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.'
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
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
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
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
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:
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.'
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 not often I use the words "people-pleasing B.S." with my clients. There's a first time for everything.
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.
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.'
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 23, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 20, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
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).
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).
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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:
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.
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.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.
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 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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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.
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.
9:30 Morning Pages and green tea10:00 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 south11:52 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 supplies2:00 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 message6:45 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 Singapore9:00 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.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Day 191: Finding Myself In Paris
Paris, Day 20. I've been here just about three weeks now and it's coming clear to me how deeply important this time in Paris has been.Without going into the surface-level details of what I've actually been DOING (making paper dolls, dancing spastically in my kitchen, listening to a weird mix of Bach, birdsong and banjo), what's been HAPPENING is a gut-level self-knowledge I didn't even know was possible.
I thought I knew myself pretty well until I got here.
It started as a kind of tinkering with scrap paper and Crayola markers. Lists of things I want to do, places I want to see, stuff I want to learn. Different colours, different styles of handwriting, little doodle drawings here and there.
I wrote pages of these multicoloured brainstorms. Gradually, they got more specific and more about the present. Things I Really Love: being near water, Motown music, my close friends. Then it became My Ideal Life. Which turned into an Action List containing scary things like: enroll in a drawing class and a French class, take a physical theatre workshop, start dancing again.I started working through the Vein of Gold, doing things like writing out my entire life story in five-year chunks, a very revealing exercise.
I realized I've been searching for a home since I was 11 years old. I saw that the happiest periods of my life involved performing and being connected to my body. That I've been blessed at several points with amazingly creative and loving collaborative 'families.' That isolation doesn't serve me well, but solitude does.
I realized that 191 days ago, I took on an idea of what it meant to be an artist without really considering what that means for me. Six months in, I'm finally finding out.
I keep going deeper. And I keep learning more. I've never paid such close attention. It's like a new romance and I'm soaking up all there is to know about my lover.
Through this process of discovery, surface-level changes have started to emerge. A love for photography blossomed and took root. I bought a sketchbook and pens...and started using them. I've begun work on another one-woman show. I have plans to visit a famous bouffon (physical comedy/clowning) teacher next week. I've taken to wearing sparkly earrings and skirts.Paris, it seems, is the place I find myself.
The first time I came to this city, I was on a tour bus with my mother. The outskirts of Paris are hideously ugly and looking out at the scummy graffiti-ruined housing projects, I started to regret coming.
But as we drove through the wall, the architecture began to transform, becoming more and more glorious the closer we got to the centre. I remember the bus reeling around a bronze statue backlit with waning daylight. That feeling deep in my body: I'm home.
I'm realizing that sense of home I've been searching for (and find when I'm in Paris) is not about where I live but how. In Paris, I inhabit myself. I make myself at home. I make myself a home, existing in a way that is completely, authentically me. Without the history, expectations and assumptions of my life in Canada. Without compromise.Self-indulgent? You bet.
Parts of it are not sustainable – like the diet of bread, cheese and chocolate – or even desirable – the relentless urbanity leaves me cold. I'm not clinging to this city as some kind of life-raft for personal authenticity, but Paris allows me to exist as a purely creative being – without the demands of also being a girlfriend, co-worker, taxpayer, sister and friend.
And so, this gift comes with a challenge. How can I carry this sense of deep self-awareness and fidelity with me as I step back into the hubbub of so-called real life? How I evolve my 'life as creative act' and avoid sliding back into strangle-hold of habit? Where will this journey take me next?
The short answer is I don't know. Leaving Paris will be much like coming here in the first place – a giant, blind leap of faith.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Day 190: Trusting my Butt
Paris, Day 19. At 8 pm last night, Ms. Burlesque launched forth into what she'd taken to calling the Anal Atelier. Sadly...I was not there.
The evening was scheduled to consist of a 2-hour class (all in French) on the finer aspects of butt plugs and God-knows-what-else followed by a housewarming party as Ms. Burlesque's. Party guests would include a group of people she calls The Queer Family and a famous queer writer from SF called Michelle Tea.
The last time Michelle Tea visited Paris, these folks welcomed her with a spontaneous sex party. "Hi! Welcome to Paris! Please remove your pants."
Although I'm sure they are really nice people and the conversation would have been spectacular, the whole thing freaked me out. In my head, disparate and disconnected details like anal sex workshops, silver sequin pasties and spontaneous sex parties all mushed together and become one gargantuan rabbit hole of weirdness.
Suddenly, I was breathing into a paper bag with images of me huddled in a corner wearing a KY-Jelly-splattered raincoat fending off the fallout of a BYODildo butt-tastic naked queerdo sex-fest and I COULDN'T EFFING DEAL WITH THAT OK?!
I popped a couple of Ativan and called my mommy.
Then I spent the evening with the Parisian equivalent of oil & gas engineers: people who attended business schools and military academies, who make polite conversation over glasses of Alsatian wine, and who wear dress pants and V-neck sweaters (none of which are made of pleather).
The part of my brain that was hungry (nay, ravenous) for a juicy story like a stripper sex-fest gnashed its teeth and wouldn't talk to me all night. But add three shots of herbed Polish vodka to any situation and you've got yourself a soirée, sister.
I used the opportunity to discuss my confusion over how a culture of people who never smile or make eye contact get around to these passionate affairs for which they're famous.
Julien, the host, was happy to enlighten me. "Ah," he said. "Here's how it works: You meet through friends and make conversation. You make a few colloquial jokes, but you never touch each other. Then you go to an exhibition or two, maybe a movie. Then another friend has a party where you get drunk and make out."
Oh.
So much for unbridled passion.
Then, inexplicably and at midnight, someone's mom showed up. She was a very friendly, diminutive redhead and she helped herself to a snack in the kitchen while we all tried not to swear too robustly. Then, she went to bed.
With her son. Julien's roommate and business partner.
Maybe THIS is why Parisian love affairs take so long to get going.
But I had other things on my mind because I'm the kind of girl who, if you're gonna feed her three shots of vodka in relatively rapid succession, you better be prepared to take her dancing.
So, at 12:30, three hours after I would normally be getting my jammies on for beddy-bye, we walked down boul. de Rochechouart to a club called Le Divan Japponais.
We crowded up to the door and had a rather disappointing conversation with the bouncer. Apparently, no one else had shown up either and the bar was cutting its losses for the evening and closing down. We walked across the street to La Fourmi, my writing cafe, which becomes a full-to-overflowing bar at night.
We got a table near the window and I ended up with the sucker's chair – the one sticking way out into the throng of drunk people staggering and crowding against the bar. I was jostled by every passing ass, which judging by how packed the place was, must have been in the hundreds.
All my pent-up vodka-induced dancing energy had no choice but to transform into Immature Shit Disturbing energy. It's simply how I roll and after getting jostled one too many times, I reached out and pinched one of the passing asses.
Well.
Little did I know this kind of behaviour bumps you WAY ahead in the codified System Of French Seduction(TM).
I found myself suddenly betrothed to someone named Guillaume.
I tried to pass the pinch off on Justine. But she was on the other side of the table, so Guillaume was having none of that. He pulled up a chair and sat down. As I gently tried to explain to him that, no, a June wedding would not work for me and that I was terribly sorry but four children was altogether too much given my age and career goals, I flashed HELP ME glances to my friends.
But they were too thoroughly entertained to help me out. I did the only thing I could think to do, a time-honoured method, which was to completely ignore him and strike up a conversation with someone else.
Poor Guillaume took the hint and retreated, heartbroken, to his friends. As far as I know, the wedding's off. Whew.
The evening was scheduled to consist of a 2-hour class (all in French) on the finer aspects of butt plugs and God-knows-what-else followed by a housewarming party as Ms. Burlesque's. Party guests would include a group of people she calls The Queer Family and a famous queer writer from SF called Michelle Tea.
The last time Michelle Tea visited Paris, these folks welcomed her with a spontaneous sex party. "Hi! Welcome to Paris! Please remove your pants."
Although I'm sure they are really nice people and the conversation would have been spectacular, the whole thing freaked me out. In my head, disparate and disconnected details like anal sex workshops, silver sequin pasties and spontaneous sex parties all mushed together and become one gargantuan rabbit hole of weirdness.
Suddenly, I was breathing into a paper bag with images of me huddled in a corner wearing a KY-Jelly-splattered raincoat fending off the fallout of a BYODildo butt-tastic naked queerdo sex-fest and I COULDN'T EFFING DEAL WITH THAT OK?!
I popped a couple of Ativan and called my mommy.
Then I spent the evening with the Parisian equivalent of oil & gas engineers: people who attended business schools and military academies, who make polite conversation over glasses of Alsatian wine, and who wear dress pants and V-neck sweaters (none of which are made of pleather).
The part of my brain that was hungry (nay, ravenous) for a juicy story like a stripper sex-fest gnashed its teeth and wouldn't talk to me all night. But add three shots of herbed Polish vodka to any situation and you've got yourself a soirée, sister.
I used the opportunity to discuss my confusion over how a culture of people who never smile or make eye contact get around to these passionate affairs for which they're famous.
Julien, the host, was happy to enlighten me. "Ah," he said. "Here's how it works: You meet through friends and make conversation. You make a few colloquial jokes, but you never touch each other. Then you go to an exhibition or two, maybe a movie. Then another friend has a party where you get drunk and make out."
Oh.
So much for unbridled passion.
Then, inexplicably and at midnight, someone's mom showed up. She was a very friendly, diminutive redhead and she helped herself to a snack in the kitchen while we all tried not to swear too robustly. Then, she went to bed.
With her son. Julien's roommate and business partner.
Maybe THIS is why Parisian love affairs take so long to get going.
But I had other things on my mind because I'm the kind of girl who, if you're gonna feed her three shots of vodka in relatively rapid succession, you better be prepared to take her dancing.
So, at 12:30, three hours after I would normally be getting my jammies on for beddy-bye, we walked down boul. de Rochechouart to a club called Le Divan Japponais.
We crowded up to the door and had a rather disappointing conversation with the bouncer. Apparently, no one else had shown up either and the bar was cutting its losses for the evening and closing down. We walked across the street to La Fourmi, my writing cafe, which becomes a full-to-overflowing bar at night.
We got a table near the window and I ended up with the sucker's chair – the one sticking way out into the throng of drunk people staggering and crowding against the bar. I was jostled by every passing ass, which judging by how packed the place was, must have been in the hundreds.
All my pent-up vodka-induced dancing energy had no choice but to transform into Immature Shit Disturbing energy. It's simply how I roll and after getting jostled one too many times, I reached out and pinched one of the passing asses.
Well.
Little did I know this kind of behaviour bumps you WAY ahead in the codified System Of French Seduction(TM).
I found myself suddenly betrothed to someone named Guillaume.
I tried to pass the pinch off on Justine. But she was on the other side of the table, so Guillaume was having none of that. He pulled up a chair and sat down. As I gently tried to explain to him that, no, a June wedding would not work for me and that I was terribly sorry but four children was altogether too much given my age and career goals, I flashed HELP ME glances to my friends.
But they were too thoroughly entertained to help me out. I did the only thing I could think to do, a time-honoured method, which was to completely ignore him and strike up a conversation with someone else.
Poor Guillaume took the hint and retreated, heartbroken, to his friends. As far as I know, the wedding's off. Whew.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Day 189: Rubber Panties n' Paper Dolls
Paris, Day 18. I'd planned to write you this really deep, introspective post about the profound personal effect the Cluny Museum has on me. But Ms. Burlesque called so all bets were off.
It was after 9 pm when she phoned, breathless, from the Metro. "I'm performing at a vernissage. It's like three stops away from you. You have to come."
Not one to be bossed around, I took a moment to consider my options:
a) Keep making the paper doll I'd been constructing (I'm serious),
b) Tuck in with a book and a baguette,
c) Go to an art opening and see some chick strip.
I put on shoes and ran the dog shit gauntlet to the subway. I got off at Porte de la Villette – one of the many portes or entrances through the peripheral wall containing Paris. It's a total shithole of bus stations, drunks and the pervasive odour of pee. But right in the middle of it all – of course, this is Paris – is a gallery/performance space called Glazart.
I wandered into the main space which looked more like a warehouse bar than a gallery. People crowded the stage and a band got up to play. I half-listened, half-stared at the motley mix of people gathered, half-wondered if I was missing Ms. Burlesque's performance somewhere and half-searched for the art that we were all supposedly here to see.
I know, that was four halves. It was a big night.
While the band played, I watched a creepy old man with a video camera. He appeared to be chasing several model-types around the space. The models looked bored and disdainful. But that's what models do.
There was also an 11-year-old child running around. And a healthy representation of people over fifty. This is one thing I adore about Paris: age really doesn't matter. You don't have to be 20 years old in order to be in a cool band and yes-you-can wear a tweed business suit to a rock show. The headlining band for the night was a pair of women deeeeep in their forties. They rocked the effing block.
Eventually, I spotted Ms. Burlesque. She was wearing a 40s-style cocktail dress, red satin opera gloves and shiny-shiny red heels. Glam-o-rama. She was hamming it up with some guy who was dramatically biting her arm while she dramatically screamed. There was a paparazzi-like mob of photographers crowded around.
I kept watching the creepy old guy videoing the models. One model slowly turned around, scanned the room sadly and dragged her hands down her face (careful not to mess up her eye makeup). Then another model, an escapee from Prom Night 1986, staggered through the scene, followed by a skinny rat-faced guy dressed as Gangster Least Likely To Kick Anyone's Ass.
Whatever kind of music video/experimental short film/video installation they were shooting, it looked terrible.
"Did you get lost?" the voice came from behind me. I turned around, just narrowly avoiding getting my eyes poked out by a pair of GIANT fake eyelashes. "I've been looking all over for you," Ms. Burlesque said, gazing over my shoulder.
The next band took the stage, featuring a seven-foot-tall Teutonic warrior woman who screamed through a bullhorn into the microphone. Because a bullhorn wasn't enough.
Ms. Burlesque, her friend Natalie and I retired to the bar. "What do you want to drink?" Natalie asked. I stared at the bottles and bottles of booze suspended above the bar. "I dunno...a beer?" I said. "We're having martinis," Burlesque explained, as though we all needed to show beverage solidarity or something.
"I'm fine with beer," I said while Natalie and Burlesque exchanged glances. "Of course...beer for the Canadian," Burlesque said rolling her eyes. I got the eye-roll a second time when I asked about catching the last Metro.
The last band finally came out and we crowded toward them. "Whoo! Living Dolls!" Burlesque called out, smiling at me. "I thought they were the Human Toys," I yelled over the din. "They are," she laughed. "But you've been calling them the Living Dolls all night. Hahaha! Including when you met Poupée the lead singer. Hahaha!"
Oh. Hahaha.
The Human Living Doll Toys took the stage. Poupée was clad in head-to-toe RUBBER. Rubber stockings held up by garters and rubber frilly panties with a big purple rubber bow. They launched into their first song and rocked the forking HOUSE.
That was Ms. Burlesque's cue. A massive tattoo-covered man lifted her onto the stage and she began vamping. She coyly removed one of her opera gloves, which was enough to cause all the men in the room to mob the stage. My drink went flying.
While the band cranked out serious hard-core shit, Burlesque flirted and pouted and steadily got nakeder. She stripped down to a bra, corset and panties and shook her long, black hair free. When she turned her back to unclasp her bra, I started giggling. I couldn't help it.
After a dramatic pause, she spun around to reveal a pointy set of silver sequined pasties.
I giggled uncontrollably. Poupée dropped to her back, shrieking into the mic. Burlesque took the opportunity to MOUNT Poupée and lick the entire length of her torso. She then lifted Poupée's leg and hauled her tongue along the rubber-clad length of it.
She stood up and shook it a bit, raising her arms above her head to expose surprisingly large patches of Yeti-quality arm pit hair.
The song ended and Burlesque adopted this wide-eyed 'Oh gracious! I appear to be naked!' look on her face and jumped down from the stage. Seconds later, she appeared beside me in the crowd. Still basically naked. Pasties. Bare ass. Right next to me.
We danced to the rest of the set, her naked, me wearing fourteen layers of clothing and feeling awkward. As I was dancing, my hand TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY I SWEAR grazed her naked butt a couple of times.
After the show, I followed Burlesque backstage (yessss!) where the air was thick with smoke. Dozens of random people were sprawled out on grimy couches amid beer cans, garbage and cigarette butts. There was a big bowl of water with several now-empty bottles of champagne.
Burlesque flung herself over a sofa to get her bag – her bare ass splayed all over the room. No one batted an eye. Then the Velvet Underground Teutonic warrior lady stormed in, towering over everyone and brandishing a lit cigarette. "I need five minutes. Everybody...get out."
At the door, Burlesque pulled a hood over her head, shouldered her backpack. She turned to me and said (I shit you not), "The star goes incognito." She disappeared into the night.
It was after 9 pm when she phoned, breathless, from the Metro. "I'm performing at a vernissage. It's like three stops away from you. You have to come."
Not one to be bossed around, I took a moment to consider my options:
a) Keep making the paper doll I'd been constructing (I'm serious),
b) Tuck in with a book and a baguette,
c) Go to an art opening and see some chick strip.
I put on shoes and ran the dog shit gauntlet to the subway. I got off at Porte de la Villette – one of the many portes or entrances through the peripheral wall containing Paris. It's a total shithole of bus stations, drunks and the pervasive odour of pee. But right in the middle of it all – of course, this is Paris – is a gallery/performance space called Glazart.
I wandered into the main space which looked more like a warehouse bar than a gallery. People crowded the stage and a band got up to play. I half-listened, half-stared at the motley mix of people gathered, half-wondered if I was missing Ms. Burlesque's performance somewhere and half-searched for the art that we were all supposedly here to see.I know, that was four halves. It was a big night.
While the band played, I watched a creepy old man with a video camera. He appeared to be chasing several model-types around the space. The models looked bored and disdainful. But that's what models do.
There was also an 11-year-old child running around. And a healthy representation of people over fifty. This is one thing I adore about Paris: age really doesn't matter. You don't have to be 20 years old in order to be in a cool band and yes-you-can wear a tweed business suit to a rock show. The headlining band for the night was a pair of women deeeeep in their forties. They rocked the effing block.
Eventually, I spotted Ms. Burlesque. She was wearing a 40s-style cocktail dress, red satin opera gloves and shiny-shiny red heels. Glam-o-rama. She was hamming it up with some guy who was dramatically biting her arm while she dramatically screamed. There was a paparazzi-like mob of photographers crowded around.I kept watching the creepy old guy videoing the models. One model slowly turned around, scanned the room sadly and dragged her hands down her face (careful not to mess up her eye makeup). Then another model, an escapee from Prom Night 1986, staggered through the scene, followed by a skinny rat-faced guy dressed as Gangster Least Likely To Kick Anyone's Ass.
Whatever kind of music video/experimental short film/video installation they were shooting, it looked terrible.
"Did you get lost?" the voice came from behind me. I turned around, just narrowly avoiding getting my eyes poked out by a pair of GIANT fake eyelashes. "I've been looking all over for you," Ms. Burlesque said, gazing over my shoulder.
The next band took the stage, featuring a seven-foot-tall Teutonic warrior woman who screamed through a bullhorn into the microphone. Because a bullhorn wasn't enough.Ms. Burlesque, her friend Natalie and I retired to the bar. "What do you want to drink?" Natalie asked. I stared at the bottles and bottles of booze suspended above the bar. "I dunno...a beer?" I said. "We're having martinis," Burlesque explained, as though we all needed to show beverage solidarity or something.
"I'm fine with beer," I said while Natalie and Burlesque exchanged glances. "Of course...beer for the Canadian," Burlesque said rolling her eyes. I got the eye-roll a second time when I asked about catching the last Metro.
The last band finally came out and we crowded toward them. "Whoo! Living Dolls!" Burlesque called out, smiling at me. "I thought they were the Human Toys," I yelled over the din. "They are," she laughed. "But you've been calling them the Living Dolls all night. Hahaha! Including when you met Poupée the lead singer. Hahaha!"
Oh. Hahaha.
The Human Living Doll Toys took the stage. Poupée was clad in head-to-toe RUBBER. Rubber stockings held up by garters and rubber frilly panties with a big purple rubber bow. They launched into their first song and rocked the forking HOUSE.That was Ms. Burlesque's cue. A massive tattoo-covered man lifted her onto the stage and she began vamping. She coyly removed one of her opera gloves, which was enough to cause all the men in the room to mob the stage. My drink went flying.
While the band cranked out serious hard-core shit, Burlesque flirted and pouted and steadily got nakeder. She stripped down to a bra, corset and panties and shook her long, black hair free. When she turned her back to unclasp her bra, I started giggling. I couldn't help it.
After a dramatic pause, she spun around to reveal a pointy set of silver sequined pasties.
I giggled uncontrollably. Poupée dropped to her back, shrieking into the mic. Burlesque took the opportunity to MOUNT Poupée and lick the entire length of her torso. She then lifted Poupée's leg and hauled her tongue along the rubber-clad length of it.She stood up and shook it a bit, raising her arms above her head to expose surprisingly large patches of Yeti-quality arm pit hair.
The song ended and Burlesque adopted this wide-eyed 'Oh gracious! I appear to be naked!' look on her face and jumped down from the stage. Seconds later, she appeared beside me in the crowd. Still basically naked. Pasties. Bare ass. Right next to me.
We danced to the rest of the set, her naked, me wearing fourteen layers of clothing and feeling awkward. As I was dancing, my hand TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY I SWEAR grazed her naked butt a couple of times.
After the show, I followed Burlesque backstage (yessss!) where the air was thick with smoke. Dozens of random people were sprawled out on grimy couches amid beer cans, garbage and cigarette butts. There was a big bowl of water with several now-empty bottles of champagne.Burlesque flung herself over a sofa to get her bag – her bare ass splayed all over the room. No one batted an eye. Then the Velvet Underground Teutonic warrior lady stormed in, towering over everyone and brandishing a lit cigarette. "I need five minutes. Everybody...get out."
At the door, Burlesque pulled a hood over her head, shouldered her backpack. She turned to me and said (I shit you not), "The star goes incognito." She disappeared into the night.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Day 188: Keeping it Together
Paris, Day 17. I discovered a love for photographing vintage buttons and beads at the flea market a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I had this idea for a series of photos called 'Keep It Together' or something of that ilk.
It would include buttons and snaps and clasps, as in 'keeping my pants (and therefore my dignity) together.' But also duct tape, control-top panty hose, prescription medication, to-do lists...all those trinkets and doo-dads we use to maintain our illusions of safety, security and control.
Although now that I think of it, it doesn't have to only be photos...it could be the actual objects styled into interesting installations. Hmm.
*Wheels Turning*
Regardless, I went to the textile district near the base on Montmartre to putter around in the fabric shops, which are essentially rooms full of rainbows as far as I'm concerned.
It was like visual dessert. Delicious colours and textures galore. Order. Disorder. Weird little mannequins with 'serving suggestions.' The sound of fabric ripping. Price tags with that specifically French style of handwriting. The smell of the leather shop. Swathed street displays that looked like crowds of Muslim women in full (and colourful) burkhas.
It would include buttons and snaps and clasps, as in 'keeping my pants (and therefore my dignity) together.' But also duct tape, control-top panty hose, prescription medication, to-do lists...all those trinkets and doo-dads we use to maintain our illusions of safety, security and control.
Although now that I think of it, it doesn't have to only be photos...it could be the actual objects styled into interesting installations. Hmm.
*Wheels Turning*
Regardless, I went to the textile district near the base on Montmartre to putter around in the fabric shops, which are essentially rooms full of rainbows as far as I'm concerned.
It was like visual dessert. Delicious colours and textures galore. Order. Disorder. Weird little mannequins with 'serving suggestions.' The sound of fabric ripping. Price tags with that specifically French style of handwriting. The smell of the leather shop. Swathed street displays that looked like crowds of Muslim women in full (and colourful) burkhas.
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