Sunday, April 23, 2017

Music and Footsteps

Music is more than hitting the correct keys on the piano.
Life, for me, is more than getting up and going to work.
Music isn’t something you can just decide to take in university. 
Life isn’t something you can put on hold.

But I’ve done it all: I’ve put everything aside so I could get through the day and be happy. I’ve pushed away my dreams to make sure I had a roof over my head and food on my table. I had to learn how to calculate each step I made to make sure it was a good one. Like fingers on a piano. I’ve looked back at every step I made to see how it affected me. 

Perhaps I’ve weeded out all I can weed out and now depression just happens when it wants to happen.

I “learned” to play piano, my first two years of piano, on a “being” with a broken sound board. I loved the sounds that came out, but it didn’t sound right when I went to play at my teacher’s house. The sounds were different. SO for two years without being aware I was learning to play by making sure my hands went in the correct place at the correct time. Not by sounds and patterns and feeling.

I played my piano last night, a little"True Colours" from the glee book, and heard sounds and patterns that I had never let myself hear before. I can’t even put it into words. It’s just the magic of music.

Maybe what I need to do now, is still watch the feet, but let the feeling and the patterns come in too, just like music. Muisc and life tangle together and pull me forward. As I dream forward,

Saturday, April 22, 2017


Hello stars.

Where have you been?

The city.

No stars in the city eh?

Not many.

Quiet: hear the peepers.

It’s so quiet in the country.

So live here on wild chicken eggs and buffalo milk.

Just like that?


I have a 9-5 and a house, a gym membership…

Like normal people?


And you’re a normal person?



The stars are nice tonight

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


I guess it’s not a bad thing, just different. I’m wanted. People want me to go places, and do things, be things. I want to sit in my bed with my cats, write poems no one will ever read and watch “The Voice.” That’s what makes me happy. I haven’t got the voice on yet I can’t type and “Voice” at the same time. I have Robbie Robertson telling me How to be Clairvoyant.

Adulting is so difficult. All I want to do is eat vegan ice-cream in my pj’s and have cats, I have the cats part but vegan ice cream is soooo expensive. I usually just stick to dairy free chocolate milk for breakfast.

I’m always tossing the ball between “yes I’ll do ‘it’” and “my bed is calling.” I used to think It was lazy, and maybe it is? But It’s who I am. I get overwhelmed at loud dancy places and don’t like organizing things or entertaining. I like to write and play with my voice and hunt and peck the piano.

I used to think it was lazy, like when I was a teenager and I decided that I would be out in the world and do “whatever I wanted.” 30 years later, I realize that what my logical brain wants and what my body wants are two different things. Logically I would like to be out supporting my friends. But there’s nothing better than bed sharing my bed with a calico, and a white cat.

Adulting is so difficult. Luckily there’s a little Cave I can go to and not adult.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017


Well, yesterday was weird and full of gluten free brownies and day dreams. Today I had my brain back until like 3:00 and then I self medicated with some Mountain Dew. I became the entertainer, especially when I discovered 15 minutes before I left work that my pants had been on backwards since breakfast. It takes talent to wear a pair of pants backwards all day. I just thought I had gained a lot of weight from the brownies I had eaten the day before. Ummm Brownies

Does it matter what someone thinks of me twenty, twenty-five, thirty years later? That’s what I wondered on my way to work this morning, Our team is doing overtime so there’s no time in the morning for morning pages. SO I try to make up for it by thinking hard on the way to work. This morning I thought about the dream I had last night. 

In real life I "kept up" with everyone from the museum that I wanted to, We run into each other or leave notes on facebook etc; except one of the guys. In my dream, we met up again, twenty years later and he didn’t have any idea who I was, he hadn’t remembered me. I shrugged said "that’s ok" and walked away.

That nonchalant-ness and the processing I did over night made me think about yesterdays statement: That I wanted to look at people and say I survived. And that in a little while I’ll be a successful writer, just wait and see…

Does it matter what “they” think?  Am I still living to prove my artistic value to someone else? Or is showing myself off a way to prove what I’ve created over the last 20 years “writing myself out of depression?” 

I feel like I achieved it and am on my way to being stable and healthy.

I don’t have to worry about showing the doubters or the haters and part of me. Right now I need to just keep going and doing what I do best. Write and sing and work myself into something successful. Write myself into being and important writer to me and soon my friends.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Nathan Fillion Week

Last night I watched some TV, not “The Voice,” but a cop show, er writer show, oh well it was “Castle,” there was a story and a woman died due to a gunshot wound and then there was a murder to be solved. I loved every second.

I haven’t’ seen an episode of “Castle,” or anything else for that matter, since I moved into Duncanville, almost 5 years ago. (Apparently the show is canceled but you can still see some of it on the CTV website.) SO Sunday night, not wanting to do anything more, I curled up with my computer and watched Nathan Fillion and friends.

And my imagination was off, I wanted to meet all the boys in the show, I made this week Nathan Fillion week when people asked who he was, I told them “my boyfriend for the day.” About a year and a half ago my anti depressants were increased and I don’t want anything to do with real boys; But put them on TV for 45 minutes, give them speaking parts and guns and a hot hair do and I’m interested. I wanted to get my writing done and move to the city and get in the middle of that shit again. That fantasy that “action” and “cut;” The make up and the lights, that’s a part of me I haven’t had the power to face in years. I wanted to tell stories like that. Now it’s time to heal that part.

The ultimate way to tell stories. My mind explodes and, for a moment, forgets it has to start at the begging. The sitting, the writing the editing. But maybe I remembered where it could go and why I like to do it. Maybe TV is a drug and I’m addicted again.

I like to have stories told to me invented for me. I loved working on my novel because of the relationship between the two characters. I fell in love with their relationship but still couldn’t finish the story. Am I allowed to say I love TV shows? I’m fascinated by little 45 minute stories and the people who “tell” them. Am I allowed to succeed even further with the help of the RED PENS. AM I allowed to dig in deep and get all the feels like I do from other people’s work. YES, of course.

And my imaginary boyfriends. TV is a great place to get imaginary boyfriends.

I imagine meeting up with the people I went to school with. The ones who doubted me, the ones I felt I was struggling to survive with, the ones who weren’t sure how to take me and say “Guess what… I’m not as famous as you, But I survived . I'm still alive and I still have time...

Saturday, April 1, 2017

How can I help?

What do you do? When that quiet person in the corner, the little weird person who talks to them self, lives by themselves, and frankly you’re still not sure if either of you know each others name yet... What if your best friend comes to you and says they need to talk because everything is so bad.

With everyone, everything is different. I like people to sit with me and make sure I don’t hurt myself. I like people to laugh with me. I like people to hear me. Other than that I don’t know…OS lets think about it. 

For me, I talk about just about everything to everyone and meet once a week with the bestest I don’t work with. I do it because I don’t want to hold back something that could heal me, or  pehps I can spark something in someone else. But that’s me. I’m a story teller and a washed up actress; I still like the attention.

There are people, who although brave in many other ways are not able, for what ever reason, to approach life like you do, like I do, like other people take for granted. When I was in the city and had a birthday I begged a friend to go out to a coffee shop, she brought a friend and I was ever grateful that they took the time to listen and share with me. I was the strange awkward one, or at least that’s what it felt like.  I was so sure that in five more minutes I’d be ok and could repay them somehow in the future.

Today a layer of doubt fell away from me. I don’t consider myself pretty, because usually when I see a picture of me I’m making a face, my hair is a mess and my cloths don’t match. I looked at “girls’ night” picture from like 2011 or something. People thought I was drunk, but soaked back the cranberry juice all night. I made faces into the camera and laughed like a crazy person. I looked at that picture a few weeks ago and thought, I’m funny, I’m theatrical and I’m strange, and I come from a long line of talking to strangers.

So today in the store I sang to my groceries and talked to the girl in the check out line behind me about our cats. (She thought I was Nucking Futs.) But this is who I am supposed to be right now; Happy, I guess.

What do you need right now to smile? How can I help?

"But You Have Control." --my Mom

I’ve been there, I’ve known that it could get bad enough. In my twenties I knew that I would need a plan, and I knew when things got bad like when I would cry and cry for hours I would walk myself to the hospital and check into emerge so that I would have the medical community watch over me in case I couldn’t control myself. I wasn’t very happy in my twenties. But I had a secret weapon. The “5 Minutes” I knew If I held on, if I waited 5 more minutes I would be ok, something would change in five minutes, I would be distracted by a better life, I would work through my sadness by writing or music. I had this will to wait five minutes to know that everything would be ok.

I look now at one of the articles about Amy Bleuel, the founder of project semicolon and that she died by suicide.  For whoever needs help right now, you can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741, or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
I wonder what if you don’t have five more minutes what if five minutes turns into five days, months years? And you don’t get that fight to live you don’t spend every waking hour playing with and analysing every single feeling to make sure it doesn’t sweep you off your feet. The young lady was 31. At thirty one I had just stopped living with my parents after a rough twenties and worked at a call centre,which was something I said I would never do.  What if I couldn’t find the joy, the temporary beauty of working in my own little work pod all by myself and then the reaching out to some of my best friends and support team ever.

I have friends, not knowing the true experience that I have had say they don’t understand how someone could kill themselves or other people, I can say I get but; I’ve never actually not waited five more minutes to get through it.

So for those of you who depended on Amy and said “If she could do it I could do it.” Look now to yourself and say “I’ve done it and I’ll do it for five more minutes.” I’ll face every fear I’ll reach out to my friends and I’ll sort all this out. One moment at a time. And if you’re like me at 29 and the only thing to do is move home with your parents and you can’t move home with your parents, reach out to one more person. This will be your secret weapon. I have five minutes, You have the whole world reach out to one person and just say hi.”