between my toes

like a lazy Cigarette.

2012-02-06T08:15:00.000-08:00

Words hung from my lower lip,
Like a lazy cigarette,
And I breathed out smoke
Because we wanted to watch it spiral
Above our heads.

We wanted to watch it dance,
Like a seductive ballerina
Made of Winter breath.

We wanted to dance alongside her,
Desperate and hurting as we were
We wanted to follow her
Until we ourselves knew
The music only she could hear.

This is why I breathed smoke-
To hear the ballerina’s song.

You asked me to hear it.

You asked me
To slowly exhale into your mouth,
So you could taste
the way smoke smelled.
So you could swallow any secrets I might know
Or hold
So you could hear any imaginary music
That a Winter breath
Might catch.

You asked me to exhale,
Into you
So you could breathe me deeper than before,
So that your lungs, could become mine
As smoke floated,
Like an Unholy Ghost
From one pursed lip, to the other
Like a poison
But with purpose.

I watched.
I watched it pulsate through you, like a thick, heavy
dark poison
I felt as it coursed madly through your already aching veins

In mere moments, your eyes began to see
The ugliness my body hid
beneath thin layers of skin

And now, as the smoke escapes my mouth
The very rhythm of my pulse
Becomes almost too painful to hear.

You scream out,
Because I am made empty
And You have become full
You scream out,
Because you cannot bare
To see, or feel
The creeping burn
Of my smoke any longer.

You ask me to leave,

because the balerina has stopped dancing

and the only music left to hear

is too dreadful to remise.

You ask me to leave
Because I have made your insides
Filthy.

And I have,
So I Do.

Of Insignificance among other Things: Part I

2012-01-22T13:56:00.000-08:00

When I'm on airplanes, I don't believe in God.

It's not an intentional disbelief, but rather something gradual- a creeping state

I merely find myself in.

God is in the airport,

and then I leave.

Leave.

I leave in the sky and

that's when

he stops existing...

when he has never existed at all.

And in those moments,

the moments

that make my airplane ride a journey

I feel

I become

I am

insignificant

and small.

Land is small.

Home, buildings, places, spaces pass

things

we build and hide in,

work and run from

they become smaller.

Everything is

smaller.

In planes I feel

meaningless

until we land

until foot meets land

until

God meets foot

I am

meaningless.

September 15th 2009

2011-09-15T06:52:00.000-07:00

Vomit sat stubbornly in my throat---a sit in--refusing to reconcile, I sat, hugging my knees in a tiny phone booth, in the Union Station. Hiding away in the only small public space I could find. We said goodbye. Still the puke refused to leave-- but I did. and it hurt.

When I grow up...

2011-07-05T08:21:00.000-07:00

When I was little Shannon, I had a very very detailed vision of what Grown-Up Shannon would be and look like ( In fact, I held onto this vision from pre-school 'till highschool...maybe even later). In this vision I would, undoubtedly, be a highschool teacher. (All part of the plan, until last Fall). Notably, according to my early-aged goal-orientated -life-plan, I would officially be a grown-up upon graduating teacher's college at age 21, where merely weeks after graduating I would score a full-time position teaching Creative Writing to disgruntled and justifiably angsty inner-city (and culturally diverse) kids. I'd make my students call me the French word for "Miss", because i thought "Mrs." was too formal, and I liked that "Mademoiselle" reminded me of motzerella, and as a kid, I was really into my cheese. Twenty-One= real grownup. Everything would come into fruition then. And I'd have come into the peak of my physical maturity- the image I maintained of grown up shannon partly stemmed from a drawing I did of myself in second grade entitled "when i grow up". I'd be tall. No shorter than 5"7. (I decided I'd take after my Dad). I'd have satisfyingly ENORMOUS breasts. No less than a D or E or...F cup. (This buxom prediction was based on the fact that said picture, was the first time i ever drew boobs, and so they turned out massively disproportionate but the image always stuck with me. and i liked the face my 7-year old crush made when he saw it). I would have long silky calves that would be accentuated perfectly by the high-heels i would wear EVERYWHERE to EVERYTHING. and my long straight brown hair would, upon adult-hood, transition to dark-black. Why? Because when i grew-up, I would become a real Italian. (This was during my "im-going-do-deny-i-am-metis-phase"). I'd wear tight pencil skirts everyday with a tucked in cream cloloured blouse (that i'd secretly untuck and peek down when in the washroom, to admire the final state of my lovely lady lumps). I'd drive a bright-red car; a fire-bird. and wear red-lipstick to match. I'd be married, to a man with brown hair- who'd wear sweater vests to all our dates. I never saw his face. Only his hands. All of this would have happened, had i played my cards right, close to three-years ago now.
My vision was to take a sabbatical from teaching, at 23. ('cause after nearly TWO loong years of teaching you'd need it) and sell all my possessions. (As a kid, I invisioned this to be the moment that I parted with all my toys officially). After free-ing myself of all earthly goods, the plan was to leave my husband for a year, or so, and travel to Ethiopia to wet-nurse sad orphan babies while teaching them about the good lord. I would have went all the way to become a nun at this point, but i was a fairly sex-obsessed child, and couldn't quite commit to a life of Chasity. (I would have amaaazzzing enormous D or even E cup boobs, that would be totally wasted under a nun's habit). Anyway, after winning all Ethiopians over to Christ, I'd spend the rest of my life as an old lady (30's) in Calcutta- shoe-ing away flies from children's faces and sharing food. Eventually I'd return home to my husband, maybe have a few kids myself, live in the country, have a purple door, drink red wine with every meal and teach my son to be gay, but that was so so sooooo far in the future, I barely thought about it beyond those minor details.
It's kind of funny that I am at an age now, I am "Future Shannon"- the grown-up. Apart from marrying a brown-headed husband, (who, unfortunately, refuses to wear sweater-vests to all our dates) nothing else has really come true. My dream of teaching fell down the drain when teacher colleges/schools became flooded with students and sustainable jobs were less and less. I fell in love with feminism. social theory. and 1960's-lesbians- switched my three-year English undergrad degree, to five-years of gender-studies. Spent my first year as an 'adult', semi-un/underemployed. My boobs are a B cup. My calves, short and thick and sometimes I don't shave. I'm not Italian. The word "mademoiselle" still makes me happy, but somewhat guilty, as a struggling vegan. I don't know how to walk in heels- and got married barefoot. I'm too poor to fix my free bicycle, let alone own and drive a red-firebird. (My G1 licensee also expired, about 2 years ago...). I wear red-lipstick, from time to time, but only to be ironic, and pretend i have lip-botox. My height took after my mom, not my dad, and I can't pull off pencil skirts. (however, i do still secretly look down my own shirt sometimes just to remember whats down there and giggle). I didn't spend this last year in Africa or India, nor have I mastered wet-nursing. I still think nuns rock and the likelihood of becoming one is still rare. And Sometimes I still dream about having a house one day with a purple door, drinking red wine with every meal, and maybe, just maybe, raising an ultra-feminine son. It's interesting thinking of the woman, your childhood-self created of and for you. It's weird when you realize, to former-shannon, you are future-shannon- a grown-up now.
I'm glad I'm happy; even though my path deterred away from that second-grade drawing- I think childhood self would like Andrew, my community, the fun I have, the places and people I love, the things I've done and the ideas I built myself around. I think in her own little way, She'd approve. bra-size and all.

Places I have Bontched

2011-06-23T07:41:00.000-07:00

To Bontch: The Act of *puking, *barfing *throwing-up *blowing-chunks *vomiting * *upchucking

1) Spaghetti in Dad's Garden
2) Projectile vomit, on the walls, in a fancy historical building in Venezuela
3) Directly outside the doors of A&P (teen-boy standing near by turned to his friend and yelled, "Hells Yea" when he saw the force & quantity of my jerk-sauce bontch)
4) Pineapples, outside of the "Purple Door", at a NewAge Store on Barrie Street. (I wilted their front shrubs)
5) Todd's Espresso, in Todd's toilette
6) On a poster of Usher (i was laughing so hard i puked)
7) Almond milk, through my nose, on the floor of the Men's Washroom at Tim Hortons
8) At Miguels house (5 to 6 times)
9) On someone elses' sleeping-bag
10) Outside of Brendan's bedroom door (twice maybe)
11) Lime Green Matcha Latte, at work.

12) the court-house parking lot (three times)

13) in the corridor of the Sociology Department
14) in a stranger's blue box

my dear hafez

2011-05-18T17:07:00.000-07:00

I saw you today, for the first time since. Like old lovers,our eyes met; briefly we breathe the same silence,but you look away, faster than i can.

and I stand frozen on a sidewalk in the rain,as you ride bicycle down broken street.

In this moment, you try not to notice, me, or the pain i own,

street-lights guide you past.
In this moment, i try not to memorize, The ink on your arms; the colours, i saw in you.

but the waves on your elbow,once beautiful, now harsh; hide the secrets, you swore to protect...

they remind me, of my loss,of your sea.

i am somewhere, a spec, a memory, a hideous ache you yearn to forget.

pieces of me, float through you; yet i am here

grocery bag in hand, toes on concrete,
wishing you'd nodded, or waved, or at the very least screamed: 'fuck you'.

A Day of Curious Interaction

2011-05-04T11:09:00.001-07:00

8:30 am: 30-something Taxi-Driver

The discomfort of his own silence, leads him to hum at a consistent and barely audible volume. He makes soft snapping sounds with his tongue, to replace the words he can't be bothered to say. I catch his nervous gaze as he checks his blind spot, and look away, to avoid the accidental intimacy of eye contact.

9am-noon: Pam, the Athletic Girl's Grandma

Her laughter reminds me of someone I once loved, so I keep talking, just to hear it more. She asks questions, I answer, Jasmine Tea in hand, wondering if her granddaughter, the Athlete, knows how lucky she is. We share stories, as I watch the world breeze by through her train window. I tell her it was a pleasure, and I mean it. She says, "it was lovely to meet you", and I feel it.

12:15pm: Norman the Grey-Haired Go-Bus Driver
He likes my suitcase and asks if it's a vintage collectors. I giggle with flattery and tell him I just like ugly things from Value Village. He says, that's fair. I push my luggage into the lower compartment with my foot, trying to avoid my dress from flying up in the wind. He waits, and I hope he doesn't see my underwear. I hand him my ticket, and he nods me in. Goodbye Norman.

12:16- 2pm: Dress-Pant Man with No Beard

He offers to hold my carrot-sprout juice from the Union Station, as I cram my over sized purple carry-on into the tiny compartment above us. He smiles, and I secretly wince. Happy with his kind gesture of juice-holding, I sit beside, rather than behind him. but weary of his naked beardless face and stagnate coffee breath, I keep my left leg closer to the aisle, than to him. We quietly exchange polite, yet awkward smiles, and I pretend to sleep for 20 minutes, trying to avoid the smell of his words. He tells me the weather is looking up, and I agree. He tells me he caught the 6:30 train to Aurora, and I sympathize with his exhaustion, plucking sneakily with my fingers at my roasted red peppers. He looks out his window, though I swear he's watching me through it's reflection in the corner of his eye....so i continue to eat my lunch with extra swift and stealth. He shakes my hand before his stop, and leaves. Dress pants and bad cologne.

2:20-4pm: Gabriel, the Nigerian Pharmacist from Newfoundland

Giggling, he enters the Go-bus, relieved by the fluke of having caught it, despite his watch being 1 hour behind. He shows me his wrist when he sits next to me. Our legs sort of touch, but I don't mind. After exchanging pleasantries, he gives me 2 and a half hours of career advice, as I nod and smile when appropriate. His accent is endearing, so I don't bother interrupting him, to explain why I don't want to work for the government or join the Navy. I like the mystery of my own silence. He tells me he met his wife on a bus, when he was in college. I notice his stubby fingers remind me of my eight grade math teacher's. I tell him I'm married too, mostly for the secret delight I get from referring to Andrew as "my husband", when speaking to strangers. He waves at me from outside, after we drop him off. I can tell he's giggling again, even as we pull away. Gabriel, the pharmacist who wishes he still lived in BC, will now visit his cousins for the weekend. In Barrie.

2011-04-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

I cry everytime she calls me "Baby Girl", because I'm terrified it will be the last...

coffee

2011-03-22T08:17:00.000-07:00

I use to keep my Barbie clothes in my Dad's old Folgers can. Whenever I breathe in the smell of coffee, I still envision miniature plastic pink high-heels, matching floral print dresses and teeny-tiny little fluorescent coloured bathing suits.

Millie, my elderly next door neighbour, once had a tiny yellow porcelain toilette figurine resting on the back of her own human sized toilette.

When I was 5, I fell in love with this mini toilette and for months after would visit just to sit in her bathroom and admire it.

Sometimes I'd bring my Barbies over, just so they could pee too.

Millie took pity and sympathy on my Barbie's poor bladders-- as they'd sometimes have to hold their pee in for days at a time- between our visits. Deep down, she didn't want my Barbie house to be filled with the daunting stench of Barbie and Ken urine, so she graciously awarded me her miniature yellow porcelain toilette, for being her favorite neighbour.

I was so thrilled that sometimes most of my play time consisted of Barbies taking turns going poop.

And that's what the smell of Coffee reminds me off...

Barbie turds.

pr i de

2011-03-21T13:09:00.000-07:00

pieces

2011-03-15T06:02:00.000-07:00

When she fell for the first time,

Gravel mixed with blood.

With tweezers,

your hands, were the only

patient and gentle enough to pluck every pebble

from torn flesh.

She healed, for the first time

because of you.

But she falls. Again. And again. because of you.

and each time body hits earth,

skin opens, to reveal.

Her falls, turn flesh

into ground, to stumble.

and you become,

the gravel, wedged deep beneath

broken skin.

Tiny flecks of grey,

enter through crimson,

and hide below the layers of translucent white.

Sometimes she swears she can see you,

long after wounds have grown over,

she still feels you, she still knows

you are there.

Foreign material, in the pores of a beating, hurting soul.

Gravel in elbow. in knee cap. in chin. in heart.

Gravel too tiny, too numerous, too hidden

for any human hand to remove.

P i e c e s of you, crawl through her.

they creep into the sacred parts,

into the painful spaces,

no band-aid can guard.

Pieces of gravel,

find one another, deep, deep, deep, in

and claw at her aching chest, to get out.

But it is her skin, that has grown over you,

enfolded you, imprisoned you.

Yet she is the one,

who feels trapped,

by the healing

of her secret hurts.

And every night she wonders,

how much longer you'll live,

wedged under the skin

you once tried to mend.

.breznichar of bohemia.

2011-03-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

"I feel her in unexpected moments, her Assumption into heaven happening in places inside me. She will suddenly rise, and when she does, she does not go up, up into the sky, but further and further inside me. August says she goes into the holes life has gouged out of us"

- Sue-Monk-Kidd

without and before him

2011-02-23T07:55:00.000-08:00

She tells her story, and he listens

though he's heard it a million times over,

his eyes & his smile tells you it's his first.

She tells her story, the one of the life she had before him,

yet he becomes her memories,

her memories become his.

There is no story, without or before him.

Sixty-five years later, they sit

tea cup in hand, talking about their lives

in first-person narrative

and in these quiet moments,

during an after-dinner tea,

I watch them,

the love thick in the space,

they share as their own,

I hear them,

the words one feels,

and the other speaks...

and I realize that this, this

is what marriage is-

A shared story; two narratives folded into one

so intimately bound,

it is impossible for even the authors to determine where one ends

and the other begins

And I lay here, now in the crest of night,

your arms fold around me, your hand tucked in mine

and the rise and fall of my own thoughts,

begin to match the rhythms of your sleeping breath

In this silence I listen to our own story,

Six, not Sixty years long,

but already it tells of the messiness of heart-break and tragedy,

the strange beauties of redemption and struggle,

the grief and celebration of a love, not always whole,

but always beating towards life.

And in this silence, in our short story

I understand for the first time, the overwhelming beauty and awe of

forever.

And this hand, this sleeping hand in mine,

is no longer just my best friend's,

but my husband's.

And I realize, at this moment, more strongly than ever before,

that I will hold this hand, until it is old, until it is wrinkly

until it too, someday holds a cup of tea,

in a warm soft room, after dinner

and tells our story to those who came after.

You'll tell this story,

and I will listen, though I've heard it a million times before,

my smile and my eyes, will tell you it's my first.

.......

..... I look forward to the day,

that you become my memories,

and I become yours.

colours

2011-02-16T22:26:00.000-08:00

you were that child

beneath and between

flickering screen.

You cried, while they watched

the pain, the colours

penetrate between the spaces

you knew were yours.

Colours. You hated.

Colours. You see. In him. In me.

Tainted and throbbing, like the space left in between.

You were that child,

plucking shards from your knee

from the glass we once shared

from the glass he broke

we bled, we bleed.

together

but it's him I hold,

him, with fists full.

Him, who watched, who delighted

in the unspeakable colours

as they escaped you, like a death spirit

you breathed in black and white

to escape without the hurt

In you my own heart breaks,

in you my own colours

press too deep.

Without you, I am myself,

that child,

beneath and beyond

that flickering screen.

lies my mom told me

2011-02-10T08:31:00.000-08:00

that Charles (Michael Landon), the Dad off of "Little House on the Prairie", died from a drug overdose.
that hamsters have no teeth

that six year olds who let their mommys curl their bangs are COOL

that Markie Mark from the New Kids on the Block, leaped from roof-top to roof-top, lighting them on fire

that intense fist pumping is expected at ALL concerts

that button-fly jeans never go out of style

When a Feeler, forgets to take the Pill

2011-02-01T10:21:00.000-08:00

I'm a natural feeler and I forgot to take "the pill" for 3 days. (which terribly and exponentially intensifies my crazy feelings) This is what happened: I cried a lot over weird things.

I cried Sad tears:

-when i was trying to explain to andrew that if he ate after 10pm, his organs wouldn't be able to rest and rejuvenate themselves properly (i felt sad for them) -when i listened to "Puff the Magic Dragon". (the lyrics "one grey night it happened, jackie paper, came no more, and Puff that magic dragon, ceased his fearless roar", gets me every time)

- in the line-up at the bank

- when i couldn't get the smell of buckwheat out of my kitchen

- while reading a book about pigs

- when the application process for college only took me 10 minutes (instead of a week like Grad school did)

- when andrew questioned my vegan soy butter

- when someone i love told me they were thinking about moving to the Suburbs

- because i couldn't pay rent with the Harvey's gift-cards i got for Christmas

- when i saw the words "shannon cardiff" printed on a schedule

- because my armpit hair was less impressive then man-husbands

- when andrew threatened to eat a can of chick-peas, I'd been saving to make hummus (there was a few f-bombs on my part...)

Happy Tears:

- on the side-walk, after receiving my first pay cheque
- while reading a book about the Digestive System (it's just so, so magical)
- while watching Joe Cocker perform at Woodstock, on a library-rented documentary
- while looking at babycats on kijiji
- during Oprah (i cry whenever she does...its CRAZY)
- when the dog on Martha Speaks, lost her ability to speak, but then gained it back again
- while trying to describe my favorite tea

forbidden love

2011-01-15T20:08:00.000-08:00

My Barbies fornicated with ninja turtle action figures... all the time.

(poor,poor Ken)

happy cervix

2011-01-12T06:20:00.001-08:00

I drank a Pabst Beer, after my first Pap Smear, to commemorate.

The English minor in me, thought the phonetics of it was funny.

step

2011-01-08T09:07:00.000-08:00

Being "grown-up", sometimes feels a lot like being a dancing bear.

teacup

2011-01-05T07:50:00.000-08:00

tiny white tea cups. in a kitchen that is not my own. matching saucers and a clock. ten minutes left. in this room, space, company i can not let myself forget. you are there. with every second dying, there is a silence left for mourning. he will come. i will go. and again you will be further than time. but here, now, we sit. staring at white. eight minutes. nine years surface. flow in and through the time on the wall. the story of us is six minutes long. sip. tea, not words. our mouths fill, and we swallow. pain. words unspoken spiral down throats, and into tummys where they lived before dawn. four minutes. i consider hiding under your table. but dont. i rarely do what i consider. instead i quietly caress the warmth of my cup. you look through the blinded window. we pretend. we pretend we're more powerful than the three minutes that threaten to steal us. i sip. you sip. the rest of the world doesn't exist. not now. only you. only this kitchen. this tiny white cup. this panic. this time i crave to stop. Two minutes and I stare at my naked wrist, thankful i have no watch. time torments and your eyes look sad. i memorize them anyway. i wonder if my own give it away. so i look deep into my teacup. nothing tricks you. and even in the silence you hear me perfectly. because we share air. that no one else can breathe. One minute left- there is only breath. but even that, feels painful. Every second taunts. I drink, even though my cup is empty. At ten seconds the world unthaws--begins to feel real again. it's time. 1 second left, we hug goodbye. Every single organ in my body feels like its been broken into a zillion little pieces but i smile anyway, to tell you it'll be ok.

2010-12-18T06:27:00.001-08:00

...Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and just lay there, in bed smiling, because I'm so EXCITED to go to work.

2010-12-15T20:08:00.000-08:00

Organic Lapsang Souchong Star. smells like dirty bbq rack. lovers of single-malt whisky and fine cigars, appreciate heavy aroma of pine wood fire. a man's tea. thats why i drink it. puts hair in your pits. swallow and throat feels thick with smoke. like deep inhale of tobacco leafs. fermented. rolled. ready for lips, for lungs. in. out. tuff as is sensual. testosterone, meat. Black. Fiery. Yang.
Quangzhou Milk oolong. velvety. smooth. like kissing butter. clouds. and ground flour. creamy orchid. safe yet sensual. e x p a n d i n g and contracting like breath to body. leaves unfold. e xp an d. expand. weaving in and through the boil. Full mouth-feel. Bursting Wuyi mountains. softly it came. moon fell in love with comet.comet passed by . as comets do. moon cried milky tears--chilling tea fields, withering leaves- a gentle creaminess left behind. Another tragic love story later- leaves expand. envelope. grow. space, cup, body. nourishing friend, delicate lover.

Fill me.

.war.god.

2010-12-11T14:52:00.000-08:00

I'm a dreamer. Always have been. My dreams are consistently intense, detailed and emotionally charged. I forget very few. I think of them often. I sleep for them always.
I dream in colours, in feelings, in stories, but never before have I dreampt namely in concepts. This happened Thursday night. I woke up with information swirling through me, that was not my own. Concepts were laid out, as if wired to me. Perhaps it was a prophecy of caution, or perhaps it was just another of my subconscious' paranoid conspiracy plots. It was weird. and chilling, nonetheless.
I dreampt it was the future. I had grey hair. So perhaps 30 or so years from now?
The unadulterated roots of organic Christianity, was a threat to the state-- values of non-violence, simplicity, love, and selflessness, conflicted with the government's lust for war, consumerism, exploitation and greed. In a quest to build the wealthiest/advanced nation, Canada and the UnitedStates were in competition with one another, to expand their "Empires". Wars were ramped. Countries upon countries were once again under imperial rule, as Canada actively conquered previously independent lands- the colonialism of the 21st Century. Bodies raped. Earths stolen. Cities and villages across the world were exploited in order to financially honour and benefit the Home Empire-Canada. No land remained untouched. Resistance, conquer, bloodshed.
The government needed and depended on war and violence to sustain its own power. So militarism became the new nationalism--the new religion. To be patriotic and essentially non-american, to love God, to love your home, was to fight for it. (sound familiar?). Except this time, it was required to live.
Because it was the age of technology, books were more and more rare. Everything was digitalized, which meant original texts were more easily manipulated. Bibles in book form had stop publishing decades ago, and the State disposed of what was left. Instead, the "real", the "accurate" Bible was digitalized, just like any other book, and in doing so, the State ,in fear of having its people rebel, removed all the passages that spoke of love. If people followed love, war would not be possible. Love was striped from the Bible. and along with it Jesus and his teachings of non-violence and social justice. This Jesus, and these teachings were replaced with a war-mongering God filled with vengeance and Old Testament rage. This God invested himself in nations.
Because it was too risky to abolish religion all together, the state simply altered it, to further their political vision. They knew even people who didn't follow it regularly, would be offended by its removal. So, people of the future continued declaring themselves "religious" and "christians"-- and eventually all forgot what love was ever really about.
Soon Soldiers became the new Saviour. --The symbol to all, of the ultimate sacrifice. To know a soldier who was martyred for the empire, was to have access int heaven. Soon every man, woman and child, were and became soldiers in this fight. War was church. Guns worship. Death victory. and because of this Canada got richer. Got bigger. Got better. Perhaps Nitzche was right to call religion the opiate of the masses.

So, all of this context, was just in my head, before i even experienced the dream itself. It was really bizzare. The dream portion itself was a flashback. It was as if I was myself an elderly woman, recalling the sad state of the State, as fragments of violent memories flashed through me. The memory I saw was of myself, a bit younger, running through the darkened tank filled streets, to find sanction at next. Churches all around had been turned into military training camps. and Next too became a sacred place for training. I entered its doors, and on the walls where art of joy and celebration once hung, were banners draped. Banners with pro-war slogans; "God Bless the Fight", "One Empire; One God" . The room was empty, and I began ripping down these massive massive banners, throwing them to the floor and tearing them to shreds. All the while, screaming, and cursing and crying. Then five men came into the room-- decked in the military garb of the time period --- solid black. just like riot-cops. They pulled me away, elbowing me in the stomach as I stood. I fell to the floor again, and another one grabbed a fist full of my hair, and threw me against the wall. I kept screaming all the while, "Love your enemy". I kept screaming verses, that had since been deleted, that supported peace and called for active and selfless love. It was like I was diseased, the verses kept spewing out of me like froth at the mouth. They deemed me a crazy woman. Many were young, and had themselves never seen or knew the original document i quoted from. The State had killed off the "radicals", the Christians who refused to be coopted. the Christians who knew and lived for a Kingdom of the spirit, not the man. (Fellow nexters had all been murdered, years ago, for refusing to cooperate).
As i hovered against the wall screaming out in rage, Andrew entered the room and the men immediately threw him to the ground, each taking turns to kicking him in the gut. They kept demanding he stand up for himself, to show his power, to wzcersise the defense he had been taught, but instead he remained gentle and non-violent. Blood seept from his body, as more and more soldiers, cops, and government leaders encircled him, each taking turns beating him merciously. He represented all they hated. His refusal to forget jesus, was the threat to the nation. Instead of scream or retaliate, Andrew just simply told them, "My belief in Love, is stronger than all the violence you use, to beat it out of me".
And that was that.
The beating continued. And I ran around the outside of the circle, half naked, body bloddied, screaming, words I can't understand now, arms wailing, eyes popping.

He died that night. In that circle.
He died.

and I woke.

hello

2010-12-09T10:49:00.001-08:00

The first time we met was at a bus station.

I had just come home after a long day of snowboarding. Your sister skied.

The man at the station referred to you as "our dad" because your face was hairy, and I was only 15.

"Your Dad is here to pick you up" the man said, pointing at you, in your mom's plum coloured mini-van.

I was cold and sleepy, so I crawled in the back seat without much of an introduction.

You were her big brother. Her old old old slightly dorky big brother, who quoted Lord of the Rings, and memorized the Bible.

Her old old old big brother, who wore the same oddly shaped navy blue sweater, with a terrible orange stripe across the chest.....everyday.

You were this. and I was a 10th grade, wanna-be-punk, with a hot-pink cat collar around my neck and metal studded goggles.

I sat, indifferently, in the backseat and you drove- making small talk like a Dad might, and every now and then I could see you smile awkwardly at me through the review mirror.

You dropt me off at home-- I forgot to close the van door behind me. You laughed a little. Awkwardly. I wandered inside, unfazed, and without much of a goodbye.

This was our beginning. The unromantic and anti-climatic hello that pre-empted 9 years of intimate friendship, six years of love, and 3 months of marriage.

2010-12-01T22:04:00.000-08:00

Forest Child :

2010-11-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

I grew up in the forest.
Far far away.

Like most children of the forest, I had the ability to talk to trees. and small woodland creatures. Like others, I could sense time without a clock and would never tire of playing in the woods. But unlike the children who grew up in my forest, I, as a forest child, possessed the unusual ability to talk to a mysterious and strange God. A God, that for many years, was created and re-created, as childhood shifted and transformed. A shape-shifter. A voice. A spirit. I knew it and felt it. And sometimes the memory of that connection, is the only thing that continues to connect me to it now.

I grew up among pagans and tired ex-catholics. (that's why im still 10% pagan, and 10% Catholic).
I grew up in a forest that had no church. We had a building--a tinylittle wee building, that once was alive with song and word, but had closed it's doors, like most things did, by the time I was three. It lived there, among the trees, dying. Its wood rotted. Its windows boarded. It, like the tiny boarded up one room train-"station", lumber mill, fire-hall, and eventually even school, became abandoned. My home, has now become a ghost-town.
So, as a forest child, the concept of "church" was quite foreign to me. Until puberty struck , I was fairly certain that churches only existed in America- in Big Cities and on Tv. It was a concept, almost as mythical to me as a mail man, or street-lights.
I grew up in a two-room school that had 30 kids, total, on a good year. I had a fairly unconventional education, to say the least. I also had a teacher who loved this guy named God. She spoke of him often and I was intrigued, so from very early on, I stayed after-class, on Tuesdays for Searchmont's equivalent of "bible club". This became my only "formal" introduction to this thing called Christianity. I latched on. Fiercely. While most forest children stayed primarily for the greasy chips on a napkin /purple Cool-Aid, and to watch the fat on our teacher's arm jiggle, as she did the actions for "Whose the King of the Jungle", I stayed because of mysticism. (though the chips and the arm fat, were defiantly a motivation as well).
I took the basic teachings of the Bible, and invented my own pseudo-religion (or denomination, to be fair). One with no authority. One based on feelings, rather than logic. One that saw God not as an elderly white man sitting in heaven, but rather one that understood God as love spirit. That floated and spiraled within and around all of life. Without a church, everything became church. Land, not buildings, became sacred spaces. The forest became infused with this love spirit. Prayer became a language, learned but not taught. It grew fluid, not because it was a rule or a compulsory, but because it grew out of desire. A desire to connect with this love spirit, I could feel inside of my tummy. I could sense in others. I could see in the earth around me. I wrote songs for it. I spent a good six years or more of my life,quietly singing myself to sleep every night. In those quiet moments, I felt like my entire body was in the presence of this thing called God. This thing that held me. That knew me. That loved me.
My "faith" was mine, though I was admiate about sharing it. The main recipients of my then evangelism, were my snails. I taught them all I knew. I decided, when I was seven, that this thing called heaven wouldn't be worth living in forever, if it didn't have snails. So, I baptized, ALL 200 or so, of my pet snails. A drop of "Holy" puddle water on each of their tiny little snail heads, and a prayer of love for each of them. It took about a day. But I was at ease from then on. I even had a mini silver statue of Mother Mary, for the snails to slime over, once they were "saved". (In case you were unaware, The Virgin Mary cries tears of joy, when mollusks accept her son into their hearts)
Because my parents were, at that time, "born-into-it, but don't-practice-it" Catholics, they felt it necessary that their daughter experience the catholic rituals of "First Communion" and Hail Mary chants . so, they drove me an hour into the "Big City", where I wore an over-the-top frilly white dress with matching white lace gloves, held a rosary, regurgitated some Catholic propaganda, and had my very first Holy bread wafer.
At this point, I did not know the world had Protestants and Catholics. But I rebelled anyway. From what I understood, the Jesus meal should be offered to anyone who feels/honours the love spirit. It shouldn't be limited to city boys/girls who dress up in fancy white, and call their priest Father. I declared myself officially NOT-catholic before I even hit third grade- and reverted back to my initial DIY ways.
Though I proclaimed Catholicism to be hypocritical and spiritually uncouth, at an early age, it's influence still informed my own practices/interests in weird ways. For a while, I really dug mini statues of saints. My teddy bear still wore a little rosary, and I still had a thing for holy water. But most importantly I was infatuated with nuns. When I wasn't pretending to be a teacher, or day-dreaming about being a sex-therapist, I was quite insistent on becoming a nun. In fact, the very first thing I EVER googled, once the Internet was invented, and in my home, was "nuns". I had a major crush on them, though the whole celibacy thing through me for a loop, since I was an unusually sex-obsessed/aware kid. (but that deserves its own blog-entry). Looking back now, nuns were the first "Christians", I ever read about, that seemed to be doing this whole God-thing right. Unlike most of the people around me, they were actually doing what Jesus said. They were radical. After Mother Theresa died, I use to ask God to pass along messages to her, when I prayed.
I use to have this reckless trust in God and in Love. I use to cry when I prayed because the feelings of their presence were so intense. I use to believe that the world wasn't broken yet-that with a little love, anyone could change. I use to have the unusual ability to talk to a strange and mysterious God. When I was a forest child.

Looking back now, I realize my version of spirituality hasn't changed all that much. and I'm sort of glad. I've gone through periods of denial and shame. I struggle often with burdensome amounts of doubt and skepticism. I go through intense droughts of anger and recluse. But at the end of the day, it's the memories/life of my childhood connection to the love spirit, that often pulls of through. It's that level of intimacy I yearn with all my heart to be able to experience and allow in myself again.
It hasn't been until recently, that I've realized my story/history with "God" is a bit off-beat/unusual. Unlike my "protestant" peers, I didn't grow up with little old church ladies, choirs, hymnals, sermons, camps, bible verse finding contests, organs and church etiquette. I'm unfamiliar with traditional "chuchie" language, rhetoric, songs and "worship". A lot of things my partner takes for granted having been born and raised in the church, feels really unnatural and at times even offensive to me. Somtimes it causes tension, because our stories so greatly inform how we experience and know God.
Im realizing now that growing up in the forest, and being unchurched has its definite pros and cons. I'm lucky I was able to avoid being burned by the church. I never felt forced or guilt-ed into connection. I don't feel overly brainwashed. Creativity was a big part of my understanding of the Spirit and Creator. I wasn't jaded/broken by other Christians. I held onto my innocent naive hope longer. I owned my beliefs and remain a fairly free/independent thinker. But on the other hand, I developed a really unbalanced attitude towards Christianity. I find it really hard to appreciate and respect the church. I have A LOT of issues with authority. I lack logic, and base most actions/beliefs on "feelings". Christian-eese makes me panic. If I start to talk like a Christian and use words like "Jesus Christ", "Salvation", "evangelize", "missioning", "The Second-Coming", "The Good Lord" and "secular" etc. etc. I get desperately ill inside and want to vomit. I have a reallly reallly tense relationship with my Bible. I harbour a lot of resentment towards other Christians. Corporate prayer still creeps me out. and I'm quite stubborn and critical.
It's a difficult process transforming a very private/individualistic faith into one that embraces and is subject to community. I'm glad that shift is happening, and that I've found Next, as a home to explore and experience these changes. I'm really thankful that's its become a "thin space" where I can be honest about my story- where i can struggle openly yet still experience love. A space where people, not walls, define church. Where I can slowly reclaim and re-learn this whole church thing, without sacrificing who I am. Where to be a "Christian" and to follow the teachings of Jesus is radical. Is subersive. is counter-cultural and revolutionary. Next for me, is a sacred place where God is once again mysterious and mystical. A place where I can encounter the traces of this love spirit, and hear the voice, I once felt and knew, as a young forest child.

there's always room for creativiTEA

2010-11-10T19:51:00.000-08:00

My old bedroom has successfully transformed itself into a creativiTEA room-- a sacred space for art to be dreamt, felt and born. A sanctuary of sorts, for herbs to grow, for tools to hang, glitter stored. A place where wood is carved, poems bled, cards imagined and loose-leaf drunk.

And today I sat hunched over our new, yet old, vintage wooden desk, sunlight pouring through the shutters; nibbling on grilled eggplant drizzled with balsamic vinegar, and sipping away at a perfect Chai, with the perfect amount of maple syrope in it, Louis Armstrong's perfect voice dancing softly through my air, 2 bottles of brown glitter in hand, and desktop full of cardstock.

Suddenly all was right in the world again.

2010-11-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

Like Life you flow through me/and yet/my own veins and body remain oblivious to your powers.

Heart beats/and you listen/ because you are there. In me. There.

Heart aches/ and you listen/ because your job/ was to mend/not break.

But you do break/ Though your pieces/ remain the pieces of myself/ i cling to most.

These pieces/they float in me/ and like tumors they ground to the walls of my insides.

I feel you in the pain/ I feel you grow/ cell by cell.

Until you become a fear/ too BIG to remove/ too much apart of me to decipher where my flesh begins and your pieces end.

To cut you/would be to cut me/ and that is the tragedy of this love.

You become in me, a second life/ tiny and beating/ alive yet dying

No doctors could detect you/ No surgery could dissect you

but still like a tumor, you swell in me.

And instead of despair/ my fear embraces/cuddles/nurtures and delights in you

because to the world you were a secret/ but to my body you were real.

They tell me you're diseased/ They say to live without you is to heal.

But if to heal means to live without you/ than i'll remain ill/ so not to lose you.

Because in losing you/ I would be lost/ and that's the worsedisease of all.

So you grow/because I let you/ because I am bound/ in/and/to you.

You grow as I cry out your name/ You grow until your name cries out in me.

Until each breath seems to pass through you

Until each heart beat rhythms to keep you alive.

But these are lies/ the lies I create myself/ for myself

because I fear who I'll be/ once your gone.

So you grow/ you grow until you rupture/ and i am left with the mess/ of the mound you used to be.

You are the mess that oozes through me/ painfully/ through leery veins/ past a hurting heart.

Slowly you find your way out/ blood/tears/vomit and urine.

Soon you'll be gone entirely/and I'll be here mourning the loss of the space you filled in me.

But I'll let go/ Soon I'll let go/ of the pieces of myself I swore were you.

And in this loss/courage will someday find me/ and without you I will breathe/feel/step and live

without you.

and as me.

2010-10-26T16:04:00.000-07:00

For 22-years, I made my world in her womb. There I lived. There I breathed. Sheltered and dreaming, I waited. Waited for the Life that would find me after birth. Afterbirth. A bloody, tangled mess. It pours out of you, and I follow. I flow through you, and into a space that is not my own. I follow because it is time.

It's time, but im not ready. Not ready to breath this air. So thick, it gets caught in my lungs- it steals my cries, replaces words with shallow inhales.

This is not my home.

I am not home.

But they tell me I am.

my Agenda as an Unemployed Post-Grad.

2010-10-26T11:08:00.000-07:00

out my back door.

2010-10-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

ORGASM Inc.

2010-10-20T20:55:00.000-07:00

Les and I saw ORGASM Inc. http://orgasminc.org/ tonight, on campus. It's a really great documentary about the medicalization, (and i would argue invention of) "Female Sexual Dysfunction" (FSD) and the role pharmaceutical companies play in defining and marketing "normal" female sexual pleasure. It got me really riled up. The entire film, I sat there writing about 10 different essays in my head, all at once and daydreaming about which of my potential thesis statements I preferred. It made me realize how much I friggin miss school. I miss feeling outraged after a good debate. I miss that pulse of passion that circulates my core, whenever new ideas evolve. I miss the creative energy I could pour into crafting arguments with a punch. I miss my old language-- as I was ranting to les after, words I'd forgotten about started pouring out of me--- my feminist Lexicon. Words like "hegemony" and "foucauldian repression" "commodification" and "methodologically flawed". I miss uncovering corporate conspiracies. Or at least pretending to. and having an enemy. I think I might miss that the most.

Some of my old favorite enemies to pick on were: capitalism, essentialism, sexual repression, "science", and of course, co'optation. This movie happened to touch implicitly on all 5 of my fave foes, so I'm just going to rant about it a little.

Basically the documentary traced the race for pharmaceutical companies to develop a drug to treat alleged (yet mythical) "Female Sexual Dysfunction"-- the inability for "40% (though I'd question that) of women to achieve orgasms". Film-maker Liz Canner uncovers the connection between the medical industry and marketing campaigns that effectively invent, define and capitalize off of the medicalization of female sexuality (or lack thereof).

In other words, let's tell women their "abnormal" so they spend lots of money trying to get "fixed" and be "normal" again. Let's make another billion dollars of profit off of sexist socialization that teaches young girls their "naturally" less-sexual than men, and should fear or be ashamed of their own friggin vagina, and let's milk this for all it's worth. Let's invent an illness, under the guise of "science" and pump out ridiculous "facts" that were gathered through flawed and slanted methodology, and then...let's make it accessible on public broadcasting, so women all around the world can be reminded by celebrities like Oprah, that there's something wrong with them if their not having explosive orgasms after every screw. I know, let's not stop at that. Let's reduce and simplify female sexual pleasure and desire to being merely hormonal and completely negate the complexities of context, culture and socialization. While we're at it, why not completely reconstruct limiting and exclusive concepts of "good natural healthy" desire and sexuality, in order to make even more money off of the fears and sexual anxieties of unsatisfied women everywhere! and then market it with a semi-comical commercials? Or better yet, on Dr. Oz..

What the hell!?!

I love this. First of all because it blatantly points out the role of both capitalism and "science" in socially constructing sexuality. In the Victorian era, in the West, the illness called "female HYSTERIA", was invented--- a diagnosis which thrown on women who were merely irritable or tired, or causing problems. seriously! common'. What was seen at the time as a legit medical female problem--was really a creative way for the "man"-- medicine/science-- to exert control over women, and regulate/police/fix their "way word" expressions of "femininity", in order to reinforce a very limited, passive and socially-constructed regime of woman-hood that would complacently serve and honour the patriarchal society at the time.
Remind you of anything?
Interesting that one of the treatments for this "female hysteria" was "pelvic massage"-- basically the doctors would stimulate the hysterical woman's "genitals" until she had an orgasm, or as the medical industry called it, a "hysterical paraoxysm". Interesting that a simple orgasm could allegedly help "cure" female hysteria (aka irritable woman).
MAYBE THEY WERE IRRITABLE because the only place they could reach orgasm was at the hands of a doctor, since Victorian sexual repression brainwashed women to believe that sex/self-pleasure was morally corrupt, sinful and evil.
Perhaps Female Sexual Dysfunction is the modern-day equivalent to the Victorian Hysteric Woman. Perhaps in the same way that "hysteria" was invented to regulate/control and limit women, so to is too is FSD. The pharmaceutical companies race to find the next female viagra, is a clear example of their power in producing and perpetuating new definitions of "normal". Perhaps instead of a pill to create a blood-flow to the clit, women should be told to go squat over a friggin hand mirror, and figure it out where it even is. (we're not taught to explore, know or love those part of our bodies...and i think this is seriously the leading cause of this alleged diagnosis, NOT hormones) Instead of expecting a pill to increase libido/desire, maybe they should focus on pressuring the school-system to adjust their sexual education programs, to teach females to be empowered sexual agents and give them permission to actually HAVE a damn libido. Maybe we should stop lying to our women about their "natural" sexual passivity--maybe we should stop normalizing men's sexual appetite by giving them uncritical permission to be horny sexual-beings, because of their "nature", while regulating, sensationalizing or stimitizing libidous-women. Maybe we should question the next time we see male-masturbation as a normal, healthy part of coming-of-age, and female masturbation as inappropriate or non-existent. SERIOUSLY. As far as we've come as a "sexed obsessed culture", we're still deeply entrenched in the sex-negative ideals of our history. I believe 100% that the remnants of guilt/shame produced by religion, essentialist-science, abstinence sex-education, body-image-insecurities, high rates of sexual/physical abuse (1 in 6 women) and history, are the the leading reason why "40% of women can't climax regularly", not some invented Sexual Disorder.

The real cure? A cultural shift that teaches our women to love, appreciate, know, explore and celebrate their bodies, especially their vaginas. Without guilt, shame, insecurity or fear. To live and advocate for a more expansive understanding of sexuality-- one that affirms the complexities of desire as relative, flexible and fluid. (not merely hormonal) To shift away from our societal obsession with the coital imperative and instead define and experience intimate pleasure as something that extends beyond orgasm. To love and advocate for a world that seeks to create egalitarian and consensual sexual relationships between women and their partners. (a world that does not use sex as violence/power/or punishment, through rape) For men and women and everyone in between or beyond those categories, to be seen and honoured as equally sexual-creatures.

There. That felt good. It's nice to beable to rant again.

2010-10-18T19:13:00.001-07:00

I know
it's you.

dear steven harper: it's wrong to steal.

2010-08-10T09:07:00.000-07:00

I believe that EVERY human, INCLUDING those who have been 'criminalized', deserve the chance to find healing, freedom and purpose in something beautiful. (like having the opportunity to nurture and care for plants and animals on a farm). The closing of the Prison Farms is a living symbol of the Harper government's continued exploitation of human dignity and true rehabilitation. Profit should NEVER undermine redemption; nor should it take precedence over the quality of human life. The self-worth and honour of those who have been demonized and oppressed by the prison system, should NOT be dismissed. True growth and genuine inner change will not come from the neoliberal "responsibilization" model of punishment; it comes from respect, grace and opportunities to learn and practice patience, care and gentleness. Super-Prisons are NOT the answer, nor is closing the prison farms.

shame, harper, shame.

with . and. gone

2010-07-29T16:45:00.000-07:00

Thistles

in the left side

of the curvy part

where heart

and blood meet

thistles dig

deep

dig deep

into

flesh

into skin

into raw

where you've been

circling me

with and gone

gone and within

where tongue meets

skin

and salt of

sweat

thistles in the evening

come nightfall

come sunrise

you are in all

and yet still

so far

far

away

thistles

in the left side

of the curvy part

of heart

where life

and feeling

meet

over and over

over

again.

raspberry fields forever

2010-07-08T19:36:00.000-07:00

This evening julian and i went to a lovely raspberry farm and picked amazingly delicious raspberries. We snuck ate copious amounts while in the fields. so much so that our bellies told us to stop. but we didnt listen.

there's something strangely magical about being near large fields, with an overlapping of fresh fruit and wild flowers, around dusk, on a hot summers eve. my lungs felt like wings. breathing in all that amazing rural air, they, my lungs fluttered about in the cavity of my chest.

whimsical. it was.

sleep fight

2010-07-07T06:11:00.000-07:00

Ever since we moved, I've been experiencing extra peculiar sleep/half-sleep-behaviour: sleepwalking, sleep- talking/laughing, hallucinations, and at times, unexplained sleep rage.

The following is both 1. an example of my strange sleep actions 2. the coolest fight andrew and i ever had.

******************************************************************************

10:20pm: both fall to sleep in respective rooms
11:30pm: Shannon, still sleeping, gets out of bed, pillow in hand, throws open andrew's door and screams, "ITS 11:30!".

Andrew: sleepily murmurs, "huh?"
Shannon: stands angrily in door way: "WHY!?"
Andrew: more awake but not really: "Shannon (with frustration) go away. i dont care what time it is"
Shannon: yells even louder this time in pure rage "WHY IS IT 11:3O Andrew! WHY!?"
Andrew: "yes, its it IS 11;30" (lingering sarcasm) "so what? stop asking why. i dont know why!"
Shannon: panicking cry, borderline fearful, "BUT....ANDREW WHY is it 11:30?"
Andrew: flips out and yells at shannon, grumpily.
Shannon: still pretty much asleep, throws pillow to the ground, yells "why!" one last time and slams andrew's door shut. sleep stomps away, apparently, still audibly mumbling "its 11;30..." . falls asleep. wakes up, with no pants, on top of a heaping pile of laundry, the next morning, forgetting the entire thing but wondering where her pants are...

AM:
Andrew: (a little ashamed) "hey, uh, shan, are u still mad at me about the time?"
Shan: "what?" (genuinely confused)
Andrew: proceeds to explain above.

An Environmentally Concious Alternative...

2010-07-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

four days with god

2010-06-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

Thursday
i am
with fists
clenched pounding
on your legs
like towers
they loom high
below
i lay small
by your feet
crying, punching, cursing
those legs
all i can reach.

Friday
i am with absence
on a bed
arms crossed
door closed
distance for spite
silent but you hear
your ear to the door
i left you
crying on the other side.

Saturday

Asleep

with breath

i scream

in sleep
I hate you

but you creep in

and kneel

on those knees

that were always too tall to see

you kneel by the bed

i swore you from

and with one big hand

you gently sweep one small strand

of hair from my eye

and kiss my head.

Sunday

You drink orange juice

while i pace

wondering how many oranges

it takes

to quench you.

you stand

i sit

and once more

your legs

are all i see.

.my god,my god.

found

2010-06-14T15:18:00.000-07:00

I was five

the first time they found

cancer

in her body

they found it

in a freckle

the one i use to talk to

by her belly button

they found it

and i found her

crying as she brushed her

long blond hair

crying as it fell out

clump

after clump

after clump.

screaming

alone

in her room

with a fist full

of golden locks.

strand after beautiful strand

tangled tightly around the shower drain

lying mockingly by her pillow

wound painfully amid the bristles

of a brush soon deemed enemy.

I remember chemo was the word that

made it real

as if it took baldness and vomit

to remind us all

she was dying inside.

I remember she let me touch her head

afterwards

and it felt like a kiwi

I remember not knowing

how not be to afraid.

I remember when I found him,

my dad

sobbing quietly on the bathroom floor.
I never told him

I saw

his tears then for the first

and last time.

He never found me

watching

through the creak of the door

and they never found me

hiding under their bed

as my mom would

pray and vomit

with violent sorrow

for hope to find.

hope

to find.

They found more cancer in her

yesterday

not for the first, or second or even third time

they found it

after
An 18 year struggle

after an 18 year fight

and still its the word chemo

that scares me

and still it's the thought of my mommy's own baldness

that makes me shake with fear

because its this that

visually and constantly remindes me

that the cancer is real.

and still

you do not find me

hiding.

mourning.

waiting

beneath the bed

it is me

i now find

praying and vomiting
in violent sorrow

desperate

for hope

to be found.

2010-06-09T14:47:00.000-07:00

This time coming home meant leaving it behind.

Kosher Salt. In my eye.

2010-05-26T06:16:00.000-07:00

What I liked about the past 3 days:

A Comprehensive Listing:

i like that Levon sometimes wipes his boogers on flowers. i like that his curls make my heart sigh and his eyes make me feel comfortably and wonder fully lost. i like holding his sticky Popsicle juice hands. watching his wild dance moves. i like when he has lengthy conversations with me about cats. i like when he squats and u can see the waistline of his big boy underwear. i like when he sings songs about peeing to his "wiener" as he pees, to encourage and praise the pee to come out. i like when he smiles and the world feels like it was made just for him. i like that he thinks the John A MacDonald statue in the park is really a statue of Old MacDonald. i like that he still drools on my thigh. that sometimes he seems to know more about life than i do. i like that we get to be friends.
i like that laying in a field of dandelions makes me feel powerful. i like finding little yellow and orange spiders on my arm, remind me of ordinary miracles. i like that sometimes i find myself eating a hot apple on a hilltop and feeling as if life doesn't get any better. i like that there are moments like this past weekend, that make me feel as if I'm complete.

i like when people named Al gives me surprise and delicious books that change how i see the my world. i like that when i read a good book i have spirit spasms that my whole body feels.

i like that my life has been blessed with alot of AMAZING succulent women.

i like that sometimes eating a mango naked is healing

i like that blenders are magical. i like that i can put in pineapple and kiwis and grapes. and make juice. i like that i can add rum. and make even better juice.

i like that fiddle heads are CREAMY and gorgeous. and remind me of eating shrimp. sort of.
i like that beets taste like the earth's womb. i like that they bleed purple. i like when i "accidentaly" rub beets all over my arm so that i too am purple
i like that i've been sleep walking lately. i like the places i end up.
i like my mini flower and herb garden that hangs off my fire escape
i like that i looked outside my bedroom window and saw a middle aged woman's naked buttocks. i like that she didnt feel the need to wear underwear with that kilt. i like that her partner decided to spank her on the sidewalk at midnight while making out below

i like that from my window, i am invisible and can watch creepily. i like that im a border line pervert. but not really. but sort of. i like that thats ok.

i like that i wake up in the morning next to a very large tomato plant, that my friend Julian gave me from his garden. i like that julian exists. i like his arm full of beautiful and vibrant tattoos. i like that they reflect his equally beautiful and vibrant personality and soul. I like that he notices things i dont. I like that he hates the my gaudy decorative wooden spoon. i like that he loves the earth enough to treat it right. i like that he built an natural eco-shower in his backyard. i like he has a bazillion pets. i like that when we talk, i feel heard.
i like that i can go from being in the heart of kingston, the busy bustle of downtown life, to the middle of farm land, in a matter of minutes. i like that the ferry to wolfe island is a skip away. i like that andrew and i rode our bikes around the island as the sun was setting and explored secret hidden graveyards. i like being around tombstones. alot. i love the power that oozes from the earth. i like the life. i like the promise. i like the comfort. i like that there are stories there i dont know. i like pretending if im quiet enough I'll hear them.

i like that Andrew and I made homemade pretzels last night and that they were delicious. I like that i fretted all afternoon cause the recipe required a "dutch oven" and i thought it meant i had to actually buy a brand new oven/stove. i like that andrew made me feel better. i like that he had a secret dutch oven under his bed that i didnt know about. i like that he's a better cook than me.

i like the dinner i made last night: cous cous, with garlic, lemon and cumin. on a bed of fresh spinach. with lightly grilled eggplant, fiddle heads, and red peeper, in olive oil.

i like getting unexpected cards from friends I havnt seen for far too long

i like that i now have a beer diary. i like that im going to eventually try every bizarre and unusual beer at LCBO and that andrew is going to keep a detailed record of my experience, as well as a detailed rating system.
i like when i smell something good in the air, and then realize it's my own armpits.

i like that humans can actually drink cat nip, and that its a natural anti-depressant.
i like reading about vitamins while your babies sleep.
i like the feeling i get right before I'm about to go home to the Soo-- i like that over the years, miguel has become part of the family i come home to be with.
i like my grandma and I's friendship. I like that talking to her feels like chatting playfully with a bestfriend. I like that we have weekly phone dates. i like that she knows all about my life, i know all about hers. I like our conversations. i like when she gigles. i like when she tells me cute stories about her dog moochie. i like that we've ended every phone call with "i love you", since i was a tiny little girl who just learned how to talk.
i even like that i have kosher salt in my eye.

real

2010-05-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

There is in my life two distinct worlds-
the "real" word, as they call it
logical, practical, tangible, painful
real, as real gets.
And the "dream world", as I imagine it,
creative, emotional, mystical, strange
surreal as surreal gets.

The second i find home,
the first, i am alien
thrust into
against myself
a foreign space to travel cautiously
with eyes closed, and fists clenched.

I float in, i drift out
between these worlds i find myself
but often
my dreams, are my powerful than my legs
and they carry me further into the imagined
further away from the world you know as real away from the judgment and the jadedness
away into a place where bravery isn't necessary

and doubt isn't possible.

It's hard to stay there,

cause the man keeps bringing me down

down down down

to the space

where they take me down

and steal my mind

corrupt my thoughts

with mindless hate and apathy

with money, with greed, with war

with indifference disguised as comfort

with complacency and the bullshit of "Independence"

These are the shackles

bound to my wrists

my ankles

tying me down down down

to earth

to ground

they can tie me ,

and try to domesticate

train

and strip me

but they can't pillage my dream

they can bind my ankles together

but they can't stop me from dancing

No, they can't tie my spirit down

down down down

cause my spirit -- it wanders

it tip toes fearlessly into the thin spaces

into the thin places

where the real

becomes the surreal

it tip toes into the hard realization

that perhaps one world is enough

perhaps these worlds - the real and the dream

collide.

Yes, they collide.

Maybe what the "real world" needs is a little more imagination

a little more dreamin
a little more heart

A hole,

in the earth

for the surreal to seep through

into the pores

and the veins of a very real world.

maybe dreams weren't ever meant to be something to escape into,

but rather something we use to confront what we're trying to escape from, in the first place.

maybe it's our dream worlds,

that can unshackle our wrists, so we can write boldly against bondage

maybe it's our dream worlds

that untie the rope around our ankles,

so we can walk courageously

into reality, towards freedom

on legs that know and resist

with each step

the tragedy of imprisonment.

Maybe it's dreaming,

that makes the real world

real

after all....

2010-05-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

...I often wish beets were big enough to hug

deflated

2010-05-09T10:58:00.001-07:00

2010-04-21T13:57:00.000-07:00

Is it weird that while I was showering this morning, I caught myself drawing in the steam on the shower doors, a chart that compared the pros and cons of Marxist and Existentialist feminist theories?

Nah...it's gotta to be normal.

P a t

2010-04-16T10:57:00.000-07:00

My friend Pat has schizophrenia,

though he'll tell you he's just

crazy.

My friend Pat likes orange juice

without pulp,

and carries all his belongings

on his back

in a pack sack

my mom bought me

in 10th grade.

My friend Pat

has more bruises

than teeth

more cigarette butts in his pocket

than money.

He told me the angels don't talk to him

as much as they use to

anymore

and I believed him,

that they use to.

My friend Pat sleeps under a tree,

at Skeleton Park.

Sometimes I see people step over him,

as if he's just an inconveniently placed

pile of dog shit

and I wonder sometimes,

if that's how he feels

crawled up in his sleeping bag,

waiting for the angels

to speak to him again.

He came to church once,

but left early

because he was having a bad hair day.

He came to dinner

drunk

and read us poetry,

he unfolded from his back pocket

he found it

but there weren't really any words,

he read anyway

and I believed him

I believed the words were real

because he said they were.

My friend Pat,

he'd often speak of Marie

his old lover,

he hasn't seen in years.

I wait for Marie to come home,

wherever home may be,

and though some say she

isn't real,

I pray anyway

for her to come

quickly.

to prove them wrong.

My friend Pat,

he'd come by for a red-rose tea bag,

once a day,

and then another

just to wash his hands.

He'd tell us stories,

about his childhood

and leave abruptly,

after filling us in

on the latest conspiracy theory.

He'd keep his shoes on,

cause he claimed his shoes

were cleaner than his feet were.

He'd fall asleep in our couch,

in the middle of the afternoon,

and hide his books

under our barbie-Q.

My friend Pat,

once said he loved us

and I believed him

because I felt it

even though everyone just says he's crazy.

lesbian nation.

2010-04-12T13:50:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last 2 and 1/2 days, locked in the dark isolation of my room, writing about lesbian-feminist separatism of the '60s. Eating easter chocolate and drinking two-day old tea for every meal, and neglecting to shower for the past weekend, i no doubt by now smell and look like the inside of someone's spread butt-cheeks. Though i'm disheveled and hungry now, I'm really going to miss moments and days like these, once I'm not a student anymore. I realized today, that this 30 page paper of goodness was my very last essay that I'd ever write about sexuality for school. Much like the dwindling down of the sixties, I too am dwindling down, and edging towards the turn of a new decade. It makes me already miss weekends like these. Weekends where I have to pull down the blinds in my room, so I won't be teased by the flirtatious sunshine seeping through. Weekends where I leave my desk only to pee. Weekends where the whole world disappeares, pauses even, and all that matters is words on a screen. Words that somehow end up making sense, creating meaning and in the end changing me.
They show up in weird places. like when I'm riding my bicycle for instance- i noticed there was a man on his bike who was going to pass me on the street, and for some reason, i instantly caught myself sizing him up and thinking there will be no revolution, if this man cuts me off. So i sped a head full force, passed him, and for the moment, felt as if i myself had secretly just conquered patriarchy.
the lesbians cheered.
Even though I'm fully aware of the pitfalls of the lofty ideals of lesbian-feminist-separatism, I'm nonetheless deeply entranced by it. There's a big part of me that feels sad for them. Sad that their Utopian never came. Sad that they are always so quickly dismissed as the "wacko crazies" of the women's movement: The demonized man hating dykes. Even though I don't agree with all of their politics, they stood for something. I'm a reckless sucker for idealists, no matter how radical they are, that risk everything to stand for something. I guess a small part of me identified with their desire to separate. Part of me desperately wanted to see it work out-- wanted to see the world they'd re-create. A world they envisioned would be "non-hierarchical", and non-exploitative, both sexually and economically. A world where capitalism would not work, and sexism would not be possible. A world of healing, and interdependency and community. Connection. I guess i see myself fighting for the same type of world. and so, that's why i cried a little, when I had to write about how the lesbian-separatist communes crumbled.
I felt strangely connected to the frustration and jadedness they must have felt. I felt oddly connected to their warrior calls for change. In a weird way, pouring over their manifestos, and journals, minutes and memoirs, I felt as if I was tapping into the history of my own. and in a way i was. My identity as a feminist now, is so deeply bound to and implicated by these women from the past. In understanding them, I somehow began to understand more about myself, despite how different we are. I am not suggesting that I'm going to run off into the rural landscapes of Ontario and start a lesbian commune, but I'm saying, we can learn alot from the "crazies" who did. I wish more people lived boldly and radically for what they believed in, even at the cost of a sane social reputation. I wish more people lived with same reckless and wild passion.

pulp

2010-03-30T09:50:00.000-07:00

Im currently writing a paper about lesbian pulp fiction in the 50's. and I've grown quite obsessed with and amused by the covers. There's some real winners out there. (and look! only 95 cents! what a thrill)

Looks like I'll have a new reading hobby this summer.

2010-03-28T17:30:00.000-07:00

..And then I found Hope

jubilee in the park

2010-03-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Today my heart walks

Outside the confines of a chest

and into the world.

2010-03-25T18:02:00.000-07:00

reckless

2010-03-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

I didn't realize I was scared until someone called me courageous.

I hadn't even considered fear- i plowed a head, confident and with an unyielding sense of optimism. I assumed my vision and my passions were legit simply because i felt it-- i breathed it-- i knew it as it pulsated through my veins.

I knew my vision because it was my heart.

I saw no reason to fear it. To question it. to hide from it. It made sense to me, so I assumed it' make sense to everyone. I assumed that because it mattered to me, it'd matter to others. I shared my vision with the anti-capitalists, the Queer feminists, the anarchists, the jewish reconstructionists, the nuns, the homeless, the suburbans, the students, the intellects, the abused, the misused, the vegans, the freegans, the musicians, the hoarders, the artists, the farmers, the addicts, the neo-monastics, the Jesus Freaks and the atheists. I told them my vision. I invited them out. I showed them my heart and I waited. Waited for the afternoon where they'dall come together. All these contradicting identities in one space at one time-- for one reason-- a hunger for social change.
I did not see this act of sharing or invitation as a daring act of bravery, nor did I see it as a risk.

But then he said it.

he told me I was courageous.
He told me he didn't have the guts to dream what I dreamt and plan what i was planning.
and then it happened,
I felt fear for the first time throughout this whole thing. I felt a fear so deep and so real that it paralyzed me. it stompt on my breath until exhales became brief and painful. It swarmed through my mind, like venom, poisoning my thoughts and words. It found the home of my optimism and pillaged it. leaving me empty and without much hope or ambition. This fear became a heavy and oversized stifling jacket, I unwillingly wore in the hottest of weather.
Suddenly I began to question everything: my dreams, my politics, my voice-- this entire afternoon.
Suddenly I saw the cracks in my vision and from these cracks emerged a creeping darkness. A darkness that told me to give up/ To side with apathy. That I wasn't strong enough. A voice that reminded me daily that no one really gave a shit and that i was a fool for thinking they ever did. And that''s when the shame leaked through-when I thought of all the people I had opened up to, invited, craved to collide with, it occurred to me that not all of them shared my vision--would ever share my vision. or even cared about it.
I realized that my dreams had likely offended, angered and irritated many.
This daunting threat of judgment turned a simple act of dreaming into a dangerous act of vulnerability and risk.
I felt that risk and then I felt for the first time a need , a desperate need, to be brave.
A need to dream fearlessly and speak recklessly with passion untainted.
I never knew what courage was until I felt my own fears take hold.
I didn't realize I was scared, until my entire body and spirit ached to own the courage he said he saw in me.

time capsule

2010-03-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

Beneath the soil

this soil

is us.
A vision,

a passion

a heart

a life.

Lives.

ten lives in one box.

Beneath the soil

is a story

many that bleed into memory

memories

bound by laughter and heart-ache

prayers, both spoken and silent

Beneath this soil is a box

is you, is me, is us.

Here

both connected yet unfinished

here in the earth

for another ten years.

Butler

2010-03-16T06:34:00.000-07:00

"In other words, acts, gestures, and desire produce the effect of an internal core or substance, but produce this on the surface of the body, through the play of signifying absences that suggest, but never reveal, the organizing principle of identity as a cause. Such acts, gestures, enactment, generally construed, are performative in the sense that the essence or identity that they otherwise purport to express are fabrications manufactured and sustained through corporeal signs and other discursive means" --Judith Butler, from "Gender Trouble".

After five years, it's all starting to finally make sense.

home.

2010-03-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

instant comfort

2010-03-13T14:16:00.000-08:00

Things I find Comforting: (and remind me everything will be okay)

-secretly watching women apply lipstick from a distance (preferably while on a bus, in a library, or in a lineup)
- when my mom chews gum
- when pink, purple, and burgundy occupy the same place at the same time, without me expecting it
- surprise artichoke hearts
- the sound of other people peeing in the morning
- being barefoot in public places, and almost getting in trouble, but not really getting in trouble
- the colour beets leave on your skin after you cut them
- dark little rooms
- the way smoke dances when you exhale
- andrew's hand writing
- thick blankets that are sort of ugly, but not incredibly ugly
- when you accidentally touch my arm
- sitting close to others while they draw really slowly
- infomercials about unnecessary kitchen appliances
- when others put face paint on my face
- clips on youtube about morphing
- thinking about dinosaurs being in love
- my aunt elaine's voice
- the sound of a lawn-mower
- highlighters
- an opportunity to stick a sticker on something
- watching snails
- the theme song from Family Matters
- sequins
-waitresses that call me "hon" or "sweetie"
- when men on movies drink liquor in tiny round cups on ice
- Noxzema
- unexpected tea parties
- when people pretend to put my hair in a pony tail, without asking first
- looking at clouds through my nose-ring
- "Have you ever seen the rain?" by CCR
- looking in my underware drawer, while not wearing underware
- when people whisper for no reason
- watching people without umbrellas in a rainstorm
- when there's a small light on, at nighttime, in my neighbours window
- smelling other people's doorways

2010-03-12T17:03:00.000-08:00

2010-03-10T14:05:00.000-08:00

Number Six:

THE CIGARS!!!!!

Robert Duval

2010-03-08T05:42:00.000-08:00

Number Five: The Wacky Middle-Aged Couple we Befriended in the air-port lineup in Veradero- who in turn, gave us beer.

Tom, who liked to convince some that he was Robert, was a tispy man-- but a happy man. He once got lost for two whole days in Mexico. While in a different airport line , he also spontaneously decided to go to Brazil for a week, without telling his wife, instead of returning home to Canada. Tom-Robert was a great man. and Steph, his lovely wife was a lovely wife indeed.

number four: Club dance song

2010-03-05T16:36:00.000-08:00

We sang "Touch me, Touch me", the club dance song, everynight. and did swanky dancemoves.

It was devine. we also made two solid Cuban friends: Patrick Swazy & Baby the chef who wore checkered pants. they didn't sleep. they only danced. this is the truth.

This picture is of Patrick Swazey & I dancing in the dinning hall. He was very nice. but had something in his pants.

Cavewomen

2010-03-04T05:53:00.000-08:00

Number three:

LES AND I SWAM IN A FREAK'N CAVE.

(well.. i doggy paddled in a cave...)

Number Two: Dreams

2010-03-03T07:50:00.000-08:00

While in Cuba I had two very distinct and bizarre dreams-- both of which significantly enhanced my vacation.
Tuesday night I dreamt about two Police men. I was outraged by them (as usual) and the entire dream i screamed at them on to the very top of my lungs, over and over again, "I'M GOING TO KNOCK OUT EACH ONE OF YOUR TEETH, SHOVE THEM UP YOUR COLON, AND YOU WILL CRY OUT UNTIL THE TOOTH FAIRY COMES!"

The night after I had a dream about Jackie Sisson.

Jackie was an ugly street dog that followed us around near the pool side at our resort. She had a bleeding tail from eating it, a perpetual poop stuck between her legs, patches of random baldness, gooie eyes, fat ankles, and MASSIVE teats that dragged on the ground when she walked.
I dreamt that I saw her in a Cuban humane society and decided that since she was so ugly, no one would ever ever adopt her so it was only fair just to do her in. I asked that she be euthenized, and i decided that she would make the most PERFECT souvenir for my mom. So i put Jackie in a big envelope and placed her in my carry on. When I got to customs however, they said "this will cost 2,000 Pesos to bring back to Canada. I was really pissed. The whole tragedy of the dream was not the rotting dead dog corpse in an envelope, but that I had to pay a tax fee. I remember yelling "Oh no! I cant spend 2,000 pesos on my moms souvenir, and only 3 pesos on my dads! That's not fair".

Jesus & the Tree Rats

2010-03-02T07:41:00.000-08:00

Les & I just got back from Cuba!! We had an *amazing* time & experienced, as the online add promised, "unlimited emotions". It was a blissful and bra-less week of laughter, pineapples, dancing and rum. Because there are so many AWSOME memories, I decided that I will, over the next two weeks or so, post entries about specific highlights. A countdown of sorts.

So-- here is number one:

I GOT BIT BY A CUBAN HORSE! In the Knee!

This is particularly hilarious because despite my pacifist vegetarianism & love for most living creatures, i LOATHE, and have always loathed horses. We went on a jeep-excursion, and part of this out-trip included lunch at a ranch, followed by horse-back riding. Les encouraged me to take a risk and try new things- (her adventurousness is contagious), so despite my FEAR and hatred for horses i complied and went on my very first horseback ride ever.

I got a brown one. She got a white one.

white horses are the devil.

We were riding along, in the middle of no where, with two indifferent non-english-speaking cuban cowboys following behind us. it was a pretty strange scene to find myself in to begin with.

Everything was fine... my horse was trotting along side lesley's... then all of a sudden her horse turned its head, looked me in the eye, and then BIT MY KNEE. for NO reason! no reason at all! Just bit me. It hurt, but i was so surprised that all i could do was laugh. We were both laughing so hard that we could barely hold on to the saddle as our horses brought us back to the ranch.

My favorite part is that the cowboys were completely INDIFFERENT to the fact that the horse bit me. They didn't react at all. hahaha, we got off and fell to the ground in laughter.

Then a bunch of white middle aged tourists surrounded me, they were very upset by my horse bite, and didnt find it quite as funny as we did.

It was funny because this huge group of tourists encircled me, as i wiped the blood away with alchol swabs.

The main guy at the ranch said he had NEVER ever heard of any horse biting anyone before.

It was really funny.

When we were back at our villas people i didn't even know were coming up to me and asking, "hows your leg?" and "your the girl who got bit by the horse right?". haha.

Oh dear.

Arnie was still a hamster

2010-02-01T22:18:00.000-08:00

As a child one of the scariest dreams I ever had was that my hamster Arnie had turned into a pickle. For some reason this made me incredibly upset... I even remember waking my parents up because i felt i needed comfort.

The next morning I went to go check on Arnie, and he was gone! In his little hamster den, lay an actual dill pickle.

I wept. Partly out of sadness, and partly out of my perceived curse of prophecy.

Luckily, the pickle wasnt the result of prophesy, but rather my dads sneaky sense of humour....

its good to know that dreams don't always come true.

2010-01-28T11:43:00.000-08:00

When I answer the phone, strangers still sweetly ask if they can speak to my "mommy or daddy".

It's awkward.

Aspiration.

2010-01-23T13:51:00.000-08:00

When I turn 70, I plan to be a nudist.

2010-01-18T22:12:00.000-08:00

remember when you'd find me here... waiting in silent anticipation. you'd sit beside me.i'd sit beside you. backs leaned up against the rock. naked toes in the grass. you'd try to sing, but i wouldn't let you. i'd try to cry out but you'd hold me, and say "Here I Am".

to remember rose

2010-01-16T10:49:00.000-08:00

Around last year at this time, she came to me in a dream.
It was the type of dream that leaves you unsettled and shaky for days after. The kind of dream that you wake up from because your sobbing in the middle of the night. The kind you swear wasn't really just a dream.... but instead, a foot step into a thin place-- the mysterious realm where the spiritual and the normal meet. That's where I met her-- in that thin place. She was wearing that turquoise dress- the one I always seem to picture her wearing, though never actually seen her in. That dress was before my time-- it was before her body fell apart. Before each breath hurt, and every laugh ached. She was in this dress and she was beautiful. She came to me, in my room as i slept and held me. An embrace so real, so warm and so close I felt her presence for weeks afterwords. She told me she was happy. She could dance. and breathe. and laugh again. She talked of freedom. She talked of forgiveness. She held my hands in hers, looked into my eyes and whispered, "don't be afraid shannon. everythings going to be alright". and I believed her. i still believe her. then she left me. and i woke myself up at 3 in the morning, from the sounds of my own screaming and sobbing.
It's a strange thing when your body convinces itself that a dream is real.... and when you start to believe it. It's a weird thing. Seeing a loved one again.
It's a creepy yet beautiful thing, when this sort of dream happens on the exact one-year anniversary of her death.
The next day I discovered that the bookmark, in her old day-by-day Bible, was left exactly under January 16th-- the day she had died. The day, a year later I had this dream. And what's amazing/uncanny is that the passage it marked was all about how God spoke through dreams.
maybe he still does.

* * *
I was there when she died. We all were. We held her hands. We stroked her hair. Though the Doctors were unsure if she was conscious enough to hear us, we talked to her anyway, for the hours leading up to her last breath. They, her sons, my dad, my uncle, told her the untold stories of their childhoods. Who really carved their little sister's name into the window sill and blamed it on Tammy even through she wasn't even old enough to spell yet. Who snuck into the dandelion wine. We laughed together even though we all knew what was about to happen. We painted her fingernails one last time-- and told her they looked pretty. Even though her eyes were closed and tubes and wires were keeping her with us. We sang to her. We sang songs about a wooden Indian named Kawliga who fell in love. We sang funny songs. sad songs and sweet songs. That's when she died. In the middle of a song . we held her and together, as a family we cried. It was surreal-- haunting yet beautiful. I don't think I was able to imagine freedom, until that day.
What was left on her bed, was no longer my Grandma.
Who I saw in my dream was.

* * *
She always use to tell us this story about how one day at a wedding her panti-hose gradually started slipping down... until eventually without even realizing it, they were wrapped around her ankles! Then she'd laugh. and laugh. and laugh. until you could hear it coming through her chest like the rolling anticipation of thunder.
I'd never experienced this with panti-hose before....
until the day of her funeral.
Both my Mom and I.
We were walking down the aisle, towards her coffin to lay a rose on it.
As we were walking, both of our panti-hose started gradually falling off. Until we had to waddle. While everyone else was mourning, we both started to giggle.
I'm certain she was too.
* * *

shaved

2010-01-14T17:46:00.000-08:00

When my Dad shaved off his mustache I cried for a week.

I was around seven.

I remember he had just walked through the door, and i caught a glimpse of his naked upper lip,

through the corner of my horrified eye

and i screamed.

I screamed as if i had just witnessed a bear violently tearing the face off of my little pet dog.

I screamed as if I had just found said pet dog's ripped up corpse under my pillow.

I screamed. i ran. i hid. and then i cried. i cried inconsolably until i started choking on my own snot.

i grieved his missing face hair. i mourned its loss. i ached. i bellowed. i roared.

i somberly vowed life would never be the same with a mustache-less dad.

life as i knew it would end.... until he grew it back.

he never grew his mustache back.

i still secretly wish he would.

im not very good with change.

infact, i suck at it.

i wish i could still hide away under the blankets. i wish i could still scream and then cry until i choke on my own snot, whenever change happens.

i wish the loss of fatherly mustaches were the only things i'd ever have to mourn.

but their not.

and that's hard to accept.

golden calf

2010-01-03T11:49:00.000-08:00

i have a strange and mystical relationship with the wallpaper in my bedroom at Grandma's house; i've secretly worshiped it for the past 18 or so years.

when i was a young'in about 5 years-old or so, i remember feeling quite distraught and unsatisfied with the idea of God being a "man".

i concluded that it would feel much better if i had a god woman to talk to instead. so, one night during a heated prayer, i negotiated with the heavenly father to reveal to me a good hearted spirit mother instead.

Several weeks later, I found this image on my grandma's wall.

Despite its obscurity, I swore and continue to swear that the leafs and flowers form the shape of a lovely nature woman face.

For years and years whenever I slept at my grandma's, i prayed to this mysterious face in the wallpaper, until i fell alseep. sometimes id pray until i cried. and then cried until i fell alseep.

she was the woman side of god.

and i dug it.

It's odd because it wasn't until this month that I realized that this spiritual relationship with wallpaper is sort of bizarre....perhaps even "pagan", as andrew so kindly pointed out...

but as strange as it is, whenever i see that face i am reminded of a time when i couldn't fall alseep unless i sung god a little song into my pillow. i couldn't dream unless i gave my praise to the creator. when tears ment gratitude, not pain.

i miss those times.

and as strange as it is, before going to sleep the other night, i caught myself praying to the wall paper again.

im secretly comforted by the fact that i can see she-god on the wall beside me.

Andrew & the turd.

2009-11-23T20:36:00.000-08:00

By: Shannon Hope Gendron

rage:

2009-11-21T09:55:00.001-08:00

I know the anger that lies inside of me like I know the beat of my heart, and the taste of my spit.

Last night a friend told me, "the biggest problem with feminists is that you're always pissed off".
My response was, "we have alot to be legitimately 'pissed off' about".

The mythos of the merciless 'raging, man-hating, bra-burning radical feminist' infiltrates popular imagination. Our 'anger' has been co-opted and bastardized by this image in order to dismiss the seriousness our struggles.

The more "radical" and "outraged" the world can construct feminists to be, the easier it is for others to demonize who we are, rather than listen to our cries. When people render feminists to be mere angsty monsters it's easier for them to avoid having to look at how their own lives are implicated by and contribute to the oppression of those around us.

Their resistance to our rage, is a defense mechanism because they are threatened by what true liberation would mean.

Women are not allowed to be angry. We're taught it's a destructive and useless emotion that ought to be regulated, suppressed and "dealt away with" quietly. We're told to be afraid. To silence ourselves.
When a woman is angry for a just reason, she's simply "pms-ing", or "bitchy". When a man's angry at injustice, however, he's allowed to be deemed "passionate" or "charismatic".

I am angry.
and i will not be dismissed this easily.

I refuse to apologize for my rage. I refuse to suppress, to silence, to fear, and to deny this anger. I refuse to be dismissed because i give a shit.

How else do you respond to systems of racism. sexism. classism. heterosexism. How can you honestly look at the lives of those who suffer from the vices of this oppression, and NOT feel angry. how do you look at the raw oppression in your own life, and not respond with anger.

I am mad. Mad that somewhere in Canada a woman is battered every 15 seconds. I am mad that there have been 500 aboriginal women who have gone MISSING or have been murdered along the high way of tears in BC-- i am angry that this violence is largely invisible and ignored. That some bodies are considered more important than others. that some bodies are disposable and deserving of rape. i am pissed that there are laws in canada that criminalize sex workers and create dangerous working conditions. i am pissed that every 2 minutes in canada a woman is sexually assaulted. i am pissed that you think our bodies are something that can be conquered, owned and used. im pissed that she had to endure this pain. im pissed that it broke her spirit. I am angry that Harris' 22% welfare cut means that single-mothers can no longer support their families. that the system dehumanizes us all. im angry that we think its ok that so many people in our own country are living in the shackles of grinding soul crushing poverty. im angry that its still not safe to be a dyke. its still not safe to not fit into the strict binary of "male" or "female". bodies are still mocked, ridiculed, beaten and spit on for being "trans". hundreds of queer murders go unreported. unfound. im pissed that vaginas are still a swear word. that grown women blush at saying. im pissed that women aren't having nearly as many orgasms as they should be, simply because men's sexuality is laregley privileged over ours. im sick of the assumptions that men can be sexual because their "naturally" horny due to their alleged "hormones". im angry about exclusion. unquestioned privilege. distortions and epitaphs like "slut", "homo", "bum", "nigger" im angry about the misnaming. im angry that i find myself in a classroom of women every tuesday morning, that "don't see a need for feminism anymore" because they are afforded the luxury of being blinded by their own white class privilege. angry that because "they can get good jobs and vote" that they think, obviously "the role of feminism is dead and oppression musn't exist anymore". im angry that the cult of masculinity still dictates and informs how "men" should live and feel. im angry that the cultural myth of 'femininity' is often used to regulate us. im pissed we can't just love who we want to love. I am ANGRY that you are hurting and i cant stop your pain.

yes. i am angry. i have alot to be angry about. these things are NOT alright with me, nor should they be alright with you.

i cannot hide my anger to spare you guilt, nor hurt feelings; for to do so insults and trivializes all our efforts

I think anger can be a good thing. an important thing. a powerful beautiful thing. Anger gives us insight, into realms of our spirit that otherwise may go undiscovered. it reveals to us longings for change. it pushes us to resist. to act. to speak out against the injustices we experience and see. anger can be empowering- for when we listen to its rhythms, rather than deny them, anger can be transformed into solidarity, action and passion.

the question shouldn't be how do we "work through" or "avoid" our rage, but rather how can we use this rage to make something beautiful happen.

* * * * * * *

My anger is a molten pond at the core of me, my most fiercely guarded secret. It is an electric thread woven into every emotional tapestry upon which I set the essentials of my life—a boiling hot spring likely to erupt at any point, leaping out of my consciousness like a fire on the landscape. How to train that anger with accuracy rather than deny it has been one of the major tasks of my life. -- Audre Lorde.

nostril met a friend

2009-11-19T20:58:00.001-08:00

SsssHHHHHhhhh....

Don't tell my mom. :)

(it's a surprise for her birthday...haha)

veg.

2009-11-10T11:53:00.000-08:00

last Week was my Six-Year vegetarian-anniversary.

i found this in an old email Andrew sent me, before we started dating.

ramblin', gambilin' man: a confession of sorts

2009-11-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

last year at this time a little black star came into the world. on a lonely ivory wrist, little star made its home and met its companion. ink, met needle, met skin and a life-long light was born.

yesterday, in honor of little star's one year anniversary les and i hit the slots. not being regular patrons, we were rather inexperienced in the realm of appropriate casino etiquette. "the man" took our money, but we got free drinks, and some prime people-watching out of it.

It's fun to experience new places. It's fun to play 2 cent machines. and drinking cups of free creamer. i like the lights and the noises. i can totally understand how easy it is to get hooked though. im glad i only had 10bucks. im noticing more and more that i have a really addictive personality. sometimes i really really lack self-control, simply because i have a creepy amount of defiance and superstition. (if i close my left eye, and sing two lines of "here comes the sun" in my head, and count to six, then obviously i'll win.... if i give the cop a finger while wearing mittens, it doesn't count as not "loving my enemies", if i eat grapes after smoking a cigar, then it won't hurt me... if i mutter about the ills of capitalism when i walk by "urban outfitters", i won't be tempted to covet $60 sweaters that i could find at value village for $4). At the end of the day I loose. I hate. I smell. and i am left still wanting.

Someday I'd like to play Roulette with smarties instead of cash.

but luckily, thanks to les, i no longer want to play "Russian Roulette"...
* *

you cant judge
love or pain.

that wall just told me to "F off".

2009-11-06T12:36:00.001-08:00

graffiti on stall doors in public bathrooms, fascinate me. even if it's just a penciled scribble that says "fuck you". i love it. I get genuinely excited when i discover new additions to my regular stall. sometimes i find myself just hanging out on the toilette, in the library, studying walls instead of my school work. i like that each word has its own story. its own history. i m fascinated by people's hand-writing. i love that it feels like im reading something i shouldn't be. i like that the words, no matter how lame they are, feel like secrets. like ive stumbled upon somone's diary. i love feeling mildly offended by a bathroom wall. i love when strangers respond in different coloured ink. i love imagining who the author was, when walking down the halls. i love the anonymity. i love to wonder what it was that drove people to write what they did in the first place.if i had creepy magic powers, i would secretly be an omnipresent spirit in women's washrooms. i would watch the scribblers, the doodlers, the profanity-writers, in delight.

I've developed a strange bathroom superstition. i've come to know which stalls at queens have my favorite words to look at, and i will go out of my way, even if it means an extra two flight of stairs at staufer, to get the stall that will most amuse me. Even if its being used and others are available, I'll make up some lame excuse to wait for it, like washing my hands for a long time, until its free.

Someday I would very much like to travel the world, taking pictures of various bathroom scribbles from every place i go. and then compile them into a book. (the book cover would look like a bathroom door).

The only thing I ever "vandalized" was a study cubicle at Algoma University. Amid the collage of "your gay"s, "screw yous", and "Amanda loves Daniel"s, i scribbled in black ink "I know nothing, but of my own ignorance". it's a quote by Socrates. i was convinced it was the most profound words ever spoken. Despite my fascination with amateur bathroom graffiti, I haven't yet worked up the courage myself to contribute to the stall walls. theres something seemingly more sacred about the women's washroom. Im still waiting for the perfect thing to write. or draw.

Any suggestions?

Until i figure it out, I suppose I'll just keep indulging in my shameful bathroom art voyeurism.

but first, i'd like to thank all the sneaky bathroom scribblers out there, for making my pee excursions so delightful. If ever you've written your initials, a curse word, poems, or the answers to your algebra test on stall doors/ walls, thank you. sincerely.

please don't stop.

kingdom on earth

2009-11-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

if i had to choose only one day to remember of my twenty-somethings, it would have been today.

squashed

2009-10-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

Despite my pacifist convictions, I still often fantasize about violently running over Queen's boys, with my old little brown bicycle. Despite my desire for peace, this fantasy never fails to make me smile.

lamentations of poverty: the day i met Erika

2009-10-29T11:47:00.000-07:00

[Preface- for my gender&poverty class we had to take on an identity someone struggiling with poverty, and write a reflective paper about our experience. it was an extremely helpful excersize in empathy, and it really helpt me understand the corruption of the welfare system... which prior to the class i had no idea existed. the following are some experts from my experience. i was assigned the identity of erika- a young, First nations woman who moved to kingston in hopes of finding a "better" life, but instead finds herself without employment, lacking support and on welfare. Dealing with invasive welfare policies and racism, Erikas story is the story of many women whose lived realities are bound by the shackles of grinding poverty]

Erika taught me that poverty is soul crushing. She taught me Desperation. Hopelessness. Fear. Worry. Humiliation. Vulnerability. Anger. Suspicion. The emotions embedded in poverty are truly raw and truly debilitating. Erika taught me that we live in a world that scorns us as failures if we can’t “find” work. We live within a system that makes us feel guilty for being poor. We exist in a society where being on welfare makes you feel like an unwanted burden—an undeserving baby suckling desperately at the dried up teat of a loveless government. We live in a country where the day-to-day anxieties of mere survival are silenced and ignored, yet they consume our every thought. While the rest of society pretends we don’t exist, our hungry stomachs remind us of the aching reality of our own existence. Our existence feels raw and naked, as the welfare system strips us of dignity, dehumanizes us, invades us, mocks us, and breaks us. Instead of hope, we are filled with fear. Because to be poor, to be Aboriginal, is to be criminal.

* * *
As a single-woman, my welfare cheque was only $572/month, which meant within only the first week I was already $143 short to even pay for basic rent/utilities. Realistically on that little amount of monthly income I would not have no money leftover for food/laundry/phone/savings. The meager amount of welfare payments set us up for failure. How do you possibly survive off of $572 a month?!
I think that’s the point. Poor, Aboriginal “dependent” women were “never meant to survive”. Our histories and experiences of violent colonialism remind us that our survival was merely an obstacle in the path of the development of the Canadian nation. Our present realities of continued oppression reminds us that native bodies are disposable –we see it in the lax law enforcement regarding violence against aboriginal women, particularly in the murder of Pamela George, (Wallis and Kwok 2008, p. 249), we see it in the government’s failure to recognize the unique needs of First Nations peoples, we see it in the system’s complete disregard of poverty as racialized. We are being crushed by the fist of poverty because we were not meant to survive.
I remained in poverty because I could not find viable employment. I could not find viable employment, not because I was lazy or lacked ambition but because “…there simply are not enough jobs to go around” (Swanson 1997, p. 151). Society blamed me for my struggles. This is a society convoluted with the myth of success defined by individualism. This is a society polluted with the toxic illusion that we all start off having “equal” opportunities. A society that overlooks the disproportionate amount of racialized/immigrant women who are experiencing the death-grip of systemic social exclusion and poverty.While I am not entirely dismissing my own agency, I am saying that the welfare system and policy is self-deprecating and makes it very difficult to see an out. It shifts all fault on the individual, rather than focusing on the reason why such crippling poverty exists in the first place. The government has significantly transformed the welfare system in response to a supposed “need” to clamp down on welfare “frauds”, but yet turns a blind eye to the system that produces the need to “cheat” in order to survive. The focus on “cheating the system” obscures the more important issue of all –the filthy rotten system of capitalism itself. Why is a “.3% fraud rate” in Canada (Little 2001, p. 30) more disconcerting than the fact that “the richest 10% of ‘our nation’ own more than half of Canada’s wealth”?!?! Perhaps in attempting to “combat poverty” and “reduce the need for welfare” federal governments should invest time in deconstructing and destabilizing the very system that creates the inequalities of poverty in the first place.. As Swanson argues, many factors push the unemployment (and hence poverty) rate up into a double digit range: such as free trade, and the ability of multinational companies to move quickly around the world to encourage jobs in countries where wages are lowest…” (Swanson 1997, p. 151). Rather than tackling these devastating issues, the government refuses responsibility by blaming and pathologizing ‘victims’ and denying systemic racism rather than supporting those being affected most by the vice of capitalism. This is why welfare was unable to remove me from poverty.

***

I believe that the Government pries open our jaws, and crams a fistful of “independency” down our throats…. forcing us to swallow the nauseating propaganda of “individualism”. This is the greatest flaw of the welfare policy changes— the myth of mandatory independency. What we need is to relearn the value of a radical-interdependency. We need to learn and VALUE the significance that community can bring into our lives. We need to recognize the truly revolutionary power of community, mutuality and relationships in working towards resistance, dignity, healing, survival and our collective struggle for equality. We need one another. Desperately.

*****
The most important thing I learned from this exercise is that even in my own state of class privilege as a white educated student, I am not free. This activity resolidified my favorite quote by Audre Lorde, in Sister Outsider: “I am not free when any woman is unfree, even if her shackles are very different from my own. And I am not free as long as one person of Color remains chained. Nor is any one of you” (Lorde 1984, p. 133). This excercise is a lesson in compassion, empathy and freedom. It is a lesson that our own liberation is inextricably bound in the liberation of those around us who remain burned and bruised by an unjust system. Our own freedom will never happen, as long as stories like Erika's are ignored and forgotten.

damn your naked arms

2009-10-27T10:18:00.000-07:00

my wildly untamable aloe vera plant is deeply in love with the tree outside my bedroom window. aloe vera sits on the sill, his tiny green plant-arms press up against the glass, trying desperately to reach the hands of his lover--the enormous tree that lives on the other side. at night, when the wind is near, her branches quietly tap secrets on the window. i suspect thats how trees share love poems. sometimes she casts shadows that dance on my walls. aloe vera can't dance, but he watches thoughtfully. we notice even in her charcoal reflection, that she is beautifully grace full and beautifully strong.

they want to hold eachother, i can tell. sometimes when i lay in bed, i feel sad for them. In the summer, with windows open, they nearly touch. they breathe the same air. grow in the same sun. but this, this is the closest to embrace they'll ever get. the distance between them is a mere thin pane of glass-- small, and seemingly transparent, but distance none the less. and because of this distance... they'll never be real lovers.
- - -
i love this tree outside my window. partly because i see the same beauty my aloe vera plant sees in her. and partly because the painful love story her and aloe vera share.
sometimes i fear her gentle enormity. its a "god fearing" fear of amazement. i often dream of crawling out my window, and onto her branches, curling up to be rocked to sleep in her mighty outstretched arms. to be cradled. to hide in her leaves. to dance along her shadow. to bury myself beneath her roots.
i love that autumn has kissed her crimson and gold. I love that i can study each golden vein of her many leaves while laying in bed. I love that each tarnished leaf has a memory. a beginning. a story. memories and stories i ache to hear, but somehow already seem to understand.
i woke up the other day to notice her naked.
i literally felt panic, when i realized her last leaf left had fallen dead to join the others on the earth bellow. i secretly want to scotch tape them all back on. i hate that's she's naked. i hate that her branches can no longer reach inside my window. i hate the grey horizon of the soon imposing november sky. it doesn't do her justice. it robs her of the beauty and glory i clung to.
i hate that her naked limbs remind me that my own world is changing. her spar city reminds me of the inevitability's of transition. i hate change. i hate that her beauty is a memory.
As this season passes, I am reminded of the distance between you and i. i am reminded together we are getting ready to fall. i don't want us to be a memory. i dont wan't us to be separated by a thin, god-awful pane of glass. but i remember i cant bare to reach out to you. a dying tree.
your shadow dances on my bedroom wall, and i have to look away.

Sometimes death takes many forms,
even while alive.

coming out: a rant from outside the closet.

2009-10-23T12:57:00.000-07:00

I did it. Finally. I came out to a roomful of queer-minded, sex-positive, anti-oppressit, liberal feminists.
They didn't stone me alive. or mock me. they didnt spit on my shoes. or shatter my spirit. they also didn't collectively boo me, with choir like precision.
Instead they listened, as i fumbled nervously for the right words to say.

risk. there is an enormous risk involved, in any coming out- a daunting vulnerability that can either leave you broken with humiliation and pain, or can leave you with more freedom and confidence than you started off having.

in this case, I left the room, with more wholeness, than I had coming in.

It sucks living a fragmented life. It sucks having an internal civil war between your own identities-- a constant struggle, that leaves you aching for peace. but that peace doesn't come when your in a space that makes you feel unsafe. when your in a space that makes you feel ashamed to be who you are. guarded and on trial. when you exist in two worlds that battle one another, until you are so divided it hurts to claim allegiance to anything at all. It's a relentless inner monologue of fear. A fear that their hostile words, burning glares, troubling sarcasm and patronizing dismissive assumptions create. After five years of hiding. Five years of denying one part of my self in the classroom, and the other-part of myself at home, IM DONE.
Im desperate to harmonize my conflicting identitites. Im despserate to stop living in the confines of a closet.
Im desperate enough, that I'll step out and just say it.
Im..... a......a....... c.hr...is...t..ia...n.

I shannon hope gendron, friggin love jesus. and his radical teachings of love. I love the Creator with a a love that shouldn't be apologetic or guilty. with a love that i am proud of. with a love that i believe will change the world.

i shannon beleive that the god i worship has alot to say about feminism, social justice and freedom. the god i praise is a god of love, a love so radical and so political that it becomes revolutionary. my god is an anti-racist, anti-capitalist, peace-monger, who wants to "stick-it-to the man" just as much as any feminist i know does. My jesus isn't silent about oppression. he isnt silent about a system that screws, and dehumanizes us all. he isnt silent about the chains wealth, greed, hatred, power and war create. he offers a new way, a new life, a kingdom on earth as it is in heaven. why do i have to be ashamed of this? why do i let people tell me i can't/shouldn't be both a "christian", AND a queer-minded, anti-colonialist, sex-positive, class conscious feminist.

i wish i had a t-shirt, that said these things on it. so every time i have to explain what i believe to someone, i can avoid the , "oh, but im not one of those christians. the 'in-your-face, anti-abortion, anti-fag, conservative, bigoted white-washed, middle-classed, heterosexist, evengelical, "you and your post-modernist/liberal politics are going to hell"', suburban sort of christians", speech.

if i had it on a-t shirt, i could just point to my chest and smile quietly.

people like this frustrate me. sometimes i feel their ruining the "god thing" for the rest of us.

their actions/histories humiliate me. they tarnish something beautiful. for a long time, (and still) i have a hard time identifying as a "christian" because immediately non-christians tack on the meaning for me. because of the unfortunate actions of "churches" and people. the meaning people attach to the term "christian", often in a feminist environment is the shitty and limiting stereotype of the crazy conservative evengelical rawwing about how god created adam and eve, not adam and steve. our histories as christians have given a black eye to the god of love. our histories of war, genocide, colonization, exclusion, homophobia, corruption, they are real histories whose legacies haunt us today. but they are things we ought to step up and OWN.

If im going to come out as a christian, or rather, as someone who professes a love for following jesus, then I've got to take responsibility for, rather than deny the shit "the people of god" have done to create the (often justified) negative view the rest of the world has of us. we've burned people really bad, in the name of god.

It's easy for me to separate myself from those types of christians. its easy for me to other them, and blame them for screwing up everything. but as hard as it is, "people like that" need to become "people like us". If we're all following jesus, we're in it together.
the church is a whore, but she's my mother. is slowly becoming my anthem. The crazy conservative middle-class Evangelical man down the road, who has a bumper sticker of the jesus fish, and beside it "support our troops" sticker, and who spends his Tuesday mornings protesting abortion outside the clinic, while wearing expensive name-brand middle-aged man pants, made by children in the "third world", makes me cringe. but this man, this conservative, frustratingly upsetting man, is my brother. and even though i disagree with his expression of faith, I've got to love. and realize again, we're in it together.

And if Im going to make any change, at all, the best thing to do is come out. Come out as a feminist, to the dress-pant wearing church goer, with the fancy car and homophobic and sexist attitudes, and come out to the feminists, the lesbians, the academics, who inferioirize my faith and my god.
my only solution is to come out. come out and dance. write. and speak, fearlessly and without apology, for what i believe in, on both sides, with the hope that somebody, somewhere will be challenged. that somebody somewhere and some point will have to rethink, and reimagine a broader face for both christianity and feminism.

I will come out because

the closet is stuffy. and far too small to dance in.

giraffe-bunny

2009-10-18T14:02:00.001-07:00

i like brendan.
i like liz.

bear

2009-10-17T21:28:00.000-07:00

i like my house-mate todd.

cork

2009-10-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

i used my jack-knife to open a bottle of wine. and it imploded. on my face.

Slumber-Party

2009-10-10T10:38:00.000-07:00

Im not sure why people feel the need to grow out of them.
They really do make life fantastick. a good slumber party is like adding extra tasty cheese ontop of the pizza of friendship. :) its a glass a wine. or a few. for an evening of gigling and secrets.. another glass for breakfast come morning. its the agreed gluttony of late night pizza. its enjoying one another's conversation so much that you forget to notice your pumpkin's nose growing bigger and bigger, until it takes up half of his face. its falling alseep during sex and the city, and waking up the next day, where you left off. lazily slumpt on a fouton in pajamas, with feet soaking in small tubs of water and epsom salt, while dead feet skin cells, dance with cat fur on the carept floor. and all is well with the world. its knowing there's someone next to you, who is for that moment the only other person in the world sharing the same thoughts, the same worries and the same laughs as you.

harvest moon*

2009-10-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

I strongly recommend listening to the following link while looking at these pictures. http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3FkaN0HQgs

spa night

2009-09-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

curly

2009-09-23T13:18:00.001-07:00

i find it funny that i see him everywhere i go at queens.

he's about 6 feet tall now, with a halo of curly curly strawberry blond hair.

he wasnt always that tall, but his hair was always that untamed. that's how i recognized him six years later. and 13 hours away from where we first met.

its funny that of all the people i would see from the Soo, its him. and its extra amusing that he doesn't even know or likely remember i exist.

It was grade nine. my first high school dance and my bestfriend christina had a huge crush on this "hot" foodball player, whose name i forget. she decided that she would only work up the courage to dance with him, if i volunteered to dance with his slightly less "hotter", red-afroed friend, who at the time was less than five feet tall. I decided i would, although it was very awkward.

i did what i thought was dirty dancing at the time.however years later i realized that shaking your arm ontop of your other arm, is slightly less provocative than i thought it was.

he was nonetheless my first dirty-dance partner. even if we didn't really do it right.

and six years later, i see him walking down union street.

i secretly giggle inside every time i see him.

i like imagining that in the midst of all of the students, all of the strangers, hundreds and hundreds of them, there's that one out there, that attempted to awkwardly grind with my 14-year old self.

the holy virgin mary

2009-09-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

Painting of the week:

by chris ofili

my friend white man.

2009-09-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

in sunday school the classic answer was always "jesus". answer "jesus" to any question and your bound to get it right. or at the very least, you'd be granted approval from the sundayschool teacher.

answer, "white, middle-class, heterosexual, men" with disdain, to any question in women's studies, and the whole room will nod. yes. that is the correct answer. and if your feeling extra saucy, throw "evangelical" beside "heterosexual man", and the equation gets even uglier. and you become even smarter. we all know it. this is our enemy. it's come up in every single class. who has the power? who writes/decides history? whose experiences count as legitimate in society? who gets to be the subject? who gets agency? whose knowledge is seen as "Truth"? Who ruined the world? who is the oppressor? whose to blame... for capitalism, patriarchy, racism, sexism, heterosexism, transphobia, and all of the social ills of this world? who is the bane of our liberation and freedom? answer----- white, middle-class, heterosexual evangelical men. this is the answer, you can't get it wrong. the more you say it, the more profound it sounds.

each... and every.....time.

i use to really dig this. to a lot of people on the surface, this is feminism's mantra. this isn't my kind of feminism. blame the dude with a penis, and white skin. who digs females. makes reasonable money. and claims to know a God.

this way, it gave less onus on me. on women. on the marginalized, who i clung to like an over-protective mother, seeing no wrong in her children. but, i've discovered we all suck sometimes. we're all broken. we all oppress, as much as we are oppressed. white men have f.c.k.ed. up. im not disagreeing that this demographic has caused and continues to cause alot of poop. it is a problem that these privileged strands of identities, (straight, white, able-bodied) are for the most part assumed and unquestioned in our western society. it is a problem that this cultural production of westernized stampt hegemonic masculinity is as powerful as it is, at the sake of marginalizing others. these issues haunt me. but the answer shouldn't end with a pointed finger, "they did it". rather it should be a beginning point--- an opportunity for further dialogue. or deeper exploration. for critical thought.

if, the "white, middle-class, able-bodied, heterosexual, evangelical, man" is the irrevocable enemy, how will change ever really happen. by proclaiming academic war on the "oppressor", and by making all men who fit this category into enemies, we're jibbing ourselves. we're missing the point.

it's beginning to really tick me off that alot of women's studies students have this sentiment of dismissal, when-ever the white man is mentioned. Immediately their not taken seriously. their trouble. if an amazing article happens to be written by a rich straight Caucasian guy, their experiences, their knowledge is suddenly less worthy or deligitimate, because of their histories of power. if that same article is written by a first-nations, lesbian transwoman, suddenly it becomes more truthful. more valuable and legit. more sacred.

i feel its like reverse racism in a way. we're trying so hard to incorporate and celebrate and reclaim the voices of the oppressed, that in the process we're doing the same thing to our oppressor as He did to us. what is so revolutionary about an eye-for-an-eye? there won't be change, there wont be liberation until we're all in it together. men. women. and all of us who are floating beyond or in between. all of these voices matter. all of these voices can speak resistance. if we name someone the enemy, if we blame instead of discuss, if we discount what anyone says based on their gender, sexuality, race, class etc., even if that means they are male, then we're being exclusionary. my feminism isnt about exclusion.

we need to all take responsibility. we need to all recognize that there is, even from the cracks of the margins, pockets of power. agency. resistance. there is power in solidarity. there is power in difference. it's not okay with me when students disregard, or roll their fresh feminist eyes at white-straight-men. its not okay with me to silence even those who have silenced us.

perhaps if the answer is "white-middle-class-heterosexual-able-bodied- (and heaven forbid) evengelical men", than the question should be, "who do we need to carve space for in feminism and feminsit discourse? who do we need to actively love and forgive? who do we need to connect with, to unite with? whose liberation is bound in ours?".

perhaps we all need to learn to love.

a love that can transcend social categories.

a love that sees value in all. and rejects none.

strap

2009-09-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

the other day, while riding the train, i noticed that the cute elderly lady next to me, in the turquoise pant suit, and the cherry red lipstick, gave me a lot of shifty, suspicious and perplexed looks.

i realized later that the cover of the queer poetry book i was reading had a giant picture of a strap-on penis on it.

i really ought to be more careful about my choice of public reading materials.

the sixties gives me joyous heart palpitations.

2009-09-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

yesterday i squirmed blissfully in my chair, attempting to politely suppress any inappropriate bouts of happy laughter. i sat cross legged, to insure that pee of excitement wouldn't escape from any unmentionable places. i sat even though i wanted to stand. stand in the middle of the classroom, up on the table, and dance, whip my shirt off and dance, while frantically squealing "I love school!".

i wanted to kiss every page of the text book.

i wanted to capture every word my prof said, in a tiny inconspicuous bottle, and then bring it home and put it into my bath water. i wanted to soak myself in it. marinate in it even.

yesterday i sat in my DREAM class- a 4th year seminar on the Global Sixties.

the sixties gives me heart palpitations.

womens liberation. stonewall riot. gay lib. civil rights. martin luther king. active non violence. black panthers. beat poets. counter-cultures. communes. drugs. free love. protests. anti-colonial discourse. Woodstock. cuban revolution. che. castro. lesbian separatists. Vietnam. anti-war movements. Malcolm x. student movements. sex. lots of sex. sit ins. cold war. Fanon. civil disobedience. the questioning and subversion of the 'American Dream', liberation. arty. beauty. justice. legacy. and most importantly passion. the sixties had passion. a passion i ache to see in the world today.

i am so excited. i secretly was praying "please be a 30 page essay, please be a 30 page esssay, pleleease", before he handed out the syllabus.
mmm the syllabus. i have a serious love interest in syllabuses. i could read and re read them over and over again, every half and hour for an entire year and never get bored. i secretly want to snuggle with them in bed. and eat cereal with them come morning.
oo i am so happy. plus the professor is lovely. i like when grad students teach classes for the first time. ive got a major weakness for nervous first timers. i love how adorable his insecurity can be. when he stumbles on his words. or laughs awkwardly at his own jokes and then realizes the class is just staring at him blankly. i find it comforting and wonderful. he passes my prof scrutiny with flying colors. plus, he wear brown cords.

Once upon a time... last year, i was a women studies major. i noticed a history class on american social history and thought, hmm, there is a possibility the sixties will be mentioned in this class. i must take it.

the School said no.

i had to be a history major to take it.

so i became a history major too.

so i could take one class, that mentioned the sixties only once, for 3 hours the entire year.

as you can probably see, to discover i was able to take an entire years worth of sixties history this year, i was flabbergasted and literally got tears in my eyes when i saw it added officially to my course list on Q card.

i left class yesterday with a little drool on my chin.

2009-09-14T17:42:00.000-07:00

i use to share my secrets with the lake.
somehow i believed that way god wouldn't hear them.
if i whispered into the stillness of each wave, quietly enough god would't know. nor would the world.
the lake was safe. calm. still. gentle.
when no one was near.
but sometimes i get a little nervous that they'll tell on me. they'll give me away, expose me. so as much as i trusted the water, i feared it.
id fear it'd drown me. eat me. the words i couldnt share with anyone. the feelings. the thoughts. the fears.
just ask the lake, she knows it all.
yesterday at the union station i thought alot about secrets. the hold they have on our lives. the bondage, the freedom, the pain, the guilt, the glory, the joy, the comfort that they can bring. looking at the hundreds of people all around me i wondered what they were hiding. hurting.running from.
we wear secrets like money-belts for travelers. strapped firmly underneath our clothes. protecting what both what we treasure and hate the most. hiding our secrets away from the untrusted. the thief. who will leave us empty. we want them near so we can feel them when we breathe. but sometimes it hurts. and you wish someone would just take your damn money.
sometimes secrets are more like ghosts. that haunt you when you least expect it. when your brushing your teeth. crossing the street. looking at the stars. they creep up.
sometimes their like bees and tacks. that you've swallowed.
they sting and scrape their way down.
sometimes they leave you nauseous in a 10 hour car ride home.
and frightened when your alone.
unfortunately the lake told god my secrets. i suppose s/he knew them all along. still i cant bring myself to talk. so instead, i wait till midnight, and snuggle at the Creator's feet. God sits on a big comfy arm chair and drinks green tea late at night. s/he waits to share. s/he waits for me to sit and there i cry. my god doesn't need words. defenses. pretending. s/he just holds me till the morning.

aubergine the eggplant painting.

2009-09-08T08:17:00.000-07:00

Aubergine woke up from a dreamless sleep on that Tuesday. she couldn't tell time, even though a big red clock arrogantly hung to her left. she only experienced time, slowly.... and inevitably, with a tinge of regret. the clock reminded her daily that she was a one dimensional piece of art, imprisoned on a canvas, in the kitchen of her enemy. this afternoon seemed to be no different than any other. she simply hung, in the same place, on the same yellow wall, venturing only into her thoughts. on afternoons like these she'd think of love and family. she'd wonder if other eggplants were ever immortalized with pain. aubergine would, in these long hours of boredom imagine what life would have been like if she still lived in the garden, as a young tangible vegie. BUT THEN.... her musings were interrupted by the violent odor of something that smelled like burning.... flesh? aubergine started to panic. her painted contours began to tremble. she had no real flesh to burn.... where was this stench coming from?

the fire alarm started its usual summoning of dinner, and from the darkness of the next room emerged the Vegetarian. then aubergine saw her--- laying lifelessly on the frying pan.

"Mom?".

what an unforeseen conflict aubergine thought sadly.

Part II.

aubergine couldn't toss in her sleep because she couldn't actually move. but if she could have tossed during those dreams she would have. tossed, and danced and even giggled. in those dreams she would be 3 D, and five feet tall; she would have little purple arms and lovely purple hands. she'd be mincing that Vegetarian. She would be smothering her with tomato sauce, and cloaking her with cheese. In a Pyrex coffin. the Vegetarian wouldn't cry or smile or talk or plea, she'd just lay there, marinating in basil and olive oil from the night before. Aubergine would feel empowered and alive, as she'd slide the vegetarian in the preheated oven to cook for the next 45 minutes. aubergine would then dust off her lovely little eggplant hands, on her lovely little purple apron and smile. but before eating, she'd take out her paints and create an immortalizing portrait of the vegetarian now broiled in damn sauce and cheese. There on the yellow wall she'd hang her painting in the empty space where aubergine herself once hung.

for this was aubergine's dream. her immortal hope.

79 (non-violent) things to do with my jack knife.

2009-08-31T15:59:00.000-07:00

For my birthday Andrew got me a beautiful beautiful knife, which he carved my name into along with some gorgeous designs. (a sunshine, and a dinosaur, and even a little snail)
Ive always wanted a jackknife. Ever since i was 4. Apart from the obvious forceful conquering of my enemies, i never really knew what exactly i'd do with a knife. i just dreamt of having one to call my very own.
While driving back to Kingston from the Soo i made myself a list 79 of non-violent things to do with my new knife. however for the sake of sharing, i have narrowed it down to the top 29 things i intend to do:

1. remove a bullet from the open wound of a suffering bystander
2. amputation, (only if requested, and if necessary)
3. intimidate leeches.
4. covert slashing of authorities tires, ie( corrupt capitalist politicians, war mongers and police) the greater good of the environment.
5. give brendan a haircut, or a quick shave. (preferably while he sleeps)
6. fillet eggplants
7. uncouth decision making.
8. create vintage shorts
9. ethical "persuasion"
10. archaeological digs
11. cut strangulation devices and ropes, to free strangled subjects.
12. pick locks that lead to secret and forbidden areas (preferably penitentiaries. so i can free the captives)
13. stop eminent explosions by releasing air or gas pressure
14. butter breads with various spreads, such as hummus, tzekiki, babaganoush etc.
15. give amateur body piercings to loved ones
16. chisel ice into wedding sculptures.
17. make a hole in someone's flesh to suck out venom (if asked to)
18. censor books and or vinyl records
19. make pelts out of raodkill, for the less fortunate.
20. add breathing holes to cages and terrariums
21. sign checks/legal documents with my own blood
22. (warrented adult) circumcision (in emergency case only)
23. relieve the uncomfortableness of tight clothing
24. covertly end all sports. (deflating sports balls mid game)
25. pick wild flowers (its a good one 'cause sometimes they're in there pretty good)
26. peacefully hot wire buses or small motorcycles
27. mince fine garlic
28. cut chelsea's son's umbilical cord
29. harvest pearls from clams. (its the only precious stone made through hardship).

lake fight.

2009-08-31T09:45:00.000-07:00

Dino-might

2009-08-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

22 years ago, on sunday i was an overweight purple fat baby struggling to live.

they put me in a plastic tank. with wires on my head. i lived.

so i dance. every year i dance to remember that its great to be born.

dancing barefoot on the beach, at dusk while weaving in and out of tiki torches with loved ones is one of my many little birthday rituals.

in these moments, once a year, i am free. i am reminded im loved. i reminded i am alive.

this year some traditions were kept. some were broken. some were made.

KEPT:

* traditional 'Orange Dream' cheers with my mom & favorite aunt and my cousin Jay. (they havnt missed a single birthday) :)

* the traditional rad cake.

this year - DINOSAUR and volcano

BROKEN:

* Family friends Yvonne& Juhanni have celebrated with me for the past 15 years. This year they couldn't make it in physical body, so as a gift they made full sized masks of themselves. i love having middle-aged friends. :)

MADE:
Andrew spoiled me.....with the gift of a JACKKNIFE. (my lifelong dream) ( the knife in fact is so wonderful it deserves its own blog entry tommorrow)Andrew also surprised me with my very own DINOSAUR outfit! the teeth and the eyes GLOW in the dark! good gracious im lucky.

we danced. to CCR and James brown.we danced as good as any t-rex can dance. and i was a very very happy girl.