Oh My Site, It Is A-Changin'

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

blog.melaniejones.ca

Hope to see you there!

Love,
Me

Courage, Friends

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

Day 235: Back In The Stirrups Again

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

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

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

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

Day 232: Hey, It's All Right.

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

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

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

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

I do!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, it's all right.

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

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

Have no fear, friends.

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

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

Maybe you should come...just in case.

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

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

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

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

Day 229: The Three Day Rule

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

It's frickin' annoying.

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

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

This? Is not like me at all.

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

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

It's strange, but it's true.

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

Three days to crazy.

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

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

I was very, very wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Day 228: Insert Bloodcurdling Scream Here

Dear Depression Project Team:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Melanie

P.S. You owe me money.

Day 223: Hittin' the Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 222: Because We Can

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

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

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

And then I freaked out.

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

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

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

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

*Snort*

Can you?

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

WTF.

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

I screamed a little and stopped walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Actors are so over-dramatic and annoying."

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

"Performing's all about the ego anyway."

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

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

Uncertainty...Unplugged

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

God. Sounds like a Monday.

Day 220: The Occupational Hazard Series

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

I'VE GOT FRICKIN' NOTHING.

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

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

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

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

This is what happens in my head.

It's scary in there.

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

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

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

BAAAAHAHAHA!

*Sob*

Day 219: Read This Immediately If Not Sooner

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

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

This one is for

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

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

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

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

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

this one is for you

this one is for you

to

wield.

Read more Evalyn goodness here.

Speaking of Genius...

Watch this:

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

Day 217: I Heart Steve's Mom

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

Some highlights:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 216: When The Magic Got Lost

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

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

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

This project is amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

Normal. Better. More.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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