Monday, March 11, 2013


Izzy helped write this post...
This week, I took off from work to watch Spring break through the winter. I know it’s the time of year when it breaks through a little, and you get up hope and there’s still a snow storm or two waiting in April.

My grampy came home to visit my mother. His home is small, he raised three kids in a very small house. When we brought him to the study, Mama Duncans pride and joy right now, he was confused that there would be a living room without a TV.

His mind is like that of a child, exploring the space and comparing it to his home. “Mama Duncan has a big house doesn’t she?” Said Gramps, with a tinge of pride in his voice. “Yes she does” said my Aunt. My grandfather has become the child he always used to remind me I used to be.

Wednesday I curled up in my apartment and told my cats the story I would tell on Thrusday night. Watched them eat CD’s and steal the paper it was written on and chew it to pieces. Cats are a different audience than people, and when I gave my story on Thursday night I looked too hard into human faces, tried to wonder what they thought of me, of the story and of who I was.

Friday was international woman’s day and people wanted to hear my story, not the one I had written about the great leaders of a mixed tribe of African animals; but about who I was and why I was there and where I had been and what it was like to be me.

And this continued into the day. A story telling workshop that made me grow stronger. Being a listener to so many other women’s stories, as I had been listened to in the morning. I cried and laughed and huged strangers who are no longer strangers.

For two days I bounced in front of audiences and bravely told the story that I wrote, and each of the telling became more and more of a performance and less of me being scared I’d miss a word. I was energized all weekend. Great vegan gluten free meals great chats with friends. A refreshed inner soul.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

The Chat

 Not my photo
I lit a cigarette and smoked it on the bridge, I threw the butt on the ground beside the Tim Hortons mug and the paper towel that was flying around. There’s no one hired in the winter to clean up the dirt. In the summer, because there might be lost tourists who abandon the pretty towns and come here, people with yellow vests pick up the garbage, I usually see them once in the summer.

The boys bum a cigarette from me and smoke beside me.

“Have you told your parents yet?” I asked the one with the curly black hair and the mustache.

He took a drag and shook his head. “Mom likes the people on TV, but I’m not like that.”

His friend piped up, “They liked you yesterday, they’ll like you today. Just like me.”

I lit another one, “There’s a magic you will always have.” I said “The magic of knowing who you are.”

“I had to work hard at it.” Said the guy who seemed to look like a child but knew what I was talking about. "You?"

“I have depression and had to find myself through the pieces that no one else wanted to see. That i didn't want to see.”

“People will want to see me as I am.” He said “they don’t have a choice, I’m pretty cool."
"What about your mothers plans to have a daughter in law." I asked. Seeing that look in his eyes that told me he was putting on more of a front than he wanted me to know.
"That's what I'm afraid of."

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

On A Walk

The town is dirty, with all the melting snow and the gravel.  The snow plows have thrown dirt on the pavement, on purpose ,instead of salt. In the distance all one can see is a mess, and since it’s my town it takes a piece of pride because this town is this dirty.

The pale inhabitants, not sure if they should wear bright colours outside, or not go outside at all brave the wind and lack of sun to go to the fast food joints. Two high school boys are crossing the bridge eating Wendy’s.I hate the smell of fast food. I don’t look at them but can hear them. One admits to the other that he’s gay and thus completely changes his future in 2 seconds, they keep walking as if discussing the weather.

I walk to store to get three peppers;. A red and yellow and orange, for my salad, that I will be eating the rest of the week. On my way home, a random guy says hello. I do not look at him or talk to him, I do not want to seem vulnerable, silly, that I am the girl who walks everywhere.

Two women walk past me at a great pace, as if training for the races; I am on vacation and have no place to go but home and let them pass and let them walk away from me.
Today I walked without headphones and saw my town in a new light.

Monday, March 4, 2013



I believe I have some power, a little extra on the side to put towards something special. I’m not focusing all my energy into keeping me alive, it’s not all going toward my job, towards Dr’s appointments. There’s a little more I can use to put towards my voice.
 I have been whispering for so long. It’s time to speak a little louder. There’s a power inside my voice.
 My voice slips in and out of my life like an affair with a traveling minstrel. I have no choice when this lover visits. In my twenties it was torrid, an hour a day at the piano and I would sing in hall ways and streets. But I had no idea what I was saying.
 I sit down at the keys. I am creating something new and unforeseen. Like that Beethoven piece, I am singing a song that’s been done billions of times over, and my version has never been heard before.
And this minstrel doesn’t mind the whisper and the stumble because I’m aware of the power of my voice that has been in the silence the last six years. My voice has learned from the silence, but softly it must learn to sing again.

Saturday, March 2, 2013

Park Bench

In which I take what would regularly be a poem and articulate it into a mini essay...


There are a lot of dreams that have walked through this park. The dreams, like the fashion, seemed to have changed meaning, changed velocity, changed priority.


 At twenty years I sat on the park bench and read theatre, and knew that my imagination and passion was enough to take me anywhere. That I would close my eyes and follow the path in front of me and it would come true, as I had it planned.


That dream didn’t come true as it was supposed to. So I spent many years as the park bench letting the dreams pass, like people on their daily commute.


There are some that come every day; drink a coffee, hold on to my heart and pull me in directions I would love to go. There is a dreamer who sits on the dewy morning seat and writes four pages of journal knowing that like the runner passing she is in training for the novel.


There is a cat lady at my bench who feeds the homeless cats the tuna from her sandwich and does TNR to stop the suffering. She is a vegan except for the tuna sandwiches. She tells disbelievers that if she stopped eating fish she wouldn’t be able to feed the cats.


There’s one the dream of having and being a wonderful lover that sleeps the night on the park bench and he’s always gone by morning. During the day is an Oscar winning screenwriting the except the script has never been finished.


There are many dreams that pass and I smell their perfume or stroke their hair.


At 36 I sit at the park bench again. A book in my hand, my imagination running and all the lessons from the last 16 years that will go into the dreams of the future. It’s sad, but there needs to be more than passion and imagination.


The park rangers summon me to pick up a hammer and some nails and build a new park bench.