth and nose at the same time.

About the breathing. I'm a fully-indoctrinated Ashtanga yoga girl (Thou shalt only breathe through your nose) who moonlights as a Pilates girl (Thou shalt breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth). But SERIOUSLY, how many ways are there to frickin' BREATHE anyhow?

It was fine. At least I understood the French for 'mouth' and 'nose.' I was hooped when we got to the 'energy meridian' part of the class.

We lay on our backs. The teacher started doing a whole lot of talking. And I started to get a whole lot lost. I heard something about breathing with my hands. Or maybe breathing with my skin. Breathing with the skin of my hands? I don't know.

What I DO know is that someone started to snore very loudly.

And then I happened to look at the clock. Which said Ten Minutes Past When Melanie Should Have Been On The Metro To Meet Her Friend For 2 pm. Because I thought it was an hour class, but clearly the teacher didn't. So, while I was supposed to be breathing with my hands, I started watching the minute hand and plotting my escape.

I considered getting up as quietly as I could and slipping out. Which is when I realized I had placed myself at the furthest point from the door.

In order to get out, I would have to tip-toe over all the dead bodies on ONE side of the room to get my stuff then tip-toe over the dead bodies on the OTHER side of the room to reach the door and AH OUI, I haven't PAID for this class yet and what a forking waste of 20 Euros THIS was because I only understood maybe a quarter of it and I'm probably supposed to be breathing with my knee or my elbow or God-knows-what right now but I wouldn't know because I'm not BREATHING any more or LISTENING any more or RELAXED any more because instead I'm stuck in the corner clock-watching and LOSING MY SHIT.

I was 20 minutes late meeting my friend who was totally laid back about it. I realize now the losing of the shit was totally pointless because as soon as I figured out I was trapped like a Qi Gong rat in a Qi Gong cage, I should have CHILLED THE QI GONG OUT. Sigh.

Day 193: An Explosion of Fruit Flavours

Paris, Day 22. My super-sonically-introspective weekend detonated into a full-frontal celebration of a Monday. And I would like to live a life where that sentence is true every week.

9:30 Morning Pages and green tea
10:00 Bizarre intuition about gospel music followed by Googling “Gospel Paris”
10:10 Discover a gospel singing workshop that MEETS ON MONDAYS
11:00 Follow intuition about dance I’ve been having lately and discover the Danse Centre de Marais
11:05 Realize I don’t know how to say “drop-in classes” in French. Call them anyway and have a very pleasant but fruitless conversation with someone who speaks no English
11:07 Haul ass and get ready to go because I’ve decided that if my intuition has decided I’m taking a dance class today then I’m damn well gonna take a dance class and they’re gonna let me drop in even though the French find a way to be bureaucratic about everything, including their love affairs

11:40 Throw self on Metro Line 7 and head south
11:52 Begin to lose faith in the whole idea, thinking I am stupid for believing the whole world is just going to open up because I had some silly idea about dance...and gospel. Gospel?! WTF? What was I thinking...etc. Etc.
12:10 Explode off Metro at Chalelet, run down rue de Rivoli towards Le Marais, knowing full well that I have gotten AMAZINGLY lost every time I attempt to go to Le Marais, the most recent example being this weekend when I somehow got rebounded OUT of the district every time I tried to walk in. It was like rue du Temple was made of rubber balls. Weird.
12:12 Find rue du Temple and the Dance Centre with zero problems
12:15 Talk to very nice English-speaking woman at reception who says I can drop into anything I want and oh, there’s a super-rocking Boxing class starting in 15 minutes, why don’t you try that?

12:16 Walk into the Boxing studio. Change my clothes
12:20 Remember what a frickin’ DELICIOUS feeling being in a dance studio is
12:30 - 1:30 Get PUMMELED by the Polish Boxing Nazi who screams “Allez! Allez! Allez!” non-stop for an hour while techno music slams in the background. Achieve THE BEST endorphin high of the past six to eight months of my life. Resolve to try a DANCE class at the DANCE centre next time. Note that fake tanning among fitness professionals is not just a North American thing

1:40 Find a bead store. Buy bracelet-making supplies
2:00 Grab a coffee so I can make the bracelet. Get told by guy behind the bar to move to the other end of the bar. Obey. Get introduced to Sandra and Sandrine. Decide this is the FRIENDLIEST Parisian cafe I’ve ever been in – which is weird because Parisians are not friendly in public. Ever.
2:15 Get patted on the ass by Sandrine as she leaves the cafe
2:16 Realize I just got cruised in Le Marais (gay district)

3:00 Continue Operation Colour Saturation by stopping into H&M and Zara
4:00 Realize I have a mortal fear of floral patterns. Resolve to work on this in therapy upon returning home
5:00 Get on subway bursting with excitement about my new YELLOW shirt, a RED striped shirt and a PURPLE SPARKLY scarf
5:30 Rush to bathe in the non-shower-bath-thing in which I have to crouch or kneel in order to wash myself. Do this while boiling pasta water, chopping tomatoes and Skyping with my sister

6:18 Run out the door to gospel thing even though no one responded to my inquiry email or phone message
6:45 Decide that if my intuition (aka Higher Power, aka God) told me to go to gospel, then I’m GOING TO GOSPEL. Even though I don't know the building code and may have to lurk outside the door like a panhandling junkie until someone lets me in
6:56 Walk straight in with zero problem. Talk to the choir leader through a lovely woman named Nancy. Get permission to participate in warm-up and watch the rest of rehearsal

7:00 SING! SING! SING! For the first time since that high school vocal jazz audition where I didn’t get in and was TOTALLY CRUSHED (I hate you Brian Farrell!) and never, ever tried again even though singing has ALWAYS been a secret dream.
7:30 Sit and listen to the song they are working on. Feel heart crack wide, wide open and spill out. Cry.
8:00 Begin listening to choir leader’s performance notes as metaphors for life:
“We need everybody to make a song...a hundred voices make a song.”
“Sing beautifully, sing your best, every time.”
“God will still love you if you don’t hit that note, but I won’t.”

8:40 Get invited to dinner at Nancy’s house. “When?” “Right now.” Tell her I’m meeting a friend. Get invited to lunch and/or swing dancing later this week instead. Marvel at how much generosity can fit into one 4-foot-tall woman from Singapore

9:00 Meet Justine for a drink at a place full of crazy primary colours. Talk about dreams and authenticity and colour and dance and weird intuitions about gospel. (GOSPEL?!)Realize this has been the best day EVER.

Day 192: Hi, I'm Melanie. I'm a Colourexic.

Paris, Day 21. Ventured north and west today to yet-another market in one of the rich Parisian suburbs called Neuilly-sur-Seine.

I go to a market almost every day when I'm in Paris. This week, I started to wonder what my obsession is about.

Because it's not like I buy stuff at all of them. I mean, I do if I need something, but mostly I just wander around, staring at everything and photographing tomatoes.

I figured it out today, though: COLOUR.

Markets are a mile-long orgy of colour. And shapes. And textures. And visually interesting displays.

There's a quote from Picasso about going to the park and 'gorging on green.' That's exactly how I feel at a market or a fabric store: I'm pigging out on red, green, orange, yellow, the springtime colours of the flower stall.

Apparently, I'm starving for colour in my life. This is good to know.

It also explains why I'm already starting to dread my return to the taupe-shaded energy suck of the suburbs. Who decided that 31 flavours of BROWN and GREY were good for people? Sure they're unobtrusive and comforting to a point, but Jesus...LIVE A LITTLE.

Not that the 'burbs are totally to blame for my colourexia. I've been wearing nothing but black since 11th grade. And in my 20s I got into this thing where I'd only buy "classic" clothing: black pants, white shirts, grey cardigans, navy pinstripe suits. Aaaa! Kill me. No wonder I got depressed.

I'm rummaging through my suitcase right now. I'm dying for a little pink or yellow. Please GOD...YELLOW! Okay, I have ONE turquoise scarf. It's on now and I feel better. But clearly, I have a problem.

Um, Boyfriend?

Please have fifty bunches of tulips waiting for me, all different colours, all over the house. And piles of Clementine oranges, lemons and strawberries.

And could you drape colourful scarves all over my office? Purple ones, turquoise ones and orange ones. Also? Please set my reddest lipstick out. I'll be needing that. Oh, and when you pick me up? Wear a hot pink tie.

Thanks.

Love,
Me.

P.S. Speaking of colour, I now have a Flickr account. Some of the pics you've already seen, but there's a new Architecture set and the Market one is all new shots from this morning in Neuilly.