Three rules

I stayed in last Friday night to clean my desk. Boring, I know, but it had to be done, and I’d been putting it off for too long.


We all have those things that we neglect for a while and in the process of that neglect, we forget what’s under the mess and lose the trail that started at the point where we got busy.

Most of what we forget about ends up being trashed, of course. I tend to pull receipts of my pockets and leave them to pile up. I hang onto envelopes to save the addresses but then forget to throw the paper away when I’ve written down what I need. Dried out pens laze around under papers on my desk instead of being tossed out the moment they quit on me.

Last weekend, I filled three plastic bags to feed the recycling bin and a fourth bag went into the garbage. But underneath the garbage were a few gems, like there often are: some photographs I hadn’t seen in a while, city maps I thought I’d left behind somewhere, and a couple of letters that hadn’t made their way into the box where I keep my most secret, sacred things.

The first letter I found was in a white envelope, with my name and past address written in pencil. There was no return address. It took me a second to place the handwriting as belonging to my friend Carlos.

I first met Carlos when I was a teenager hanging out in places I wasn’t old enough to be in. Carlos was several years wiser than me. We’d met through a mutual friend and I felt an instant connection to him. One of the first things he told me about himself was about a time when his family had sent him for psychiatric treatment, against his will. While his story’s circumstances and details were different than mine, Carlos was the first person I’d met who had experienced anything close to what I had. It instantly made me feel better, because until then I’d believed that no one would ever be able to understand me.

I knew we would be friends. There was a reason we’d met. It felt destined.

Carlos was an incredible visual artist, but his talent was balanced with pain, intensity, and a lot of trouble. It was on and off, but to me, whatever he got into, or ran into, never reflected on the depth of his kindness, or on our friendship.

There were times when it wasn’t always easy to get a hold of Carlos. He would leave to travel for indefinite periods of time. Or, when in Toronto, he would disappear intermittently, or change phone numbers or living arrangements without any notice. I remember he once popped out from between two payphones at Queen and Bathurst, where he’d been hiding after running out on his tab at the old Q Bar. It was the first time I’d seen him in months.

Despite the breaks in communication that sometimes got in between us, our friendship lasted close to 10 years, until Carlos was deported to Portugal a few years back.

He’d had some court dates and his lawyer had talked to him about the possibility of deportation. He knew it could be coming. I remember visiting with him not long before the court date that would determine his fate. He’d been planning on his sister being there to help build his case.

When that court date rolled around, his sister never showed.

The letter I found last weekend from Carlos was the last one he’d sent to me within Canada, from the jail he was waiting in until it came time to fly out.

“My sister didn’t come through,” he’d written. “I’m hurt and disappointed. I hope we can stay in touch.”

In the letter Carlos had also talked about the alternate outcome he’d hoped would happen: that he would have been staying in Canada, that he would have been back downtown by then, and that I could finally meet his daughter, who’d been living with her mom since I first met Carlos, and who I’d heard so much about over the years.

“My sister didn’t come through…” I don’t know why, but seeing those words again, and being reminded of this news, really stuck with me throughout the weekend.

You never know when you’re someone’s last chance. Or maybe sometimes you do, but you blow it anyway.

Have I ever bailed on someone like that? Have I ever had someone depending on me to come through to such an extent? We all get asked for favours. We all have expectations upon us.

We all let each other down.

Of course, the expectations that are on us aren’t as clear, or as life changing, as what Carlos was going through.

But still, I thought about how much it hurts me when people bail on plans, even though I’ve done it often enough.

I know things happen. We get sick, we run late, we get caught up at work. When we bail on a plan, we’re thinking of ourselves. We’re relieved to be let out of an obligation. We focus on what we need in that moment – freedom from a plan – rather than wonder if the person we just broke a date with really needs us that day.

We temporarily (conveniently?) forget about being on the other side, the side that sometimes says you need to talk about something, or you need to feel like a little less alone, or you just need to get out. We forget the how crushing it is when a plan you're excited about falls through.

It sucks when you have a plan, something you really want to do, and you juggle your schedule to make sure it can happen. You decline other invitations because you already have a date with a friend. You plan ahead and do things in advance or put things off until later, because sometimes you have to make the time. You make the time, and then the day comes and you get that message that the other person isn’t going to make the time: “I’m really sorry, I can’t make it…”

I know I’ve done this to other people. What were the consequences? If there were any, they weren’t felt by me. Anytime we bail, it’s left to the person we’re leaving stranded to deal with the gap in time. It becomes their problem, their failed evening.

Whether the commitment is big – helping someone out of a bad situation – or small – meeting a friend for coffee – I don’t want to be that person who doesn’t come through. I want to do better when it comes to keeping my commitments.

I remember how one night, I worked out the three main rules of friendship with a friend of mine – another friend I haven’t seen in years, actually:

1. Don’t lie.
2. Be there when you say you’re going to be there.
3. Don’t fuck me over.

I only got one postcard from Carlos once he made it over to Portugal. That must have been three years ago. I can’t remember how long it’s been for sure, because the message is tucked away with my other letters.

But I know there hasn’t been any other word since. Carlos, if you’re out there, I’m still around, waiting. I’m still your friend.

I’ll still come through, however I can, wherever you are.

On the other side

When people talk resolutions, they often talk about things they want to cut out of their lives: smoking, fatty foods, bad habits.


I haven’t been one to make resolutions at the end of the year so much as goals.

I’ve been thinking back to last December a lot lately. This time last year, I felt that things were really slowing down. In the final month of 2010, I was on the tail-end of promoting my first book, and things had really started to feel like they were quieting down. It had been a busy year. I had to do a lot of things I’d never done before, which can be fun and exciting but also stressful. The year was filled with a lot of good moments but also a lot emotional ones.

When things felt like they were slowing down, I wasn’t sad. It didn't feel like things were over, just naturally moving on. And I was ready: ready for a change of pace, for a new project, for a new routine. I started working on a novel, thinking that it would be my main focus in 2011, especially since I had lots of time before the launch of my next book, Amphetamine Heart, which wasn’t slated to come out until October of this year.

In the hustle of 2010, I hadn’t always given myself the time to go out to readings and shows as much as I’d wanted to, so at the start of 2011, instead of a list of resolutions, I committed to going to at least one reading and one show a month. (For all of you who go to shows all the time, I can hear you moaning that a show a month isn’t very much. There was a time I went to one a week. It wasn’t worth it. This minimum is my happy medium.)

I also wanted to table at zine and small press fairs out of town, and go to Hamilton Art Crawls more often. I was going to redecorate a bit, learn tarot cards, work on a new zine, and get a dog. (Yes, a dog!)

And then January hit. I got invited to do a talk about Toronto punk rock. Because my standing policy is to say yes as often as possible, I said yes. Then I got an invite to do something in February, and then March, and then April, and, well, it went on. And on.

I didn't get a dog and I didn't redecorate and I didn't learn tarot cards. But I did get out to shows and readings and I did set time aside to write, regularly.

But the only month this year that I didn’t have any major commitments was July, when I had no readings, no freelance deadlines, no talks - nothing that required paying attention to the calendar.

Now, don’t take it that I’m complaining. I’m not. I was, and continue to be, grateful for every opportunity that came my way this year. It was a lot of work, but a lot of it led to good things: new experiences, new people, new learnings. Even the projects that didn’t go anywhere were still positive in their own ways. There is always something to learn.

There is also something in stretching yourself – your time, your schedule, your mind – beyond what you think you’re capable of. You find that, once you think you’ve stretched to your breaking point, you’ve actually grown. You can never again feel as overwhelmed at that same level again because you’ve surpassed it and reached a new threshold.

I worked on my novel through it all, because that’s what writing does to you: it doesn’t let you leave it alone for very long, unless you can learn to live with the pile of anxiety that balls up in your chest, and I did some of the things I wanted to, like table at zine fairs outside of Toronto. I also did my first out-of-town poetry performances this year.

I also tried, as hard as I could, to balance the rest of my life with my writing life. I threw a surprise party for my parents when they turned 75. I eased into a new job. I went to Las Vegas with friends. I made my own Halloween costume.

And between everything I wanted to do, I did a lot of things I never expected, like write some lyrics for D-Sisive’s new album Run with the Creeps.

I read at the re-launch of Daniel Jones’ 1978 and The Brave Never Write Poetry, which was one of those full-circle moments that only come around every few years, if you’re lucky. For me being such a major Jones fan, and for having been so influenced by his work, I felt really lucky that day.

But for all the days this year I felt lucky – and there were days I felt I could be truly, deeply, forever-happy – there were also days I felt sad. And worried. And so, so anxious.

There were stretches of exhaustion that went on for weeks. There were times when I questioned whether I was putting what little time and energy I had left over into the places: was I writing the right book at the right time? Was I wasting my time? Was I pursuing the right ideas? Was I working hard enough?

Was I doing everything I should be doing?

It's funny: you think you're going to reach a certain goal, or get to a certain point in your life, and then you'll have it all figured out. You'll trust yourself more, or you'll trust the universe more, and worry less about how things work out.

If such a place exists, I am not there yet.
The launch of Amphetamine Heart this fall was very exciting, but was also the start of a new wave of work, and one that’s still continuing. When December rolled around, I had a reading booked in Kingston the first weekend, and a book fair the second. After that, I knew I would have a few weeks of downtime, but the end of the year didn’t feel the same to me this time around.

I started to think back on the year and realized it was far busier than 2010. So busy that I can honestly say 2011 has been the longest year of my life. Everything that happened this year could have been stretched out over two years, but it wasn’t. It was all piled high and there were times I felt like I was drowning. I even said so, to some people, hoping for help, but at the end of the day, a lot of it was on me to stay above the surface. It’s hard to remember all the details because there were so many.

I also think the end of 2011 feels different because it doesn’t really feel like things are winding down. In January, I’m heading back out for more performances, and I know the start to 2012 is going to be a busy one. I’m trying to be excited about it, but it’s also a little scary. It’s always scary when you’re going into new territory and trying new things, but there’s no growth without risk, right?

A couple of weeks ago, I didn’t even think I could come up with an idea of what I want out of 2012 because I was feeling so tired, so uninspired. After having a bit of a break now, I feel a little better about it, but I still don't have the kind of clarity I'm used to.
So often this year I’ve talked to people who were feeling the way I have been lately: tired, unsure, worried. I’ve been the one to tell people to just push through: what’s one more challenge, one more week or month, one more deadline? You’ve done it before, you can do it again.

Won’t it be worth it to see what’s on the other side of it all?

--

Seven suppliers of my soundtrack for 2011:

1. D-Sisive, Run with the Creeps
2. The Bloody Five, for their rendition of the Demics' "New York City"
3. The Weirdies, for playing the Amphetamine Heart launch
4. Author Dani Couture's "playlists," because they come from some very cool authors, and because I had the chance to meet some of them this year.
5. Peter Murphy, because his was my favourite show of 2011
6. Kenda Legaspi and the Orphans for this cover of Roxy Roller, performed at This Ain't Hollywood in Hamilton at the Blackbird Studios' Fall launch
7. Kosmograd, one of my favourite new musical finds this year

Mary and Nelson meet Twilight

I don’t have what anyone would call “cool parents.”

You might think of them as cute, but not cool.

When I was a kid, this was quite embarrassing. I secretly wished my parents could be cool.

But they weren’t. They were much, much older than my friends’ parents, and perpetually out of the loop when it came to the latest music, movies, and TV shows. I remember a friend’s dad coming over once to pick up his daughter from my house. He stood in the doorway for a minute chatting to my mom while my friend put on her shoes. The topic of conversation turned to a recent Seinfeld episode about double-dipping party snacks.

It was a pretty funny episode. My friend’s comedic timing was pretty good. It would have been a pretty funny moment in the conversation, all around, if my mom knew what he was talking about. She laughed and nodded like she did, pretending to go along with it, but I knew she had no idea what Seinfeld even was, despite the fact that the show was at its prime time peak at the time this conversation occurred.

When I was a kid, I was only taken to the movies three times by my parents. I’d begged and begged to see All Dogs go to Heaven but had to wait for my uncle to bootleg it on VHS for me because my parents remembered the theatre it was playing at as a place that “smelled funny” last time they were there. So I missed out on that but did see Home Alone and its sequel, as well as the Lion King.

The rest of the movies I saw in theatres happened with friends.

As I got older, I grew out of my parental embarrassment, as kids do, but the embarrassment was replaced with a sense of protection. Not because I don’t think they can’t get around – at 75, they are still really active. They go out a lot, have solid routines, and friends they see regularly.

But because they remain people who refer to made-for-TV-movies as “stories,” and remain removed from anything remotely resembling popular culture, with the exception of Dancing with the Stars and American Idol (although, I must qualify that they don’t always know who the dancing “stars” are), I sometimes wonder what they might be exposed to.

Is this how parents feel about their young kids when they worry about what they’re looking at on the internet?

My mom hates anything gory, scary, or gross. Last night, I was watching Stephen King’s Bag of Bones, which has a lot of dry, normal moments: a nice couple, a guy trying to write at his laptop, a guy in a cabin in the woods. There are flashes of scary things, but if my flipped to the channel at the right moment, I could imagine her saying to my dad, “is that a Christmas story? Let’s leave it there and see what it’s about.”

This weird picture was taken over drinks at a party this past summer.

Which brings me to a recent conversation I had with my parents that helped me intercept what surely would have been a huge disappointment for them.

Last Christmas, they were given a gift card for a movie theatre. Since they don’t go to many movies, though, it’s sat unused all this time.

The other day, they told me they’d wanted to see The Help, but had waited too long to go. By the time they were ready to get to the theatre, its run was already over.

“But we’re going to use it this week,” my mom said. “We want to go see this one movie, but we aren’t sure if it’s still playing. So if it’s not on this week then we’re going to see Twilight.”

“Twilight?” I said.

Twilight? Really?! My dad thinks vampires are stupid and my mom would think it’s too scary (she’s pretty tame, remember). I like real vampire movies and so couldn’t live with myself if I recommend Twilight to anyone.

“You can’t go see Twilight,” I said. “You haven’t even seen the first movies in the series.”

“But it says it’s 'part one' in the paper,” my dad said, pointing to the movie listings.

What he was seeing was Breaking Dawn: Part One. How was I going to explain this?

“It’s still a continued series, though,” I said. “So if you haven’t seen the first ones you won’t understand this one. Besides, you know it’s a vampire movie, right?”

Doesn’t everyone know Twilight is a vampire movie?

“Oh, is it?” My dad said.

And so I had to explain:

“It’s a really stupid movie about a teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire,” I said. “There are werewolves in it, too. And the werewolves and the vampires are feuding. And in this new movie, the girl’s pregnant with the vampire’s baby.”

“Oh, well we’re not going to see THAT,” my mom said.

I took the paper and underlined some options I thought would be safer bets for them.

Later, as I was getting my coat on to say goodbye, I said, “so you’re going to see one of the other movies I told you to go to, right? Not Twilight, right?”

“No,” my mom said. “We probably would have had to walk out if we went to that.”

Disappointment averted. For now. My mom told me she’d update me about which movie they ended up going to see.

Here’s hoping they get it right.