A Plate Full Of Epiphany

Yesterday's liscence plate of the day: BMINDFUL

*Smiles* Just what I needed to see.

It's skin deep...

For the entire month of December, I am participating in a "remove the makeup" challenge. This is a chance for women to show their true face, which usually lies beneath the facade of cosmetics. Or at least a reason for them to question why they participate in the daily ritual of hiding facial flaws and accentuating their "good" features. To ask themselves to redefine beauty, even.

Now this is not really a long stretch for me. I'm a low maintenance kinda gal for whom the application of face-paint is a relatively foreign concept. (When you're oft playing about in the wild, what's the point? You're just going to get dirty. Besides, blood and dirt have always felt sexier to me.)

In fact, I only learned HOW to put the stuff on in the last couple of years. But an interesting thing happened when I did try it out... Smokey eyes seemed to equal more sidelong glances from strangers. Lusciously coloured lips brought me numerous phone numbers from the the sort of fellows I am not looking for and would never actually call. But I can admit that sometimes a single gal appreciates that sort of attention. So yah, sometimes I'd lengthen the lashes, and glitterize my cheeks. I understand what it feels like to WANT to be wanted.

But since really making an effort to go without makeup entirely, I've noticed that I'm still getting attention from members of the opposite sex. But it's also weeding out some of the guys who acted as if they were just out looking for a random lay, and saw a "tarted up" gal as a more likely candidate. Truthfully, anyone who would rather see me in makeup than mud isn't really my type.

Confidence in ones identity, and beauty (inner and outer) is where it's at. Easier said than done, perhaps. But this is my wish for all. It has taken me years to get to this stage, and like many people, I still struggle with body image issues sometimes. Inner peace about these things is a lifelong goal, really. Ups and downs are to be expected.

So though I had doubts about going naked-faced last night to work (big x-mas party catering job where most people would be dolled up,) I forced myself to do it. It was the right decision. I was still beautiful, without the wasted time, and feelings of being enslaved to the cosmetic industry.

When I was a spinning instructor many moons ago there was one woman I will never forget... She wore copious amounts of perfectly placed makeup to every class. And her bleached hair was always sprayed just so. It made me sad.

But who am I to stand on a soapbox? I know I will cheat once this month. Our staff holiday party is themed "Nightmare Before Christmas." I put together a Tim Burton-esque outfit, and will be creepifying myself with much makeup. (I must have been a thespian, or some sort of burlesque girl in a past life. I love costumes.) So no, I'll never give up make-up entirely. There's a time and a place for it.

After the job last night, during a planned power outage in the wee hours of this morning, I ran. Through the dark, empty, streets. I stopped to stare up at the stars, and crater covered moon, in awe of the beauty that is all around us. The beauty that IS all of us. Wrinkles. Age spots. Pale lips, and all. The perfection of imperfection.

Snowshoe Day!

Mother Nature saw fit to grace us with a huge dump of snow today, in my neck of the woods. Finally!

Every year I wait impatiently for the first snowshoe day of winter. I am giddy when I hear of storm warnings and ecstatic when the white stuff actually flies. Some of my friends don't get this, so I sometimes feign that I am also displeased when they grumble about the state of the weather winter brings. "Yes curmudgeonly friends, you are right, this is quite terrible! And in Canada, of all places! How dare?!"

So, I grab my gear from the basement and head out the door. No point in driving anyways as my tires are bald and I'd just end up doing unintentional doughnuts. But there is not yet enough snow on the ground to actually strap on my beautiful bright-orgasmic-orange snow flotation devices.

A passerby stares at them, tucked under my arm. She looks me in the eyes, raises her eyebrows, then frowns. Perturbed by my preparedness?  I smile.

I am 10 minutes late for work. I don't care. It's a snowshoe day! My manager is displeased. "So and so got to work on time! Roar! Grumble! Consider this a warning!" My brain registers, "Hooray! Snowshoe Day!"

When I actually get to strap on my metal lovelies at the end of the day I am in heaven. The walk home is effortless. Pure bliss.

I am so full of energy that I shovel my driveway, and the neighbours, and another neighbours walkway. Then I sing and dance in the light of my giftmas tree, to the A's of my i-tunes list... Amelie Soundtrack (just the accordion tunes!), Amos the Transparent, Amy Winehouse, Andrew Bird, Arctic Moneys...

My Green and Black's hot chocolate burns the pot black as I dance. I get distracted easily, and have therefore gone through many pots in my lifetime. I laugh and put on some more hot chocolate in a shinier pot (and add Bailey's.)

I snowshoe again, this time though the fields and small forests near my home. I love my fancy aluminum snowshoes, but miss the extra floatation of the old-school wood and sinew models. That and the long tails and lack of cleats, that make it a hell of a lot more exciting to lean back and half slide, half hop, down steep hills in the woods.

Tomorrow the forecast is calling for more snow, much to my delight! I consider leaving for work a tad earlier so as to avoid invoking the fury of the boss woman. Then I consider actually finding a job that I might want to go to, like in the good old days of tree-planting, record store, and outdoor gear shop.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll strap on my snowshoes and hike right on past work.

Poets Gone Wild!

I recently attended the 2009 Canadian Festival of Spoken Word, as a team alternate. After having some time to reflect on the experience and decompress, I am ready to write about it. I will not try to pretend that I can sum up a week of intense poetic energy in a few short paragraphs. It is something you really have to experience to understand... But here's my take on it, for what it is worth, in a few short paragraphs.

1. Coffee is not a good substitute for sleep. (Though it was the only way I retained some semblance of wakefulness in Victoria.) CFSW is a slam poetry competition. But the nightly bouts were only the beginning of the fun. Afterwards there was entertainment, ranging from an erotica show, to performances by C.R. Avery and The Fugitives. And each night, post show, we made our way back to the hotel for hours of poetry, and ninja-tag*. I walked around the city with a pleasant perma-buzz from all of the caffeine I ingested. But the lack of sleep left me borderline delirious by the end of the week. And I have to admit to falling asleep on the loo at one point.

*The object of the game is to tag out other "ninjas" by touching one of their hands... To begin, all opponents stand in a circle facing one another with a hand outstretched to the middle. The person randomly chosen to start the game shouts "Ninja!" and all players strike a ninja pose and remain motionless until it is their turn to make an offensive (look for a hand close by to slap) or defensive move (get your hands the hell away from someone who is too close for comfort. ie; sit on them, hide them in your crotch, etc.) If someone tries to reach your hand, you may move to avoid this, but then must freeze in whatever position you find yourself in. Play goes clockwise. Hilarity ensues. Oh, this part is important... No katanas allowed.

2. Victoria is home to the best Vintage shops, ever. Particularly Sideshow Circus. Funky fashions and fabulous owners. Check it out if you are ever in the area. I put together a hot "Carnivale" style outfit. (Picture a grey and black striped pencil skirt with a slit up the front, purple blouse, feather earrings, and skeleton-hand hair-clip. Add my black boots and striped arm warmers. Brilliant!) The fashion police are still looking for me. Yes, the shopping was stellar, but my one regret is that I was on the Island and didn't get to do anything outside, other than marathon morning walks. I would have loved to head up to Pacific Rim National Park. Long Beach... So beautiful...

3. As an alternate, I was not at the festival to compete (unless some dreadful "accident" or some such sabotage were to take out a team-mate) but acted as team support/management, and had a 20 minute poetry set one afternoon. Many of my pieces are very personal, and I'm an emotional lady to begin with, so I was glad to have such great friends on the team there to cheer me on. Also a shout out to Wonderful Winnipeg Greg, and Vivacious Vancouver Dave, for coming out to watch my set, and making me smile.

4. Poetry is, to me, akin to life. I am here to write, and to share my stories with whomever happens to be in a listening/reading mood. I went to the festival expecting an earthy, supportive, and (dare I say?) hippie-love-in atmosphere where it would all be about the poetry and not the points. And I did find this, but alongside it came much cattiness on the part of some participants. This serves as a reminder that the world is not always as happy a place as I would like it to be. But there's no running away from negativity. Just embrace the whole experience, and learn. It is a competition after all ;)

5. Ottawa's Team BRIIK (Brandon, Rusty, Ian, Ikenna, and Komi) were inspirational! Their insanely intense strategising, and gorgeous team pieces, blew their competition away. Finals night was literally the best poetry show I have ever seen. No one can dispute Ottawa's win. And with next year's CFSW taking place in the nation's capital, Ottawa has the chance to defend their title on home turf. I suggest that everyone book their tickets now to come out and see the buckets of poetic blood which shall be spilled!

6. Being amongst poetry legends left me inspired beyond belief. There were many nights that when I finally did go to sleep, I woke over and over again to write down rapid-fire lines of verse. They were streaming out of my half-conscious brain with such force that I couldn't bring myself to let any of them go to waste. So my advice to those suffering from writer's block is thus; Find some verbose genius', drink a lot of alcohol, forbid yourself to sleep (though prolonged eyelid blinking is to be expected as you've got to get your REM in at some point) and write down every bloody thing that pops into your brain. Something good will come of it.

So seriously, let's all jump on a plane, train, bicycle, or donkey, and head to Ottawa next year for CFSW 2010! (I am focusing on improving my stealth for more ninja-tag.)

The Trouble With Damien

The doorbell rings.

It is Damien, a 5 year old boy who was in my daughter's split junior/senior kindergarten class last year, where he was know to be a terror. I was often regaled with stories of the trouble he got into, when Kaya arrived home. I am no doctor, but this child definitely seems to have some attention deficit issues.

Damien arrives on my doorstep at least once a week looking for someone to play with. I am embarrassed to admit that I usually make up an excuse as to why my children can't play at that moment. The last time he was in my backyard with a bunch of neighbourhood kids, I thought I was going to have a heart attack from the stress of; "Damien hit me!... Damien won't let me have a turn!... Damien broke the slide!" Over and over again.

This time my excuse is, "Sorry, we are having supper soon." This is a lie. It is only four o'clock. I have just lied to a little boy. Though I am agnostic, I picture lightning bolts forming in the skies above, getting ready to strike me down.

"What about after supper?" he asks.

"We're going to the library afterwards. It's one of my favorite places in the whole universe!" I beam.

"Not me," he quickly replies. "You have to be quiet there!"

Damien knows his limits.

I study his small, disappointed, face and guiltily reconsider. He may play until it's really time for us to eat. Although I am fearful for my sanity, and the state of my house.

The trouble with Damien is that he proceeds to smash all of my preconceived notions about him... He asks to play our drums. I say yes, and brace myself for the aural onslaught. But he plays with rhythm and flare. A natural, who tells me that he really wants to be a singer when he grows up.

He whispers in my ear that Kaya is in love with him. Then smiles the biggest smile I have ever seen. Genuine happiness. If we could all feel this, more often, what a different world this might be.

We make necklaces. The focus this child has, as he carefully selects his colours, and strings bead after bead, leaves me astounded. He is still working away happily long after my own child becomes tired of the craft.

It breaks my heart to see people being judgemental of each other. But I have done exactly that since I first saw Damien running, arms flailing, through the kindergarten yard, screaming at the top of his lungs and lunging at the other small humans around him, much to their obvious dismay.

As the old adage goes, "You can't judge a book by its cover." There is more to him than meets the eye.

Damien's over-the-top enthusiasm and problems paying attention to things he is not interested in, such as school, closely mirror mine. I have not enjoyed being marginalised for my own ADD issues. I hope that he will be met with understanding through life.

I am thankful for this reminder to find the good in everyone.

I am humbled and amazed by the poetry that is Damien.

Killers To Caretakers (or The Beauty Of Slugs)

I studied journalism in college, but never pursued it as a career. Here is an article I wrote a couple of years ago. (I am antsy to post something, but too tired to write something new.) It would have been front page news across the globe if I was actually working for a paper. Really.

As youngens, my three siblings and I were recruited by our mother to rid her extensive gardens of slugs. Luring them with shallow containers of beer had proved rather ineffective, and I suppose this was a better way to get us out of her hair than sending us to play in the traffic. So we were offered ten cents per dead slug as compensation for our labour.

How, you ask, was this heinous deed accomplished? The tiny gastropod mollusks met their demise in buckets of soapy water. Cruel perhaps, but they had all but killed many plants in our yard... and hell hath no fury like an angry gardener.

Laurel was a particularly efficient killer of slugs. I doubt that she greatly enjoyed the task, but I do recall seeing dollar signs in her eyes as she hunted them. No rock or leaf was left unturned and the money quickly added up... She was once paid thirty dollars for a short evening of work.

None of my siblings, or I, are in the business of killing slugs any longer. Believe it or not, two of them are actually keeping slugs as pets.

Yes. You read that correctly.

Laurel and Nick are currently living in Victoria. And as anyone who has ever been to Vancouver Island knows, the slugs in that part of the country are rather larger than the variety we are used to in Ontario.

I once heard a story on CBC radio of a west coast man who couldn't find it in his heart to kill the banana slugs he regularly found in his yard... But he had no intention of letting them stay. The only solution he could think of was to scoop them up into a bucket and drive them far, far, away from his home, where he would let them go. He swore that they always found their way back. Homing slugs?

After buying plastic terariums from a pet store and filliing them with dirt, moss, and driftwood, Laurel and Nick set out to find their "pets."

Nick is now the proud parent of Egon and Slimer. He had intended to have a third slug, a baby, whose growth he would have studied. But it escaped at some point. Perhaps in Laurel's apartment, as that is where it was discovered to be missing. Laurel said she thought this unlikely, as they would have seen slime trails.

Laurel has named her slugs Mr. Sluggo (my clever suggestion - arch nemesis of Mr. Bill on SNL) and Mathusela.

"I can't really tell them apart yet," Laurel laughed. " I have to wait and see what there personalities are like before I know which one is which." So far she has noticed that one is definitely more active than the other.

Pets are not allowed in Laurel's apartment. She has tried to get around this technicality by keeping hers on the balcony... Although they may be moved indoors when she cleans her apartment up a bit and finds some room for them. She seems to be unconcerned about the no pet policy.

"They're slugs, so how would anybody know?" she asked. Hmmm... No tell-tale barking. Perhaps she will get away with this violation after all.

Nick has apparently already complained that his slugs don't do enough. So their stay at his home may be short lived. Hopefully he will release them into the wild rather than turning them into the poor man's shell-less escargot.

Laurel told me that escargot tastes all right, but she can't imagine eating a banana slug.

"They are just too big. Escargot can be swallowed whole," she said.

So It Begins...

After much poking and prodding from friends, I have finally joined the world of the bloggers!

Yes, I am brimming with grandiose ideas, hatching unmistakably brilliant plans, and often rambling on about something-or-other. So is this not the perfect place to practice my writers-craft? A space I can self-publish in 'till my heart's content.

Well, truth be told, I find this expansive blank space on the screen in front of me daunting... It's not the emptiness, or the writing itself that scares me. It's the fact that I will soon release my ramblings into the blogosphere for others to partake of. And though I have been a "writer" since I was a child and my mom transcribed my stories, I am terribly self-critical. (Though aren't we all?)

But that is ultimately the reason I am taking this figurative plunge... To push myself further. To cast aside cares of what others may think of my way with words. To wave the finger at my inner-critic, and come out of this writing-ring relatively unscathed.

And I do hope that someone out there will enjoy reading of my exploits. What could be better than exploring the deep recesses of my mind, people?

*Cue nervous laughter*

Now comes my mantra as of late: "Poetry is everywhere." It's in raindrops sliding down noses. Dilapidated barns. Laugh lines... the list goes on indefinitely. (As does life in one form or another.) So though I may or may not pen an actual poem for this blog, I am feeling the poetry of life. And maybe I can impart some that on to you.

Ooh, but this is exciting!