As of October 2005, all new PheeBlog entries will be found out on the Word of Mouth blog What you will find here are archives. Go ahead and read... for the history.

I indulge myself shamelessly in this blog, so, be warned--you risk exposure to unusual observations, true confessions and (occasionally funny) self-analysis.  

If, like me, you're endlessly curious about other peoples' psyches, or maybe you'd like to know me better, proceed, and welcome .

If you find other people's realities boring or if you've reached the limit of how much you care to know about me, you might prefer to check out what's so funny, or perhaps creative words. 

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I indulge myself shamelessly in this blog, so, be warned--you risk exposure to unusual observations, true confessions and (occasionally funny) self-analysis.  

September 12, 2005

Habits, Changes, and Changes of Habit

Ah, it’s been a long summer of continuous outward focus. I’ve had little to no time to spend on introspection, and now I find I’m out of the habit. Who the heck am I? I’m filled with contradictory desires. I want to be single. No, I want to be in a relationship. No, I want sexual adventures with strange men. No, I want to bond with and work with women. No, I want to sing. No, I want to be an artist. No, I want to write. No, I want to party. No, I want to travel and explore the world. No, I want a home with a garden. No, I want to spend time with my children and family. No, I want to sleep. No, I want to be busy every second of the day. No, I want to read endlessly. No, I want to make things. No, I want to go back to school. No, I want to build my business. No, I want to be a musician. No, I…

The list proliferates, literally endlessly. I’m filled with visions, ideas, plans, all fed by conflicting desires. I feel scattered, my energies dissipating in all directions. They say you cannot manifest what you want unless you can get specific about what your desires are. That’s my achilles heel. My desires are global! Now, in the fall, many projects are calling for my attention. My mind is boggled.

Complicating matters, I’m going through a big change. A Change. The Change, they call it. My body is, entirely without my consent, manifesting signs of the dreaded (and eagerly anticipated) moonpause.   This stirs all sorts of emotions and contradictions all by itself. I want to live in a cave with a crystal ball, listening to my inner guidance and scrying the secrets of the universe. And I want to live in the world, to grow up, to support myself well enough within the bounds of the current system that I may live comfortably in a home of my own. I want to … oh, never mind.

My wants are so complex and varied that they make me tired. I want life to be simpler. No matter what I achieve, it cannot be enough to satisfy all of me. I can’t even envision a situation in which I might be fully satisfied in all my desires. And that compromises my motivation in a big way.

Let go of desire, they say. Nope, I’m not willing to do that. I’m stubborn about it, for reasons having to do with my personal belief system. I believe desire is intrinsic to will, and that will is a valid and necessary part of self. However, it might prove necessary to stop insisting that my desires be fulfilled as a condition for my contentment. Seems like that’s the way it’s got to be, at least for now. Until the world changes, or until I do. And I will. Whether I like it or not. That’s what this Change is about.

The older I get, the less I know relative to all that there is to know, and the more I know relative to what I used to know. I have the strange sensation of growing and shrinking at the same time. The expanding Universe is growing at a faster rate than I am. Paradox rules.

I even can’t be angry at anyone these days without recognizing the traits that anger me about the other within myself. I am all that annoys me, and the reason other people annoy me is that they remind me of the things I dislike in myself. It’s irritating, not to be able to cleanly blame others for my problems! Much cozier to be a victim, subject to the whims of a fickle fate and prey to the evil actions of others. Darn, I miss those simple days of victimhood.

Yes, I admit it. I am a recovering victim. I’ve been through the wringer, terrible experiences in childhood, all sorts of deprivations and tragic circumstances which I still get caught up in, blah blah. I have horror stories to tell, and I have enoyed telling them.

I don’t want to say those experiences were my fault, or that terrible experiences are the fault of the children who experience them. Not at all. Children are not to blame for their lives. But children are more than just children. Children are embodied souls who come in with a pre-existing pattern (we astrologers call that pattern ‘the natal chart’), and that pattern magnetizes experiences to them. Those experiences aren’t negotiable, and it’s how we respond to those experiences as we grow up that determines that indefinable quality called ‘character’.

I personally don’t have much in the way of character, I’m afraid. I habitually take the easy way out whenever possible. I have no positive habits to speak of. Most of my habits are self-destructive. I’m a slave to my bad habits, except when I escape them—until I backslide and find myself back in the rut.

Some habits I have escaped, however, more or less permanently. Coffee, for example. I was once a serious coffee-holic. Hey, don’t laugh; when you count your intake in pots per day, caffeine is a serious substance! I struggled with that one for years, quitting for a few months every year or so till I finally shook the demon caffeine. Now, I have a cuppa or two a week in the summer and none all winter, and it’s not a big deal. So, I know recovery is possible. But my most serious and hard-to-kick addiction is food. Heavy, sticky, gooey, thick, food like oh, cheese, and bread, and sugar, especially in combination. Yum.

I fall into my addictive indulgences until I experience a health scare that causes me to pull out of the sticky mess for a while. Then, I slide back down with eye-rolling inevitability. It’s not even that I enjoy the sensation of eating those icky sticky things that much. I don’t. But it’s compulsive. If I did enjoy it more, I wouldn’t worry about it. But it offends my esthetic sense to be taking in substances if I’m not enjoying them at a level that makes it worth their negative effect on my body.

That’s what it comes down to, and why I never started smoking tobacco as a teen. The payoff didn’t seem worth it. It’s also why I don’t drink much—no amount of enjoyment is worth that awful morning-after to me. I’m still not sure what the payoff is supposed to be, with cigarettes—some substances have an obvious payoff (alcohol and other substances at least offer something back, in the form of pleasure and heightened or altered experience). Food used to be worth it. Mouth orgasms. Oh, my. But now, I’m struggling to escape what I call Growly Dog. Grrr, mine, my food, gimme. Leaving me feeling painfully bloated, heavy and nauseous.

Right now, I’m staying home from a party I’d really like to have attended because I don’t trust myself not to gorge on the pizza that will be abundantly available. See, I’ve recently recovered from another health scare related to my body’s Change. The importance of eating only food that actually has nutritional value has been brought home to me. I’ve begun the novel task of choosing foods solely for their mineral and nutritional content, especially for things like iron, calcium and magnesium. Nourishing foods, as opposed to the comfort foods that I have always craved. Why are comfort foods always so high in sugar, dairy and bread? My body just can’t handle that many calories anymore.

I’m having to face the fact that sometimes it’s necessary to avoid social situations that put me at risk of indulging. I admit I’m not strong enough. It’s the character thing. I’ve never been good at saying no. I’m more of a yes person, usually. I like saying yes. I would have liked to say yes to the party, and the parts of me that wanted to go are annoyed with the rest of me. I suppose the parts of me that said no to the party exhibited character. Hah. “I may look like I’m alone, but I’m a one-woman community.” Some of me are really smart and strong, and when they’re on top, I do pretty well.

But it’s impossible to be consistent about it. I don’t quite get how those people who are consistent do it. It’s a mystery to me. Even if they explained—and they’ve tried—it wouldn’t help. Because we’re different. I’m different. You’re different. Nobody can walk a mile in another’s shoes. They wouldn’t fit. We’d get blisters. All we can do is accept each other in our differences. There’s my platitude for the day.

That’s all for now…

phee

I indulge myself shamelessly in this blog, so, be warned--you risk exposure to unusual observations, true confessions and (occasionally funny) self-analysis.  

July 12, 2005

Performance Anxiety, Perfectionism and Pride

It’s been a long time since I wrote in this blog, and I’m starting to feel clogged up. I have tons to say, but I can never remember what it was when I’m sitting at the screen. Damn writer’s block!

Of course, I don’t exactly spend hours starting at the screen, either, these days. Time gets shorter as the days get long. Maybe because I’m a night person! In the winter, I seem to have endless hours to fill. But now, everything I do has this undercurrent of frantic hurry, even when I have no ostensible reason for hurry in that moment. I feel pressured by the weight of upcoming events to prepare for.

Like, for instance, all the performances coming up. Most immediately, Peter and I have a three-hour gig at Vorizo this Thursday; then we'll play at the Cortes Island Arts Festival a week after that. On the one hand, it’s fun to sing and play. On the other hand, it’s terrifying. In the middle between the two hands, I need to be prepared… the more prepared I am the more fun it is. Well, d-uh... but it's been a hard habit to develop.

This year I feel pretty solid in what we’re playing. But in order to get there I’ve had to practice practice practice. In fact, I should be practicing right now.

How on earth do other band situations I’m in get away with one practice a week? The answer to that, for my part at least, is simple… it's because my parts in those bands are simple. Mo’Fire backup singing, or Kantata rhythms just aren’t that difficult compared to writing, arranging, playing and singing all at once. In a group situation, with a lot of people to fill the soundspace, each part can be smaller.

In a little group like ours—two people—my part is half of the whole thing. More than half, because I’m the guitar player. There’s more pressure to be perfect. But I’m not… perfect that is. Though, with my Virgo Ascending, I do aspire to perfection. This makes me very unhappy with myself, though I am getting happier as I improve.

I was noticing how much my playing has improved lately. I’ve only been playing guitar seriously for a few years, and in those years I’ve gone long stretches without touching the thing. But still, I keep improving, learning new things, getting better, more fluid and comfortable. Sweet!

It’s a nice feeling. Gad, remembering the early days when I first started performing with the guitar, way before I was ready… that took chutzpah. And it took being willing to feel incredibly tense and uptight onstage as I fumbled and blundered my way through my poor songs. I don’t know if I approve of my past self’s choice to do that, in retrospect… but it was good experience and it gives me something to compare myself very positively with, now.

I’ve gotten downright professional. All the work I’ve been doing with these other bands, including the Peace Choir, has paid off as well in my singing. I’m actually really excited about this Vorizo gig. I can’t remember being excited about a show before. More excited than scared, that is. And this time—it’s true! I’m more excited than scared! Whoo-hoo!!

Still, there’s so much room for improvement that it’s daunting. Damn Virgo rising perfectionism. Though, I’ve finally reached the place where I actually get compliments for my playing. Imagine! And I can relax with the guitar enough to pay attention to my singing, which is a quantum evolutionary leap.

Then there’s the CD. But I don’t want to talk about that. Still waiting for the money to manufacture the disc. But soon come. (Isn’t that what we on the radio society board keep saying? Do I detect a pattern here? What’s that about?)

There, I blathered about something. That feels better. Now I’d better get it uploaded so I can go on to the next thing—which, not coincidentally, is going to involve playing my guitar. Next I need to talk to Tony Wilson about lessons.

June 10, 2005

Who, Me, Nasty? Naw, I'm Jes' Funnin'...

I learned recently that I can be a nasty bitch . This may be a shock to no one but myself, but denial does work! Truly, I’ve always been a smart-ass. But that's different. It was my only defense against terminal shyness. My extended family of origin were all smart-asses. Of course, most of the rest of them were actually funny . Every day we got together was a laugh-fest. I loved that. Endless good-humoured snappy repartee (though the good-humoured part may not have been obvious from the outside).

It didn’t make for much real intimacy, but it was lots of fun. And of course there was music; lots of my relatives played an instrument and sang, and the ones who didn’t enthusiastically appreciated the ones who did. Laughter and music is still pretty much my definition of heaven (I won’t mention at this time the role alcohol played in loosening the adults’ inhibitions ).

I suppose that deep down I must want everybody to be like my family, and so I treat everyone—total strangers and friends alike—as though they actually are. And some people respond, and laugh with me; others feel humiliated and angry. They just don’t understand! It’s all in good fun.

Heh heh. That’s the story anyway. I’m starting to wake up to the fact that there’s more to the world than my family. When I was a kid, there were two classes of people in the world: relatives (people I could poke fun at without offense being taken) and strangers, those who triggered my horrid painful bashfulness.

I grew up in the wilds of central BC, where my early childhood was pretty much spent with relatives and relatives of relatives (the gene pool was limited, so everybody ended up marrying into everybody else’s family ). There was my tribe, and there were ‘others’ (I didn’t encounter them until I started school). The ‘others’ were different. They didn’t laugh at the same things my tribe laughed at. Some of them hardly laughed at all. They didn’t ‘get’ me. They were bad, dangerous, alien.

When I live in the city, I’m a fish out of water. On Hornby, I begin to feel safe again, among kindred—family, my tribe. I’m almost there. But I’m still awkward. Belonging takes time. Laughter is a good thing when it’s comfortable, and comes from inspiration and a sense of belonging. Then, offense needn’t be taken. When laughter comes from a desire to get safely into the superior position—when it’s a defense mechanism—it’s not such a good thing. Then, laughter can hurt—it becomes a weapon. ‘Poking fun at’ is often only fun for the poker. When there’s a point to be made, as in satire or political humour, that’s one thing. But so often there’s no point—just insecure jockeying for position.

When I look out there into the world (not difficult in the Webbed World) and I see the humour out there, much of it strikes me as the defensive, get-‘em-before-they-get-you sort. Funnier than mine, of course; but still sharp, barbed, sarcastic. And people love that stuff. I do, myself, sometimes —but it’s not at me. There’s a charge we get out of watching other people be withered with cutting witticism.

I’ve come around full circle from pitying my past self (poor po’ shy li’l perennial stranger) to realizing what a gift it was, despite the accompanying chaos—the laughter, singing and closeness, big extended family. Thanks, Rays! Kindred+inclusion=good. Stranger+alienation=bad. There’s my morality in a nutshell.

I don’t hate strangers. I just wish they weren’t strangers. Once I get to know them, then they’re not strangers. So, my banter with people I don’t know is rooted in a desire to cut past all the getting-to-know-you dance (which I never learned how to do) and get right to the laughing-together stage. If that happens (and surprisingly often, it does), I’m ok, they’re ok, everything’s ok—we’re family.

In the old days, ‘out there’ in the world of strangers, the only way I could talk at all was to make snarky comments, meant to be funny, but because of my fear of strangers, usually not funny at all . Every year on Hornby, the world ‘out there’ arrives here and I find myself go through sporadic periods of compulsive uncomfortable banter. I think I’ve come a long way, but yesterday I discovered how far I still have to go.

It’s amazing how things about oneself which are glaringly obvious to others can go unnoticed (or at least unacknowledged in one’s self-image) for years. I’ve tended to see myself as a nice, friendly but shy sort of person ( you can stop laughing now, I’m confessing here). Yesterday, I watched myself humiliate the guy in front of me in the Co-op line. It was somebody I don’t really know, who therefore qualifies as a ‘stranger’. I do know his name, but that’s all (and I’m not going to repeat it here).

I want to apologize to him. I’ll call him, um, Joe… as in, Joe Blow (he was definitely not Joe King ). I’m sorry, Joe. I really am. I didn’t mean to embarrass you about your food choices. Here’s what I did. Joe happened to be buying some deli potato salad, some licorice and a couple of candy bars. Well, snarky bitch-in-me thought that was real funny. So I said, meaning to poke fun, “Is that dinner?”

He was uncomfortable with my comment but I didn’t choose to notice. He laughed politely and said, “Yeah… divorced guy dinner.” Nicely done, Joe. Humourous response in the face of nasty nose-poking. Pretty classy, actually . So then, unable to let the theme go, I began some banter with the other person at the till (another stranger) about how candy bars should be taxed like cigarettes, you know, a health tax, but for adults only (who should know better), and I pretty much rode it into the ground. Funny, not.

Then I kind of sort of almost noticed what I was doing, and said (by way of extremely oblique apology—well, I felt a wee bit apologetic), “Hey, Joe, don’t you hate it when people pick on your food choices at the till like that?” Boy. 

Joe let me know with a cutting comment that he had certainly NOT appreciated my poky play-by-play on his purchases. Then I cringed in the sudden glare of daylight being shone on my behavior. Yikes! Was that really me who said that?

Don’t get me wrong. I can be a nice person. I have a good heart (is there really such a thing as a bad heart, non-medically speaking?). I am capable of great lovingness in intimate situations. I can be really funny at parties, something I can judge only by the sincere-sounding laughter of the other people in the room. But now and then, usually when I’m faking rather than feeling comfortable, I sound an off note (or two), and the laughter seems more forced than real.

Maybe that’s why I don’t get invited to many parties. Is there a twelve-step group for this? Just kidding. Been there, done that.

Sometimes I suspect I’m not all that easy to be around, but it’s hard to be exactly sure. Damn Canadian politeness! Sometimes it would be a favour to be told to just shut the fuck up. I might not do it right away (I have a Taurus Mercury; it’s hard for me to shift mental gears fast). But I’d get the message! I do learn… eventually.

But this guy, Joe—let me elaborate that he’s a good-looking hunky guy—was exactly the type who would instantly draw out my smart-assness in high school. Welll… in my mind, that is. In those days, in real life, I seldom had the nerve to say anything to one of those guys. I practiced on the misfits in the back of the room, outsiders like me. When the chips were down I always had a snappy comeback in my head which never quite made it to my lips, except for the rare occasions when I broke loose with some brayingly awkward smart-ass-ism that fell to the ground with a thunk and made me wish for death to save me from myself.

I’m working on growing out of it, but I still experience backsliding moments of unconsciousness; at those times, my mouth moves on its own without the active participation of either my brain or heart. When that happens, feel free to slap me—gently, if you would—just enough to wake me up. I don’t really mean to be mean. I’m just regressing.

In high school, where hunky guys like Joe were concerned, I had no mercy in my heart. They deserved any cutting-down I could administer in my wittiest fantasies. They already had it all going for them. The power, the glory, the attention. And they were tall, too, damn them! They should be cut down to size—my size. I was a small girl with a big head. Okay, I was mad at them. I’ve pretty much gotten over it, though. Some of my best friends are hunky guys. I even get to sleep with one .

That doesn’t immunize me from the new ones, though—the strangers. Seems like there are some things we never do quite get over. Parts of us are still stuck in high school, that ridiculously awkward glandular hell. Pity ourselves then, but take responsibility now. That’s what I’m doing. Poor po’ me—back then. I was pitiful. I’m not anymore. Time to get over myself.

Sorry again, Joe. And thanks for the little life lesson. If I ever see you again outside the Co-op till line-up, I hope I have the balls (I refer to ovaries, of course ) to apologize in person. If I don’t, well, I apologize in advance for that! (I think I’ve admitted somewhere else in these pages that I’m a coward ).

But I love myself anyway.

Getting back to Joe, I like him . That’s why I picked on him. I only pick on the ones I like and wish I could get to know better. He can’t help being a hunky guy. I wish I could get over this and be more like other people who can be appropriate and not always on with the smart-ass comments. But I’m torn. I do like smart-ass. It’s fun. It’s a childhood comfort thing. Maybe I have to try harder to actually be funny when I do it.

So… Joe? No hard feelings?

June 2, 2005

Confessions of a Good-Hearted Evil Person (or is it evil-hearted good person?)

I’ve learned something about myself through the process of writing my last few webitorials. You may think I’m doing this website for altruistic reasons, but really it’s a dastardly plot to get to understand myself better, mwah-ha-ha! Selfish bitch!

It’s a funny thing. I’ve spent my whole life striving, struggling to understand who or what the heck I am. I started out as a crabby old lady in my childhood, sitting in the corner with arms crossed, glowering at the world. What am I doing in this place? Who are these people? What does it all mean? Some of my earliest memories are of chewing, gnawing on these old-lady questions like a dog on a bone. Seldom did I loosen up enough to just play freely. I was a weird kid.

It was complicated by the fact that we lived in such isolated circumstances, sans television or other exposure to the so-called ‘normal’ world. I’ve approached life and social situations as an outsider, wondering how to play the game, ignorant of the rules that others picked up in their childhoods, from other kids and people at school, from TV, from their parents.

I was never a particularly observant kid either. I tended to look through resentful red-rimmed eyes, and I noticed only that which was personally relevant to me, usually something I wasn’t getting enough of or a way I wasn’t being noticed enough. Boy, I must have been a hard prickly little critter to raise. My sympathies to my mom (hi, Mom! ).

When my own daughter was three, she said something to me that’s become a family joke, because it's so true: “Mommy, when I grow up and you grow down, I’ll be the mom and you’ll be the kid.” And of course, so it has transpired. I am much more childlike, and becoming more so, than I ever was as an actual child. By childlike I mean trusting, open, innocent . Not innocent as in ‘incapable of wrong-doing’ or ‘without responsibility for my own life’ or anything like that. I mean innocent as in clean, free of poisonous attitudes, judgments and beliefs (by my own definition, of course! .

Somehow I wasn’t born clean. Well, perhaps I was born that way—I sort of remember it almost—but I got shocked immediately, upon emergence into that cold, hard bright hospital room, with the realization that things weren’t the way I wanted them to be. I spent the next twenty odd years of my life bitterly resenting that.

Now… well, I don’t claim to be free of resentment—I still knee-jerk into resentful responses inside myself fairly often (old habits die hard)—but now I recognize it for what it is, or at least for what I believe it to be: pure poison. There’s a saying or a quote, from whom I can’t recall (and I’ll probably garble it anyway) that goes something like, “Resentment is like taking poison and hoping it’ll kill your enemy.” A poem by William Blake, “The Poison Tree” (which I won’t attempt to quote!) says basically the same thing.

I became something of an expert on resentment, since I've basically marinated in it my entire life until relatively recently. Having cleansed my heart of the bulk of it, I’ve come to this understanding—and this is what I’ve learned from my recent webitorials :

I have no enemies. I can't think of a single person I actually hate! Oh, there are some I'm mad at. But not hate. On this island in particular, I can’t think of anybody whose eyes I avoid or begrudge a smile to. I may not like everyone—I don't approve of everyone’s behavior— but I don’t hate anyone. What a relief that is! Man, I’ve wasted so much energy on hating. I don’t even hate my ex-husband anymore, and that was a hard one to work through, because he really does appear so hateable. His behavior is very hard to take. But it’s not his fault. Inside, he’s a sad lonely little boy with a big loving heart but way to afraid to show it . It’s true; I’m not just saying that. He’s a terribly hurt person and I feel a lot of love and sympathy for him.

There are a lot of folx who would call me a naïve pollyanna. But it’s not that I don’t recognize the evil side of the coin. It’s just that I know it’s not ‘out there’. It’s in me. I have been a vicious hateful bitch at different moments in my life. If I can forgive myself, man, I can forgive anybody.

I’ll quote myself now (from a song on the CD called “Red Hands”): “Evil walks the planet in our flesh / It points at others, whispers “wickedness”/ They are the ones who must be shown / that our God’s the one to dread… / and no one wants to know what the Prophet said” (click here to see the rest of the lyrics to that one).

I had a dream once, many years ago—before I moved to Hornby in the late 80s—that really struck me to the core, and has stayed with me ever since. I’ll spare myself writing out the details, but it concerned a very evil man—a brutal dictator of a squalid third-world country whose people suffered in abject poverty while he lived in a golden palace. This man was playing with the emotions of the rest of us in the dream—the more angry and frightened of him we became, the more he liked it—the more powerful he grew. He literally sucked the energy out of the emotions that we were being triggered into—he manipulated us into feeling them so he could get juice.

Then the dream sort of opened up, like dreams do sometimes, so that I could see clearly what was happening, and I saw right inside him, into his heart, and I saw a small boy in a cage, a hurt, sad, scared little boy , and I connected with that part of him. And immediately everything changed. He saw me, he opened to me and in the end of the dream we walked away hand in hand. There was a lot more to it of course; this is the greatly condensed version.

But I try to live my life that way—by meeting people face to face, no matter who they are or how others see them or how they act or look or seem, with the intention of seeing into their hearts, of recognizing the loving core that everybody has. 

I do believe in evil. I have it in me. Having evil in me, it seems likely that evil people have good in them—just as I see myself as basically a good and loving person. So, just because I’m for one person doesn’t mean I’m against the people they are against. I can’t be against anybody, not really. I can’t close off my heart that way. It took me too much hard work to crack the stony little thing open in the first place ; I’m not willing to close up again. Yeowch. That’s too painful a way to live. I remember.

I still have moods. I still get inward and withdrawn. And oh my gawd, do I get jealous sometimes, of others’ gifts, opportunities and blessings. But these are just moods, and my moods are about me, not about other people. “The enemy lives in my mind / whispering words so twisted and unkind.”

I was talking about enemy consciousness in my last webitorial… it seems to me that interpretation is ninety percent of all wars. How we interpret other peoples' motives is the problem. We interpret the behavior of our trusted friends differently than we do the behavior of someone we dislike or mistrust.

Yes, people do bad things. Horrible things, sometimes! And I would never suggest that those things be condoned or ignored. Light does need to be shone on what is really happening. We need to be able to say to perpetrators, “Hey—look what you are doing! What you are doing is causing harm! It may not be your fault; you may not mean to be doing it; and even if you do mean to do it, it might be because you yourself are feeling so much hurt. But you are doing it. Stop it, please, if you possibly can. And if you can’t, action may need to be taken to prevent further hurt. But that’s not the same as punishment.”

Ginny Ayres, who used to live here, liked to say, “Be hard on issues, but soft on people.” I like that a lot. Thanks, Gin. 

phee

May 21, 2005
Mo' Blues, Mo' Dancing, Mo' Life

Maybe you saw me lurking outside the door at the acoustic blues concert, and I did slip in for the last few songs. The following night, I managed to catch the last four or five tunes (including an encore and one extra that I coaxed out of David Gogo). It turns out, I couldn’t stay home. I’m just a fool for that music.

My guilt wouldn’t allow me to push past my frazzled friend who felt responsible and feared she would get into trouble if she let me come in after the break. I tried to talk her into it, I admit...I told her my sad story (which she felt was unfair pressure)...then she trumped me with the ‘hurt’ card—the one that goes, “I will feel so hurt if you…”I couldn’t hurt her. So I stayed on the porch and had a different kind of fun, hanging with the peeps. (It’s okay, though, sweetie, I forgive you. It was a hard position for both of us to be in. I hope you forgive me too.)

That’s where the guilt stuff came in. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, so I stayed away as long as I could. But by the time I was let in, near the end, lots of other people had already left. There were plenty of empty seats around me at the end of the acoustic concert. I could easily have come in earlier, had a seat and bothered no one. Or I could have stood by the back wall with the other leprechauns.

It’s not the acoustic night that tends to grab me by the root, though. It’s the next night, the one you’re allowed to dance at. That’s really the only reason, though. It’s annoying to have to sit through the acoustic night without dancing. It’s often every bit as danceworthy. A few years ago, Ellen McIlwaine did the rockingest wildest, most wrenching, transcendently cool guitar performance ever witnessed, on acoustic night. That one was torture to sit through, but I made do with chair dancing.

I need to dance. That’s not news, but I do forget. It’s easy to forget on this island sometimes, because opportunities to dance are so few and far between. Is it just me, or do dancers get less respect these days?

Last night I went down to jazz (hoping for some blues—though I do love live jazz too). And my body, newly awakened and unsatisfied by the few songs I danced to on electric night (I hadn’t even broken a sweat ), wanted to dance. But there was no space to dance (that’s the main reason I’ve stopped going to jazz nights regularly—there used to be a little room to dance). I carved a bit of by space sort of leaning against the bar by the band, but had to move out of the waitress’ way a few times.

That’s frustrating. I love this island, I love living here. It’s heaven in way too many ways and I’m hooked. Unless I’m compelled to, it’s not likely I’ll leave. But I want more space to dance here! Dance is beyond a recreational activity for me. Music, and dance, is in my blood, my bones. Dance is to me like water is to a fish. Dance to me is what guitar is to David Gogo. I don’t mean to say I’m good at it on that level—that’s not something I need to have an opinion about. It’s not about that. It’s more elemental.

In my ideal world, there’s a good live dance twice a month. At least. And there’s a regular place to go dance to recorded (or live—just so it’s informal) music with other people every week, or even twice a week. Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket. That’s what I want.

And I want to sing too! Speaking of perfect worlds. I would love to sing with a group of people. So I’m placing my order now for more opportunities. The Peace Choir was great--but it's over for the summer. I'd like something ongoing to happen. I’d try to create the opportunities myself—organize something, open the space, announce it, start a group, teach a class, whatever. But whenever I offer things on Hornby, nobody signs up for it.

“And when exactly did you last try it?”
“Um. I don’t remember. A couple of years ago I offered an astrology course but it was a dud. Only one person signed up.”
“And before that?”
“A long time. Years.”
“Hm.”
“What do you mean, ‘Hm’?”
“Never mind.”

I get the point. I’ll think about it. This is a blog, so I don’t have to actually make plans I have to follow through with. Just spin out my thoughts, paint word pictures, tell stories and pretty much say whatever I please. Cool! 

People don’t come to my parties, either. But maybe if I start talking about my fiftieth birthday, two Aprils hence, maybe it’ll lodge in somebody’s brain as a potentially cool thing, who knows? 

“Somebody—who? Who’s reading this stuff?” 
“Never mind. Just write.”
“Oh. All right.”

The dance. Oh my, the electric dance. What’s that about? Somehow the blues brings out the… the animal, the serpent, the what? in me. There’s no word for it, or if there is, I haven’t thought of it yet.

At the end of the last electric blues night I had made it to (that would be 2003), Ron Cassat gave me a hug and said, “You did it, darlin’. You brought them together.” And while I was digesting that, he added, “We were watching.” 

Well that was pretty intense to hear. I still don't quite know what to make of it. Sure, I'd had the experience of feeling like I was the one 'doing it'... weaving the energy together somehow and having the people respond. But I’ve always thought it was my imagination. Some little private ego trip I take myself on, a Leo Moon fantasy picture. I mean, Jesus! Who do I think I am? Just because sometimes everything lights up when I start to dance doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have happened anyway, whether or not I was there. Life is unpredictable. I can never tell what causes what. Shit just happens. What do I know?

That’s what I’ve always thought. And I still don’t know. I don’t have an ego that takes in praise (or any sort of positive feedback) very easily. I question everything. I’m a terrible cynic when it comes to my own value. “What, this old thing?” Must be frustrating for people who want to say good things about me. Yet, when somebody like Ron Cassat says a thing like that to me--it has to mean something. I have nothing but respect for the man. He wouldn't jive me.

The next question might be something like, "So what?"

“Oh, stop it. You’re being seriously pathetic.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“The fact that you ask that is just plain weird.”
“Oh. Is *that* a bad thing?”
“…Never mind.”

Getting uncomfortable. Revealing too much? Better change the subject.

I love emoticons. They’re just so darn *cute*. That’s why I love animated films too. I’m a sucker for cute. Cute just slays me. Except for faux-cute, contrived cute, created by marketers or affected with intent to manipulate. That’s when it stops being cute and loses the power to charm me. Emoticons, however, are useful--they help to graphically illustrate emotional meanings--and they can’t help being cute. There’s no way to make a non-cute emoticon, imo. Even death is cute, when it's an emoticon.

‘Course, another person might find emoticons excrutiatingly annoying. But I figure those folx are not so likely to be interested in this blog anyhoo. For them, now, I've decided to leave the emoticons off my webitorials. It tends to be my orator side talking over there. And over there, people can focus their attention like good children. There, that’s fine. That’s what it’s about. Over there, I’m the webitor. Here, I’m just me. Whatever that is.

And so, tra-la-la, off we go exploring the wonders of me. Are ya still here? Jeez, take a break, go pee, have a snack. No sense pushing yourself. Take as long as you like. (And, oh--if you’re bored, this might not be the room for you. I suggest you try WhatSoFunny Words. Ain’t my mom a hoot?)

Are you back? See, I’ve decided to pretend somebody is reading this. I know, it’s silly, these mind games, but when your brain is arranged in a moebius sort of manner, thinking becomes convoluted, and therefore so does communication. I mean, I suppose *somebody* will read it—it’s on the site, available to be read. But it’s also just me blah-blahing to myself. It’s a little weird. I’ll get used to it. Maybe.

Where was I? Oh yeah… I was talking about the blues dance. I hadn’t decided until eleven-thirty or so that I was even going to go. I had originally intended not to, feeling very shy about not having a ticket. But then, me and my sweetie ended up sliding on down—seemed like we could hardly help ourselves—the magnet was so strong.

We got there just as the set was ending. There was a long torturous break, while I wondered if anybody was there who knew we’d been bumped from the volunteer list and therefore had no right to be in the room. Really, though, I suppose it was no big deal. I could have gone earlier and no one likely would have interfered. It’s a dance, after all. Lots of people leave after the first set. There’s room. There *was* plenty of room, in point of fact.

Anyway, what happened is, my body dove into the dance like a fish into the water—it had been sooo long!—and I kind of…remember the old commercials, “Spic ‘n Span, It’s power is released in water,’ that’s how I felt. I melted into the music, and it melted into me, and flowed through my body like the brightest warmest sweetest whatever… it was good for me, that’s what I’m saying.

And then they only played like three tunes! And that was that. The drummer (whose name I didn’t know) sang an ‘extra encore’ song, a beautiful a capella piece called ‘Old Folks’. It was lovely and all but not exactly danceable. He said he was too drunk to play anymore. But it wasn’t late, and I wanted more.

David Gogo wanted more too, I could tell. I cajoled one last song out of him. I couldn’t help it--those few songs weren’t enough for me--my own fault for arriving so late--but still! I didn’t mean to push the musicians to play beyond what they felt like could manage, but I had to cajole just a little. And he responded. I could tell he wanted to. The rest of them were ready to rest, but David was ready to gogo.

And gogo he did. Wow, that guy is a god when he plays guitar. Oh my. It was downright, um, sexual to experience. Well, it was! I dunno how it was for him, but for me…oh, yes… The other musicians came back to join him after a while; somebody else sat in on the drums, and the house rocked for one last song. But all I needed was David’s guitar. In the blues, to me, the drums are almost extraneous. It’s all about the guitar, and the voice, when somebody’s singing. Thanks, David. That was great. That was better than great.  

There was a funny thing that happened there—I had been dancing alone, just grooving with the music, then I reached over for Peter, to dance a little with him. And… the exact, precise instant that I touched him, David’s guitar sort of crashed and limped to a halt, most surprisingly.

Weird. But... David Gogo. Sigh.

Anyway, a couple of nights later, as I started out to say, I went down to Jazz night, and I tried to dance. And I did, in a small, standing-in-one-spot sort of way. Still, it was dance--very satisfying actually, and I felt connected to the music. Speaking of guitar gods, Tony Wilson is second to none, and whenever he plays, I can melt into the music.

And Nick was there! Playing! Whoo-ha! Welcome back Nick! I know this isn’t the first time since his surgery he’s played, but it’s the first time I’ve heard him, and it was wonderful. He says he’s only at about fifty-eight percent, it’s still painful and he has to take care. But Nick. Saxophone god. We bow to you.

During the break someone I hadn’t seen in many years said to me, “You know, it’s been seventeen years, but you’ve still got that spark, that shamanic thing. And your dancing, wow! You’re a shamanic dancer, did you know that?”

Hm. Another one of those weird bits of feedback that tends to both bounce off me and lodge into me, those positive affirming bits that I don’t know quite how to use. But it was cool. A shamanic dancer, huh? Whatever that is. Whatever it is, I love doing it. Sometimes I feel like I could practically live in that state of being, dancing the strands of sound without stopping until I collapsed of exhaustion. All it would take would be the opportunity to do more of it.

Well, there’s me complaining again.

“Aren’t you ever satisfied?”
“No, actually. I want more. I want change.”
“People hate change.”
“Except the people that crave it.”
“Not all change is good.”
“Maybe not. But lack of change of some kind is always bad.”
“What?”
“Change is growth and life. Lack of change is rigidity and death.”
“How do you know that?”
“How does anybody know anything?”
“Um…”
“There! See?”
“Never mind.”

Enough for now. See yall later. Thanks for hanging in. 

phee

May 15/05: 
Blues, Where Art Thou?

This marks the second year in a row in which I will be missing the Blues Festival entirely. Last year, that was okay. I could deal with that. This year, I got my name in as a volunteer early… I was booked to work lunches two days in a row, in return for which I was supposed to get to go to the Acoustic evening at the ballpark and ELECTRIC NIGHT—which I sorely missed last year—but last week Joanne bumped me (so regretfully I didn't have the heart to give her a hard time about it ). Apparently, because the tickets were all sold out before ticket sales even began, the members who had been booked to sell tickets on the porch bumped us lowly peons (non-members) so they could do the kitchen duties in exchange for tickets.

Well, there ya go. I have no grounds for complaint. Membership is only fifteen dollas a year, which only seems like a lot in the wintertime. This year I am definitely buying my Blues Society membership! No more being treated like a second-class citizen! No more crying the blues about missing the blues! 

Maybe next year I’ll even do a workshop. I did one a few years ago, with Ellen McIlwaine, though I don’t know if I got much out of it. I mean, it was only a couple hours in the afternoon, and mostly we listened to CDs of singers Ellen admired. But I figure, just being in her presence something might’ve rubbed off. She was the high point of the acoustic show that year, for me...and it was so much fun, being part of the vibe. That’s the best part of the Blues week—the vibe, that indefinable something that you get to immerse in just being in the same room as all those greats—and the excitement and enthusiasm of the students, and the blossoming of talent over the years--it’s wonderful. I do regret not getting to go. I’m quite bitterly disappointed in fact.

I did get to see Amos Garret this spring; and Todd Butler when he played at New Horizons, though he wasn’t exactly playing what you’d call the blues (it was way too funny for blues). Still, it got me through. It’s not really that I’m a blues fan per se. I feel about the blues the way I feel about jazz: it needs to be live for me to really get it.  Recorded blues & jazz leaves me--not cold, or even tepid really--but it doesn’t heat my blood either (though I do groove on Sue Foley’s recordings).

Live blues is another matter. I love good live blues, and electric night has been my peak night of the year. Watch for me next year. I’ll be dancin’ up a storm.

I hope you all have fun, even if I have to miss it. You know I hate to miss out on a good time! I just came back from the blues art show, and there was some great stuff on the walls. I especially liked Sabina’s, um, figurines, whatever they’re called. And the Blues Brothers on the piano—check out Dan and Jim! Wow. Valerie’s a friggin genius. Awesome. And all the rest of the stuff… Shannon’s Blue Note, Linda Jane’s indigo guitars… I liked Cimarron’s painting, too, and oh, lots of stuff. 

And Captain Crude was playing—Sabina has a great voice! Good songs, too. Makes me feel… well, a wee bit one down, if you must know. One is supposed to be honest in these blog things, isn’t one?

It’s embarrassing to admit such feelings. “Who me? No, I’m positive, openhearted and perfectly all right with everything that happens in my life at all times.” I’ve never fooled anybody with that face, though, except myself for brief flashes—followed by hard crashes.

So now I’ll publicly admit, I’m sometimes bitter and jealous. I wish for things and opportunities I don’t have. I feel like a victim a lot of the time. I’m working on it. It’s getting better. Really it is! But mainly because I’m accepting these dark realities as a part of myself, valid and just as much ‘me’ as the lighter brighter side. Which allows the light to expand, when the dark gets to occupy the space it really occupies. It’s one of the paradoxes of life; you know, the brighter the light, the darker the shadow! Works in reverse, too.

I don’t enjoy complaining. But I do a lot of it! I realized a while ago how much I complain. Yada yada yada, this thing and that thing’s wrong with life, with this group I’m involved in, or that group, or this project, or that person. I didn’t realize I complained so much until I accidentally woke up in mid-complaint. I suddenly became aware that I was complaining. I normally do it so unconsciously I don’t even realize it’s happening. My mouth opens, the words come out and whoever’s listening has to deal with it, while my consciousness is off someplace else (where? Hm…don’t ask).

I’m pretty comfortable with dark emotional states. It’s part of my belief system, actually, as Peter writes about so eloquently in his “Healing and Dealing” columns. I believe the Divine Spirit (by whatever name) is also comfortable with dark emotions, and that it’s my job to feel and express them so they can vibrate into the light and all like that. Good stuff.

But complaining is something else. Complaining happens when I’m not willing to feel how unhappy a given situation or person makes me feel, and cry about it in my own space without burdening other people who have nothing to do with it; instead, I just blather on in a tone of voice to make anyone in hearing distance want to turn their face away from me—though they usually stay present out of politeness. And I hate when people do that. It’s icky.

So I’ve committed to stop complaining. That doesn’t mean stop feeling bad about things that happen, nor does it mean just bite it and endure either.

Like the blues thing. A few years ago I could have gotten a lot of complaint mileage out of this situation. How victimized could I be? I was booked, I got there first, I was bumped, how unfair, who do they think they are! But it’s obvious to me now that I am actually responsible; all I needed to do was buy my Blues membership ahead of time and I’d now be one of the enfranchised, the privileged ones. Not fair, but reality.

I don't see any other way they (the Blues folks) could make it be fair--there are just too many people who want to go, more than the space will allow. They've got to pick and choose somehow, and it's only right that the membership should get first dibs. The parts of me that complain don’t care about reality, they only care about reality as it SHOULD be (according to them).

Reality is feeling more real to me than it used to, and that’s part of it, I suppose. Maybe Saturn is finally kicking in, the realistic part of me, willing to take responsibility, be patient and wait until next year for that particular piece of fun. Though I wouldn’t say no to the offer of a ticket either! Anybody got one?

After forty-eight years of slow slogging through my personal growth, I think I’m finally getting a few things. By the time I turn fifty, I expect to have lots to celebrate. Maybe I’ll even have a party. And that year, I am definitely going to go to Electric Night. Even if I have to join the Blues Society Board to do it. 

May 8/05:
Gee Thanks, Hallmark

It's Mother's Day today. This is a depressing day for me , as I suppose it must be for any mother whose kids have grown and gone and live far away. Oh yes, my daughter sent me an e-card . It was a mother whale swimming with a baby whale by her side, with whale sounds. She knows me well... I liked it. Of course, it didn't beat a phone call, or a visit, or an actual card , or even a . I miss her, and she lives on the other side of the continent, and I haven't heard from her in a while. Mother's Day is a time to wish your kids would call more. But it's a setup. I mean, I could call more, couldn't I? What makes that their job?

Mother's Day. Thanks, Hallmark.

I have two sons. I don't expect to receive e-cards, phone calls or other acknowledgments from them. My older son is cynical about family and Hallmark holidays . He doesn't believe in the bonds of blood and he doesn't remember much about his childhood. It's okay with me, except when it makes me cry. But really, he is free. I didn't raise my children to come to me out of guilt and obligation.

The truth is, my children aren't children any more. They're grownups, with their own lives, their own values and goals, and I don't have much to do with them anymore. In Nature, this is the way it is. Baby animals grow up and leave, and they don't send cards or come back for visits . They've gone beyond their childhoods and they're out living their own lives. And perhaps that's as it should be.

It doesn't mean I don't experience heart pangs when I hear tales of what other mothers' grown-up children are doing for them on Mother's Day, or how much they love and reverence dear ol' Mom . Perhaps one day my kids will come around and remember all those times they twined their little arms around my neck, gazed adoringly into my eyes and said, "I love you, Mommy." Maybe they'll remember the stories I read to them, the games we played, the sacrifices I made , the times I rescued them and helped them through their tough spots. (Jeez... what do I want--a ?)

And maybe they won't. They don't owe me for that. I did it because it's what mothers do. And I let them go because that's what I believed mothers do, too . They all went to live with their father, spent their teen years with him--he lived in the city, I lived on the island; to a teenager, that seems like a no-brainer. As a result, they're not as close to me as they might have been had they grown up exclusively with me.

I'm feeling sorry for myself . Can you tell? Does it show? I don't know if they know how I feel. I try not to tell them . Because what I feel like saying is just icky. I don't want to be one of those mothers who lambastes her kids with guilt: "After everything I did for you, after carrying you in my body for nine months and spending hours in labour and changing your poopy diapers and cleaning up your messes, this is the thanks I get?"

I won't do that. Still, I miss them terribly. I have a big hole in my heart where my children used to be, and it doesn't seem to be healing.  They've made their choice, they've moved on, and I support them in doing that. Yet, on days like Mother's Day (damn Hallmark anyway!), all the broken heartstrings get pulled and I get weepy . I can't help it. It's biology. It's an addiction. It really is.

I'm addicted to my children. I can't recover from their absence. I'm a junkie.  If I could have another child, I would do it, just to fill that hole. I miss them so bad, it's embarrassing to admit. I don't like feeling so vulnerable and needy of people who don't have much interest in me. I don't tell them that I feel this way; I don't believe they want to hear it. They want to live their lives, and I can't blame them.

I wasn't that way with my mom (which reminds me, I'd better call her soon ), but then, I was a daughter, and I had children young. I needed my mother, and perhaps when my daughter has children, she will need me that way too. That's when we need our mothers, isn't it? When we ourselves become mothers. And of my three children, it is my daughter who remembers me, who reaches out once in a while. Someday she too will be a mother, so perhaps she knows.

But the boys are busy being young single guys and the greatest gift I could give them right now is freedom from guilt . I wish I could give them that. I truly don't want to be pulling at them with my needy mother-hunger. I'm jealous of mothers whose grown sons stay in their lives. Yet, it could be worse. They could be needy and dependent and not want to leave me.

I'm proud of my sons. They are smart, strong, independent, good-hearted all around nice guys, and I think I did well birthing and raising them . I like them, whether they remember me, like me, or not. I know I embarrass them. They're trying to be normal people and fit in the mainstream world and they don't want to remember me or Hornby, the hippie world where the misfits go. I hope they'll grow out of that attitude . But I can't blame them or hate them. I can't do anything but keep loving them.

It's biology. Happy Mother's Day.     

April 9/05
Sig-nificant...

It's my birthday today. And a lovely day it's been! I visited the Free Store and found some nice gifts--a brand-new sweater with the tag still attached; another beauty of a red sweater (I like sweaters); a rug for our bedroom; oh lotsa stuff. Then I walked the dog (Dalga; we're housesitting for the Rankins this month) out to Helliwell, a gorgeous day, oh my oh my, and I took lots of glorious photos... some of which I'll put up on the photos page to show you.

Then, well I wanted to go to dinner at the Seabreeze, but they don't start serving until 7pm, dammit--and I wanted to see the movie after that. Can't do dinner and a movie at the Seabreeze, not if you want a good seat...and you know me, gotta be in the front row! So we settled for the Thatch. I seemed to recall they had a good menu once upon a time. No more... we settled for appetizers... tempura, fries, soup and quesadillas. It was pretty good...well, it was okay. It wasn't the Seabreeze. Then, the movie, which wasn't as scintillating as I'd been led to expect--it was an Oscar winner, after all. But it was okay. And now, this. Playing with my new websession, webdiction, webciting hobby... heh heh...

So! It's my birthday, and a significant one. For one thing, I'm a Rooster, you see, a Fire element rooster, no less--how's that for a Phoenix? (LOL... I didn't know that when I changed my name). Well, this is once again the Year of the Rooster, or as the We'Moon Calendar calls it, the Year of the Phoenix.

But there is another reason I find this a significant year. I'm 48. (It's a strange number; I can't relate to it as an age. It seems the older I get, the less I feel the number of years I've lived has any particular meaning to me personally. That is, I don't feel at all the way I always imagined a 48-year-old person should feel.)

Here's the significant thing: my whole life, the years in which I turn '8'--ages 8, 18, 28, 38--have all been huge. Life-changing, traumatic, dramatic things happen in those years. Every time! It's uncanny.

For example, when I was 8 years old, two things happened. The first was, I fell off a bicycle and broke my front teeth into two pointy fangs, which changed my appearance, made me the butt of much teasing and caused me to stop smiling almost entirely for the next five years. That was also the year my parents got divorced.

When I was 18, I met the man I would later marry, and my life began to revolve around him. He was a long-distance truck driver who lived in Edmonton; I lived in Kamloops; he drove through town once a week, and I traveled back to Edmonton with him on weekends. My high school social life vanished and shortly after that I moved to Edmonton to have children (that's pretty much all I did there, that time around).

Then I spent the month that included my 28th birthday in the hospital on the psychiatric ward, being taken apart and put back together again. Six months later, I was living on Saltspring Island--and two years after that, I was on Hornby. At that time I had been back living in small northern BC towns, which aside from Edmonton (basically a big small northern town) was the only place I'd ever been. If you've ever spent time in a small northern town, you'll have a sense of how extreme a change that was!

Which brings us to ten years ago--age 38. That birthday I gave myself a big party at the Hall, which I called 'It's My Party And I'll Sing If I Want To." Boy, it was fun. I sang 18 songs I'd written to a hall full of people, and for the first time I was the star of my own life. A few months later I moved to Edmonton, where cold, darkness, loneliness and boredom drove me to the Internet where I met my now-love, Peter. From Edmonton, I moved to the East Coast to be with him, then brought him home where we both belong--to Hornby.

So you can imagine with what mixture of anticipation and trepidation I greet this upcoming year. What will it bring? There are many exciting fledgling new directions my life might take right now, and some of them may take me off Hornby entirely. Anything is possible! Peter and I have a CD that's finished but not yet manufactured; we have applied at a few summer festivals and who knows?

Or I might get focused on my business and grow that into an actual life. I went to the CEEC Business Training Workshop yesterday, which was an eye- and mind- opener. I learned so much! It was inspiring, intimidating and overwhelming. Sixteen people attended--a goodly crowd of people for an event like that. It's clear that there's a need for economic sustainability on this island that can support our values (or be supported by them). We are a unique community and I believe in our future. I feel passionate about that!

Yet--will I still be here a year from now? The magic of the '8' year might take me anywhere. I am open to all possibilities, in theory--yet my desire to stay here is strong and growing stronger. I so want to continue rooting in to this land, and this beautiful wonderful crazy weird concatenation of people that is the best and realest community I've ever known.

Happy birthday to me. I love this place. I hope I get to stay!

April 16/05
Deep Thoughts  

Well, it's a week later and I haven't been doing so well at keeping up this blog thing. What the heck is a blog anyway? Some sort of online diary, is what I think. So here am I to just spew forth my daily trivialities for anybody who cares about that sort of thing? Who on earth likes that sort of thing?

Okay, I'll try to keep it semi-interesting, for my own sake (I do have standards, y'know). What keeps people reading blogs, I think, is the self-revelation thing. We (people) like to know about how other people tick. What's going on under that slick, or rough, or weird (in my case ) surface?

I dunno if I can help you there. I'm still working on figuring out what's going on myself. But if in the process of exploring 'me' I can amuse, enlighten or entertain, I'm a successful blogger. This is an experiment, like everything else on the sight; if you hate it, well, I trust you'll take care of yourself and not peek in this room.

Right now, I'b godda head code. Sneezing, stuffy, blowing my nose. And it seems to be affecting my brains too--my thought processes feel slightly mucousy. Mostly I'm dealing with technology. Not much self-revelation happening lately.

I'm dealing with deep, philosophical issues like, is the new printer which we traded in the last new printer for, which we had traded in the previous new printer for just last summer, going to cut it? Or do we need to trade it in for the next new printer? I think that's the way we'll go--trade it in again. The colours are just crappy. At the risk of sounding like an Epson commercial, our last three printers have all been Epsons, and this Canon just doesn't do it, photo-printout-quality-wise. BACK it goes...

Oh, and we've got a DVD burner now ... that's a good thing--I think. We didn't set out to get a DVD burner, but the CD burner on my laptop fizzled so we needed to replace it--if we don't, we can't burn the masters of our CD right at the precise moment when we were ready to! Ain't that the way...

DVD burners (which will also burn CDs) have come down in price so much that it only cost $30 more for a DVD burner than it would have cost for a CD burner. So even though we don't yet have a use for DVD burning capabilities, we bought it. Bigger, newer, and more advanced is better--right? Welcome to the new millennium.

I play the game too, driving my gas-glutton van and playing with my techno toys. And techno-lust, oh lordie, it drives me crazy. All the things I want! I have a list as long as my arm. Yet I pretend to be 'outside' consumer-driven culture, because my beliefs are 'higher' and my values are 'better' than theirs. But what I wouldn't give for an SLR digital camera... or a bigger hard drive and a memory upgrade for my laptop... oh, a Mac PowerBook, that would be better than the one I have... not to mention a..

Never mind. You get the point. Excuse me while I go squirm in my icky self-revelations (hypocrisy? Me? Naaawww...). There's gotta be a balance. I'll let you know when I figure out what it is. Or you can let me know. Whatever.

April 24/05
Full Moon Magic  

Something happened last night that really moved me. The place we're housesitting--very beautiful--has a high ceiling in the living room. Twice now hummingbirds have gotten in; the first one was trapped for days and ended up falling from the skylight on the third morning, dead. Peter thought that there were actually 3 or 4 hummingbirds, and a couple of them escaped, but since neither of us witnessed an escape, my opinion is it was the same hummingbird who hung on for a couple of days before it expired.

The vibrant energy of these tiny birds is incredible! Their wings are a blur--they buzz like giant insects. Such a strange hybridic creature, beautiful, like whirring jewels. I'm fascinated by hummingbirds and consider myself blessed to see one up close. They seem magical to me--otherworldly--no, thisworldly. Proof of the eccentricity and creativity of this planet.

So, one bird died--I hated that. When the next bird flew in and showed no sign of being able to figure out where the exit was, my heart sank. For twenty-four hours, the valiant little thing struggled to find the way out, buzzing against high windows and bashing into walls, making pathetic sounds.

By the second night, I was desperate to find a way to help it outside. I was sitting under a string of coloured lights, and at one point the bird seemed to notice me and began to perch on the light string above my head, using that as its base from which it would embark on futile explorations, buzzing frantically around the room before returning to rest.

It came into my head that perhaps if I showed it the way out, it would get the message and figure out where the door was. So I walked out the door and waited, and was rewarded moments later when it flew out the door after me. I had to slip inside quickly and close the door, because it showed every sign of wanting to come right back in. In fact, he buzzed against the door window for long minutes before realizing that he was no longer bounded by walls and ceilings, at which point he hummed away.

I was so relieved that it was safely outdoors I cried. And grateful--it felt like a touch of magic in my life. I always appreciate those experiences. They serve, for me, as a reason to live. I'm prejudiced. Without magic, what is there?

Tonight, I had some more magic. Funny how these things happen in waves. I can go weeks feeling like life has gone flat, not boring exactly but ordinary, lacking the faerie glamour that keeps me interested.

Of course, tonight's the Scorpio Full Moon, so magic is likely. Still, if I'd stayed indoors I'd have missed it. We went walking out on the bluffs at Helliwell, and the sky put on a show for us. Great black-and-silver cloud streamers, a mist-shrouded moon haloed in gold, a slate and pewter sea with diamond glints of reflected moonlight. And the bluffs! Monoliths, sleeping giants, silver-washed mystery.

Helliwell in the moonlight has been a rare-ish treat for me, since I tend to prefer the beach when the Moon is full. But here we are, housesitting most of the way to Helliwell, so why not take advantage? Well, I'm sold.

I was speaking of magic. To me, any close encounter with a wild creature is magical--the hummingbird, for example. That may be stretching the word's usual definition, but to me magic is as much a feeling as anything .

First we heard the sea lions. They sounded like an insane orchestra, a hundred voices braying, bellowing, mewling, yipping, some frankly singing, some rumbling almost below the threshold of hearing. Some were deafeningly loud, and some we had to listen closely to hear. There was a distinctly musical feel to the gestalt of cacaphonic sounds--musical like a heavy metal band. The variety of sounds they make is stunning! At one point, Peter and I could both swear we heard words in their sounds. Peter sang to them, it seemed they sang back.

Then there was the mink--it ran cross the path a few feet from us, flowed through the grass into some trees, then slowly trotted back across the path on our other side, only about three feet from us. It slowed to look at us then melted into the rocks. Again, that sense of connection.

Peter went home before I did, so I was the only one involved in the last encounter (I don't count the bats, though I really ought to). I was walking down the path, talking out loud to myself (doesn't everybody, when they're alone?), when a bush beside the path moved and morphed into a deer, who unworriedly trotted across the path to a point quite close and began to crop the grass. She showed no fear. In my experience, deer have always run in terror. But this deer seemed to accept my right to be there and treated me like a peer.

It's been a good night. Good night!

May 1/05
What's in a Name?  

Today is a low point. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, which is a drag, considering that there's only one side I can get out on. Strange dreams which have never quite let go all day but which I can't remember, either. I feel weirdly self-conscious about writing this entry . I want to say things that aren't just surface. I want to go a little deeper, get a little more real. I like to get real. Why not?

But I keep deleting what I've written and going back to start over. It's that self-consciousness thing. What do I feel okay about putting out there? Not much, it seems. If this were my personal journal (and maybe it ought to be), I'd have filled pages by now. But I'm writing in fits and starts, erasing liberally. I'm feeling shy.

There it is. That's my deep dark secret. I'm really a terribly, painfully shy person. I can hear disbelieving laughter out there as I write . And I understand why it would be funny. I don't act like a shy person, most of the time. It's my acquired shyness coping mechanism. I've learned how to pretend to be outgoing so well I even believe it. But it's a threadbare mask, and the agonizingly bashful person I used to be is seldom very far away. Well, except at parties. I don't like to bring her to parties, but sometimes she sneaks in.

Up until I was thirty, I was a classic shy person. Quiet, sat on the sidelines, listened, hardly ever talked, seldom left the house except to have coffee with the neighbour or one of my relatives. I remember saying something witty in front of a group once and having people laugh appreciatively--and wanting to DIE--wanting a hole to open up and swallow me . I was so extremely shy I walked with my head down, looking at the ground. Nobody who has not been that shy can imagine how agonizing that feeling is. But I know I'm not the only one.

What I hate is, when shy people look at me being wild and acting like I don't care about what other people think, and they imagine I'm so very different from them. But really, I'm not. It's a big fake. Well, maybe not a fake. But it's not all of who I am. I'm still shy, except when I forget to be. There, see? I forgot to be shy right when I started getting real about how shy I was feeling.

This is how I got to be called Phoenix. Did you think I chose that name? Ohh, no... I was far too shy to imagine myself as a Phoenix. It's way too big a name for me, still (I like to be called Phee). But originally (second deep dark secret) my name was Debbie. Named after an insipid 50s movie star. I hated that name. It was like a brand name--not a name for an individual. I was always surrounded by other Debbies.

When I moved down to the Coast, I started to meet a few people, and I told them I was looking for a new name. I had just learned such a thing was possible. In Fraser Lake, nobody changed their name, unless they were a woman getting married (when they all did). So I moved to Saltspring and met people with names like Sunshine, and Raven, and I immediately grasped the significance--imagine, a new name--a name that was mine, just for me--the more unique the better! 

But I couldn't come up with one I liked, one that I thought I could actually live with. Meanwhile, I was coming out of my lifelong shell of shyness, being surrounded for the first time by a culture that interested me more than it terrified me. I stopped looking at the ground and started noticing the scenery and the people around me. It was all so fascinating to a northern girl like me. Everything green, even in winter. Even when it snowed, I could dig down deep and find the green living grass, and know that the snow would melt and the grass would stay living. Milagro!! 

A couple of years of this, I was about to move to Hornby Island (I'd had a dream that Saltspring had been occupied by Nazis). My friend Kim, who'd known me from the day I got off the boat from the North, had recently moved to Denman.

I went to visit her, all funky in my hippie clothes--I had a red suede jacket with eighteen-inch fringes that I loved and miss like crazy even today (where did that thing go to?). I wore tie-dies and had stopped wearing makeup and combing my hair. I walked with a loose loping gait, head up and meeting people in the eye. I didn't realize yet that I had changed, though, until Kim accosted me (accosting was her style, and I love her for it ).

She said, "I've got the perfect name for you! It's great! It's you!"
I said, "Cool! What is it?"
She said, "It's Phoenix! You know, the phoenix rising from the ashes!"
I said, "Kim, that's not a name..."

But she talked me into it, reminding me what I'd been like when she'd first met me, and pointing out what I was like now. I admitted she had a point. And I was kind of into trying it--I was moving to a new place (Hornby) and I thought, what the heck. If too many people looked at me like I was crazy when I introduced myself as Phoenix, I could just go back to Debbie. I was sure they would look at me that way, though, and I didn't think I'd be able to introduce myself with a straight face either.

But it was amazingly easy. "Hi, I'm Phoenix." Nobody looked at me like I was crazy. Everybody accepted that I seemed like the sort of person who might be called Phoenix. Only a year and a half ago, I was wearing heavy eye makeup every day (and had been for fifteen years), shaving my pits and legs, walking with my head down, talking in a mumble, hardly opening my mouth. Now... I could barely remember having been that way. It didn't seem real. Perhaps because the 'I' of that time hadn't been real.

I feel realer now. Most of the time. But I still get shy. There are many people I never approach because I'm too shy, though I'd love to get to know them better. That's where it manifests now. Approaching people. Or that other shy person's bane, overcompensation, kicks in and I approach in a coming-out-wrong, backwards foot-in-mouth way that's just embarrassing.

This website, I guess, is a way to approach people without having to approach them. We shy people have to come up with ways to circumvent our shyness... we play tricks on ourselves... Yeah, yeah, that's the ticket... a way I can talk to people without having to look them in the eye...

Is there a support group for shy people?

"Shyness is nice, but shyness can stop you
from doing all the things in life you'd like to..." ... The Smiths