My Family’s Bananas

In those days the family I knew best were: myself, my older brother and younger sister, my mom and my aunt Dorothy. My parents separated when I was young, leaving my father stranded in Ottawa. Summers, winter holidays, Thanksgiving, Easter break, were all spent in West Chester PA with my aunt and uncle when he was still alive. The pilgrimage to Cape May was made every June for as long as I can remember. My aunt Dorothy who was somewhat older than my great-aunt and had been going there every summer since she was a child.

Aunt Dorothy was my mom’s half-sister, that’s why she was so old. She used to ride horses and teach as well as being an accomplished sculptor. I only ever knew her as old and wrinkly with bowed legs. My brother and I joked that you could open an umbrella underneath her without touching either knee. My mom was always careful to encourage us to be nice to Dorothy, because she was so old. That’s just the way of things: parents teach kids to be nice to old people.

My aunt sat huddled in the passenger seat of the 1977 Chevy Nova, partly because her back was stooped, but mostly because my mom had piled everything under and around her. There she was: old and fussy, but barely able to see over the dashboard. My mom sat in the middle. It was one of those bench seats that you find in old cars. One of her feet was on Dorothy’s side of the floor and another one a little too close to the foot that was on the gas pedal. My brother had just got his license and was driving. I was about thirteen. My younger sister and I were stuffed into the back seat, surrounded by garbage bags filled with who knows what --- towels, flippers, sandals, flip-flops, a mask and snorkel, probably a plastic shovel as well --- packing is my mother’s specialty.

I don’t know if you know the summers in Pennsylvania, but they’re hot. A dry hot. The kind of hot that burns your fingers when you put your hand on the car door handle. You can’t wait to start driving so that some air, hot or cold, will start moving through the car. In that car on that hot, hot day, with my grumpy sister and my mother a bit nervous of my young brother’s driving, my aunt regaled us with a some of her senility which proved to be the antidote for all the forces against us.

The car was so full of junk, you could barely roll down the window for fear of ‘luggage’ falling out. One of my legs was trapped between the seat and a garbage bag, the other was at another location which momentarily escapes my memory. Grahnia my sister was sleeping. Only visible through the bags because of her long curly black hair and the occasional light-hearted snore. Most of us were asleep. Due to the unfortunate packing job that so often paralysed my mother’s organisational skills, some of the stuffing began to leak out. To clarify, I think that my mother had brought plates and cups with us, because we were renting a three-bedroom apartment for our three week stay.


Sometimes the stuffing was towels or newspaper that my mom had wrapped around the dishes. On this occasion, she used packing kernels: those little Styrofoam shapes that act as a cushion for valuables when shipped in boxes. Through a hole in the box and on a cushion of air, some of the packing kernels start floating around the inside of the car. I woke up to find my brother laughing as these Styrofoam shapes started getting caught on faster currents of air and whipped themselves out the window.

My brother’s laugh is very contagious. It starts as little giggles, and then he gets redder and redder until he makes a sound like he’s constipated and explodes in a paroxysm of tears and gusts of ha aah ha haha aaaaaaaahaahhhhhhhhh, followed by some high-pitched wheezing, repeated by the constipation sound and more hahhahahahaha. By this time, I found the cause of this uncontrollable force of noise. Dorothy had started to nibble on some of the floating pieces of Styrofoam, thinking (God knows what) that they were a free treat that had finally come her way. I could just imagine her pleased that little nibbles were now able to be plucked from the air, instead of having to open up a packet of food. My mother turned to her to make some concerned and helpful comment, as she would to a child, when my aunt blurted out “It tastes just like jam.” There was nothing to be done after that. There was no reason that could be applied to the situation. My mother, against all her maternal instincts to protect, roared with laughter. My brother in such a fit, his spasms of laughter making me laugh in my silent uncontrollable giggles, did his best to keep control of the car. I think we even woke up Grahnia. That was the first time I saw my mother laugh so openly, honestly and loudly. It was enough to wake us up from the tired heat and hot metal and remind us of what the situation really was, a family trip of young and old, and of how we were all slightly bonkers, just like everyone else. On our way to the beach.

As I sit and write this, tears of laughter come to my eyes again, though at the time being squashed against the seat, surrounded by plastic bags and cookie crumbs, it was the funniest thing in the world. I don’t know if Dorothy knew that her behaviour was the source of such merriment. She might have guessed that her actions were questionable in retrospect. Honestly, who knows what happened in her head. She was a direct person, kindly in some ways and partially bananas. Which we all had a fondness for.

The Secret Banana War
We used to stay at her home in Pennsylvania. An apartment in a vast community of old, decrepit, dying people. Pleasantly situated in the countryside, surrounded by forests and farmland. Her apartment was on the second floor of a small two-storey building. My mother did all the food shopping. She used to buy tons of vitamins, sometimes from hippies who lived in buses and owned health-food stores. And with every shopping purchase, she bought bananas. My sister, ate little else in those days: cheese, bread, plain pizza, egg milkshakes and bananas. Dorothy ate bananas too. So in order to keep some bananas for my sister’s queer diet, my mother hid the bananas. As it turned out, Dorothy did too. My mother once commented, in a state of incredulity, that she had found nine banana peels secreted in Dorothy’s room. I guess Dorothy was just fending for herself in the secret banana war.

Subversion (of the heart)

And so I am pleasantly lost in Montreal. Where I never thought I could find my inspiration again.

Glenn Gould is guiding me back to my home, whether it be in the trailer in the glorious summer in Kirchheim or in my imagination.

I am afraid to touch the table or the chairs or the counter top because they may prove to be really there
I can hear myself sigh alone in the kitchen wishing I was somewhere else,
watching the days go by and the afternoon fade into evening
Riding a wave of time
days to weeks to the warmth of the evening air in July
I dare not share it with anyone lest they are disappointed with my greatest gift

A candle either side of me and the screen emitting its coloured light, Bach billows through the air pushing the particles before it, and
My hands, crouched at the keyboard are closed and like my affection, tired
A mite too weary is my positive goodwill, it is only this music
and the thunderstorm on the other side of the glass which
awake
Me from my feigned reverie of love and grace

I wonder how far I can stretch my dreams to fit my love
For now I can hold my head up high and plough through the concrete basin,
other people call my home
For now I can hold with the strength of ten men against a sea of despair and disbelief

Rarely do I live for now, though
Passing at all points in my past and future, I tend to live for when

(In a Bachelor apt on Av du parc, winter 2003)

Luscious life is Jen last February the drive down to N S, the stay at her parent's place in the dead of winter, the long days when we had nothing to do except coordinate life and the exhibition. The bitter bitter cold. The days when it was minus 20 and we walked down to the harbour and we met that man who invited us into his newly built house on the waterfront. I really felt like I saved her life that winter. That was a hard time for her. It was easy for me to give myself to her, so easily. It was almost what I was born for. A room for her, a shell where she could live until she recovered. She moved into me and spent her time in my energy in my head in my heart where there was more than enough love to cosset her, to hold her and reassure her of her own greatness and her own beauty. When it was time to go, she left. I was empty again. I was a shell once again and I had to rebuild my insides again. I had to rebuild the tissue and the skeleton. I had to rebuild the organs. Conjure them up from atomic particles and mould them in a new image. A rebirth. I rebuilt my body from conversations with friends who loved me. I transformed their words into energy I could use to make tissue and flesh. I am built of love. Love in all it's stages. From a child discovering the magic of their voice and their laughter. The uprising of emotions and power and self-awareness of adolescence. The disappointment of adulthood as life becomes at once both open to interpretation and against my will. Stages which took me years to experience, I built up with the help of my family and myself in a period of a few months. When I saw Jen again, I was not quite whole, but I was an adult again. With that intelligence I backed off her and pulled a curtain across the entrance to my soul.

(Montreal, April 2007)

I want someone to take care of me. Now that I think about it. I don't feel that anyone can take care of me. I feel so alone man. I FEEL SO GODDAM ALONE. I don't want a family. I feel like I don't have a family. I feel so utterly disconnected. I want hang out and cry and be open not care. I feel like I'm carrying the world's opinion of me on my shoulders. And damn them. I'll be whoever I want to be and I'll dress any way I goddam please and I'll walk tall proud wherever I go and I'll fit in and know that I am somebody and I'll stop sticking up for the underdog and start sticking up for me and I'll hang out with people who ask me questions rather than with people who just talk. And I'll not be afraid to love myself openly and move on. I'll move on and stop being so afraid. I'll open up to people and feel vulnerable and love openly the way my heart is designed to and I'll take my medication through the impenetrable stares of strangers. And I'll never forget Germany and start dreaming again and moving toward that beautiful place in my heart that moves people and makes them believe, even if it's only for a few hours. I'll care a lot less about calling people on their faults and look for the good intentions that are often lost. And I'll stop seeing myself too much in other people's eyes. Because even though I don't fit into the norm, there's something beautiful about that and that's what has given me myself, which is a beautiful person that I haven't seen in a while. Because I need love and I need someone to come and take care of me and love the things that I love.

(found on my desktop, late summer 2007)

One day my parents will die and my world will fall apart and I will realise that I can no longer afford to dream. That moment is now. I already see my memories of them. At photographs, at heirlooms and trivial momentos. I am here. Alone. Financial and emotional support was a gift in the past. It is time to make my life happen. I have waited for years to follow something or someone, something or someone I can believe in. Still I sit here, waiting for someone to show me a path. To show me my path. Perhaps I have found someone I can believe in. Perhaps I have found someone I can love and respect and trust to hold my head up when crises of money and other such burdens weigh upon my soul. I must trust what I know. I must have faith in myself. I know me almost. But do I love me. Well, almost.

(Aug 2006)

In the Eye of the Storm

Do you ever have that feeling when insolvency hits and you watch your savings disappear and depression hits you hard and fast and you wonder how you're going feel good about yourself again? You know that the only way to get out is to do something. MOVE. Don't stop moving until you accomplish something. Anything. Then life starts the ebb and flow again, away from stagnation, away from self-destruction. But for that time, when you can't take the mental pummeling that you give yourself and you feel helpless and worthless, and you watch it happen, then that's the real destruction. You stand there and watch and listen. You can't hear anything, because you're in it. You're in the middle. Rather, I am. And all is unfolding around me. My emotions like tornado winds are swirling around me, uprooting all manner of protections in their path. Whereas I, am rooted to the ground in fear, in trepidation, immobile. I watched it this morning, but I can't stand it for long. It's too powerless a place to be. Anger, frustration, fear, envy, jealousy, culminate in the storm and I look outside and it's a beautiful day. The kind I love. When its 28 degrees and the warm air greets you when you walk out the door. I smile at strangers as I ride past them. I feel alive again and unafraid. As long as I don't go back inside, because that's where the storm dwells. It enters my head when I'm sleeping and festers in my heart, when I surf the web. It unabashedly, stirs up past feelings of doubt and denial and challenges my every waking decision.
But I don't need this. I just need a little love, that comes from me.

The Righteous Canadian Award

Here's my blog on this beautiful summer day. What the fucking fuck is wrong with the people in this city. Everyone is so afraid and distant with each other. It's like the disconnect here is something special.

"Not only are we the Greatest Place on Earth, but we are so disconnected from each other and outsiders, that we deserve The Righteous Canadian Award."

1)We in Vancouver have no contact with the outside world, except through the internet.
2)We are NOT AMERICANS, because Americans are bad and even though we have no belief in our own cultural heritage, we need to blame someone for it.
3)We like cycling. We make the best bicycles in the world (even though all our production is in China), because we are from British Columbia and we like cycling. 4)ICBC is the biggest employer in BC. We believe in having a Monopoly on all auto business, because that way we can do what we want to whomever we want and no one can fight back. We are from Vancouver and we don't feel threatened by anyone except by any other competitor.
5)In Vancouver we say 'Hi, how are you doing today' to everyone and their answer has to be 'I'm fine thank you', because we aren't really interested in what they say, we just want to establish that we are nice.
6)In Vancouver we don't like exchanging personal information except when we fill out forms or sign into Facebook, because then we might be forced to get to know people and they might get to know us and then we will have to admit that we have things in common with other people, even if they are not from here.
7)Vancouver is all about community, provided you are from our community and if you are not, then be prepared to stay disconnected for as long as you care to live in our High School-minded atmosphere, where we tell you what to do and what to expect.
8)Vancouver is all about the mountains, the ocean, the beach, the skiing, and the beautiful city in its undeniable stage of adolescence. Fuck the homeless, fuck the US, fuck the french, fuck the rest of Canada (Except for Albertans who are the only ones who understand us) and BTW, Fuck you too. WE WOULD NEVER SAY THIS THOUGH BECAUSE WE ARE NICE.
9)Come to beautiful Vancouver and I'll be your friend and make you feel welcome, and then I won't return your phone calls, or make plans with you, because I need to make you feel that you are the new kid on the block, so you don't get close to me and force me to treat you equally.

I have lived here for two years and I feel that in some ways, I'm no nearer to discovering what is in Vancouver other than the land. The people who dominate the landscape don't know how to live with others, so they stay in their communities and evolve as separate groups. Maybe that's the way it is everywhere, but there is a certain standoffishness here that is very unusual and comes from a place of fear. I can't read it and I don't understand it. I recognize it in people as being a common thread, but it has no basis and seems childish. Like the city is in its teenage years and gets cliquey and stupid and proud, and bullish. But there's no substance. Vancouver rests on the laurels of being in a place of natural beauty, but there's not much when you come back from the mountains.

15 Rules for living...50 more to come.

I read on someone's blog just now, even though I should be working...about 35 things to do every day. I'll give some examples.
1. Make your bed first thing.
2. Go out of your way to say good morning to your neighbours.
3. Include a thank you note with your rent cheque.

Stuff like that. Some of the things are a bit too specific however.
18. Don't make any telephone calls after 9pm.
22. Listen to all your answering machine messages as soon as you get home and then erase them.
23. Go to bed early and read for 30 minutes.
25. Always eat your dinner on a plate and have a napkin.

My attitude, at this point begins to change from --OK, to WTF, to Who wrote this shit?-- So rather than be perplexed and annoyed, I thought I would write my own list.
Off the top of my head. No holds barred.

1. Get out of bed as soon as you wake up and don't lie there trying to change the world in your underwear from the safety and comfort of your blankets.
2. Eat something before you leave the house, because it's an important and easy way to love yourself at the start of every day.
3. Think of alternatives to swearing at the asspick who cut you off in traffic on the way to work. Maybe they weren't thinking, maybe their marriage is on the rocks, maybe it's not about you. Let it go.
4. Call your family once a week. It's a good habit to get into, and you'll need that habit when you're in your thirties and upward. Family is defined as people you love.
5. Don't think of yourself as a victim to life, to people, to work, to family. You are a participant in this place.
6. Don't pick your nose and then flick it at random when you're outside, you might just begin to do this inside and your carpet and floor will be littered with old bogies. (this hasn't happened in my house by the way :), it's okay to come over)
7. Let your friends and Cow Orkers know that you are a reliable, trustworthy and friendly lunatic who reads magazines while sitting on the toilet or sings while brushing his teeth, just like everyone else.
8. Not everyone will like you. It sucks, but there are somethings that are out of our control. Besides, there's other stuff to worry about. (see rule 6)
9. You are your own best friend. Stand up for yourself, love yourself, believe in yourself. As much as you can.
10. (This is from my brother)...Whatever opinion you have of yourself will make you who you are.
11. If you are single, have a wank before you fall asleep. It's a great way to expend some time, having fun in a hot and bothered way. It tends to take all the worries out life for a few minutes and clears the way to some serious sleeping.
12. Take pictures, send postcards, record, record, record. In memory, in music, creatively, randomly. Documentation is a fantastic way to live.
13. Listen to your body. It's not separate from yourself.
14. Fear is powerful, but fragile. It only takes a little to shift perspective. If you let it, fear and anger will rule you, and affect everyone you meet and love.
15. The most powerful person on the planet is the one who believes they can make a difference.

Okay, that's fifteen of my rules for healthy living.
Comment at Will. Or as Arthur Wellesley, The Duke of Wellington once said,
"Publish and Be Damned!"

Is it OK to sit and do Nothing?

I'm not sure that it's okay to sit and do nothing. I must first decide what that means. When I come home from work, I turn on the radio and listen to the tidbits of information about the daily grind. What is called 'news'. The 30 seconds of headlines, repeated every half-hour don't inform me particularly, they pique my interest, but just enough to make me wonder about the horrors of what other people are facing, while I concern myself with what I'm going to make for dinner at that moment, and do I have all the ingredients. Those are the real concerns.
Is my food organic?
Was it grown locally?
Who is not recycling?
Who is polluting?
Am I happy in my chosen job?
God I hate my roommate.
God I am tired.
I have to call this person back and I was suppose to do it two days ago.

Western Media outlets report British Prime Minister and French Foreign Minister and a number of other diplomats, summarily condemn a new law passed in Afganistan by the Hamid Karzai government. Those noble politicians, standing up for the rights of women in Afghanistan, by threatening all manner of aid to be withdrawn until the law is repealed. Is the law allowing rape within marriage repealed? Who knows, because the following day, I learn about Obama's decision to release memos of the Bush government concerning the wording of what is deemed to be torture. THAT'S A BIG HEADLINE. The Bush administration condoning and actively participating in the torture of prisoners of war, or anyone who is suspected of being a terrorist. Well, that's a big deal. Calling into question our sense of morality, that's shocking. We must learn about this, we must read all we can. It's being reported by CNN, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, FOX, AP, Reuters, CBC, BBC, and a dozen more international publications. Did you hear about this: Women being raped by their husbands, beaten to death by their brothers and male family members for disrespecting the family honour, women politicians, activists, human rights lawyers, women who stand up for themselves are assassinated, hanged, beaten, gang-raped regularly. Did it make the six o'clock news? No, but I heard about the Obama administration replacing the CEO of GM. God, I feel informed. Besides, we're doing our part in Afghanistan. What about all the Canadian soldiers dying there, fighting against the Taliban, helping to restructure Afganistan. I should be proud to be Canadian. I'm behind the troops, fighting the evil Taliban and they are a fairly nasty bunch putting it mildly. A really twisted fanatical, extremist, power-hungry regime. Our troops are making a difference over there. It's true, we are working with the Karzai government, but. BUT WHAT. Where's the but? Yes, his brother is reported to be one of the largest opium smugglers in the country, but. HUH? Well, it's you know 9 thousand miles away. You must understand the context of laws in that country, of their culture, of their traditions. Hmm, you have a point. I musn't judge the whole government and culture by this new law. I should concern myself with what's going on around me, in my city, in my culture, with my own people.
Worry about the weather. Talk about the Olympics. Wonder about the conditions at Cypress. Concern yourself with the recession. Will the Canucks win the Stanley Cup?
A woman was gang-raped regularly for over a year, until she had a child...
Go make a sandwich, have a cup of tea, download some music, be thankful you have a job.

A tiny Death in my Heart

'I've cheated on everyone I have ever been out with.' Those were the words I heard from a girlfriend I had when I was twenty-one. I thought for some reason, that I would be an exception to this rule but. I was not. I found out after we had broken up from a mutual friend just how many times she had cheated. Most of what I felt about that relationship was that I felt cheated. Not through infidelity, but through friendship. I didn't understand at the time. But I have since done that on more than one occasion and when it happened. When it happened I felt so godawful that I wanted to be dead. I wanted to be somewhere else. I wanted to think it was as harmless as a dream. I wanted to be someone else. It hurt so much. It was like a tiny death in my heart. I stopped doing it, because I hate hurting people, mostly myself. I felt that I had sinned against my own sense of nobility. Sometimes I do that. I get on this road of self-destruction. I see it. I'm split in two. Part of me, wants to curl me up and hold me and the other part of me wants to push, until I go over the edge. I once went over the edge. And I saw how much time I was wasting. I saw how little I knew.

Every now and again, I need to glimpse the edge. Life seems to be like that. I fell in love last year and this little warning bell went off and I thought to myself 'oh yah, I remember that feeling'. More warning bells went off, but I ignored them. There's nothing wrong with falling in love, but the bells were going off, why didn't I heed them? I needed to see the edge again. It's so foolish. If anyone were to tell me what I'm writing now, I would judge them instantly and guffaw at their 'predicament'. 'You fool' I would say. 'Can't you see what you're doing to yourself?' Why should anyone respect my counsel, if I don't?

There's always an excuse to see the edge again. There's always a reason to destroy. There's always a rationalisation for our behaviour that can be argued, but it's just bunk. Why shouldn't I take this opportunity? Why shouldn't I take this moment? Why shouldn't I treat myself to some taboo? Am I so afraid to know what's wrong. Why shouldn't I believe in some hopeless cause? Like loving the wrong person? How many times do we have to ask ourselves this question?

I'm at a crossroads. I always come back here. It gives me a sense of choice, but in truth, I have chosen to be undecided.