homemade super heroes!

“Life is enriched by difficulty; love is made more acute when it requires exertion.” ― Andrew Solomon, Far from the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity

When I think of heroism, it is not a single act, nor is it necessarily an act bathed in praise and recognition. When I think of bravery and character, there are no flapping capes or glistening swords, nor are there epic fights or power struggles. There are simply circumstances of intense adversity, and often deep emotional pain, wherein a person acts out of love instead of fear, overcomes the toughest moments, and comes out stronger on the other side. There are people in the world who do this in major ways, people like the Dalai Lama or even some close personal friends who have been attacked by dishonorable media campaigns, but not all heroic acts have a spotlight. They happen every day, all around us, often unnoticed, but once in a while, a spotlight is just what's necessary to raise us all up a little bit.

I recently met Amber Greenwalt at a convention in Houston, Texas. Actually, I met her at the airport where she recognized me immediately and greeted me with the warmth and enthusiasm of a not-so-distant relative. Her sweetness and positivity were palpable over the weekend too, whether it was visits at my table or the smiling face in the crowd at a panel, I always noticed and enjoyed her joyful presence. At some point over the weekend I learned that on top of being a smart and sweet Basttlestar enthusiast, she was also a mother of three who was facing some incredibly difficult struggles, including a 5-year old with Mitochondrial disease, a rare and (so far) incurable disease with a whole list of heartbreaking side effects. You can read more about her daughter's condition and her progress on the Saving Savannah Facebook page.

Speaking of heroes, Leah Cairns (Racetrack from BSG) is another woman I know with an iron will and infinite resilience when it comes to whatever life might throw at her. So it was no surprise when she emailed me about a joint initiative to help her five-year-old niece, Seattle (who has a similarly debilitating disease) and Savannah get the resources they need to express their true superhero selves. It turns out Seattle and Savannah, though they’ve never met, have a lot in common, and naturally, so do the families who love and support them. Both their stories are truly heartbreaking and inspirational. You can learn about Seattle and her journey on her Facebook page here. I know because after agreeing with ease to help promote their fundraising efforts through social media, I began to feel uneasy that I didn’t know exactly what I was promoting.

It’s painful to watch people struggle, and it’s even more painful to imagine what it would be like if you were in their shoes. It’s easy to think, ‘oh yes, that’s sad,’ and go back to our lives. So I tried to do the not so easy thing, I watched video after video, read articles, and thought about what it might be like to have a child with a life-threatening illness. I laughed, I cried, I thought about how grateful I am for my life, and how grateful I am for theirs, and how grateful I am for our paths intersecting so I could deepen my compassion and sense of what’s important in life. I don’t even claim to have a fraction of an understanding of what it must be like for these little girls and their families, but I do feel like my life is enriched in the attempt. I feel inspired by the will, the strength, the vulnerability and the love I see in Amber, Leah and Lindsay, and I feel hopeful for their efforts to not only improve the quality of their daughters' lives, but of all the lives they touch in the process.

I would encourage you, if you can, to hear their story. If you feel so inclined and are in a position to do so, there are many ways you can help Seattle and Savannah get the funds they need to live the carefree lives any five-year-old should. I don’t typically promote charities, but this is a cause with very real and beautiful results that can only blossom with your help, ones you’ll see in each one of these girls’ smiles. Thank you for your time. And thank you Amber, Leah and Lindsay for your bravery. You are all heroes in my books.

Here's what you can do:

• donate directly to the girls on their gofundme page
• share the above link on your twitter or facebook
• tweet @theellenshow to inspire the Ellen Show to bring Savannah and Seattle together to meet for the first time! what a beautiful christmas gift it would be!
• check out this huffington post article for more info and links
• read about their stories, be inspired + life joyfully!

C'mon, all the cool kids are doing it! Even President Roslyn.

Ps. Stay tuned for a separate campaign so that I, too, can meet these miniature superheroes on The Ellen Show.

mom's the word

When I was younger, I used to think I had the best mom ever. She seemed to offer more than the other moms I'd seen on the market. She always caved to my requests for McDonald's and bought me Guess jeans when it really counted. Despite our relatively tiny living space, my friends always wanted to gather at our place, where we could watch TV, play games and heat up bagel bites at will. As I grew older, I realized I didn't have the best mom because she bought me stuff or let me do things. I realize now it's more about what she didn't do. She didn't try to control me or tell me how to be. She let me discover who I was, for better or for worse, she let me make my own mistakes and express myself in whatever way I saw fit... that day or week. I can only imagine how hard it is to let your child learn her own lessons, to find her own way, and be... different—especially when accompanied by healthy doses of adolescent arrogance. In honor of my mom's birthday (today), I made a short list of all the ways my mom was, and continues to be, an awesome mom, and for which I'm incredibly grateful. Happy birthday and thanks mom!!!

• she let me dye my hair whatever color I wanted, even if it meant getting green food coloring all over the bathroom sink and was immortalized in my 7th grade school photo
• she drove me to hockey practice at 6am before we both had full days of school ahead of us, and never complained, even though i did
• she let my brother and i listen to any music we wanted, even if it included lots of swearing, and muffled her guilt-ridden laughter when we screamed Prince's "you sexy mother fucker!!" out the car window
• she ordered me a whole thin crust cheese pizza every time i recovered from a migraine, which unfortunately happened a lot, and it became our little tradition, which i treasured
• she kept her nails just long enough so she could scratch my back before i went to sleep, but not so long that she looked like a diner waitress
• she'd tell the waiters at restaurants that i was vegetarian before i could even open my mouth, and then she'd apologize when i'd scold her for speaking for me
• she didn't rub it in my face when i went from plugging my ears and singing "la la la la" whenever she played Willie Nelson, to being a superfan
• she dropped off my bass guitar at my school every day i had band so i didn't have to carry it
• she didn't stop correcting my homework even though it nearly always ended in me crying and screaming, "but i want it that way!"
• she never embarrassed me (on purpose) and always respected my privacy
• she encouraged me to laugh—during moments of surprise, happiness, failure, fun, whenever... except in doctors' waiting rooms, that was a no no
• she trusted me to take the bus downtown by myself because she knew that having that freedom meant the world to me
• instead of punishing me for losing or breaking things, she let me feel the effects, like playing a Game Gear with sticky 7up-soaked buttons
• she took my friends and me to concerts because their parents wouldn't let them go otherwise, and she sat at the back while we moshed and crowd-surfed, and she always had a good time
• she worked full time and never said a word about it, even when we complained that we wanted to see her more
• when i was twelve, i asked her to rent me the movie Kids and when she brought it home she said the guy at the video store warned it wasn't age-appropriate, so to let her know if i had any questions
• she took me bra shopping even though i clearly didn't need one
• she let my brother and i hash it out, which i think eventually lead to us being best friends

There are so many things, and if I think about all the things I appreciate about her now, the list just keeps going, but I'm nearly positive I never thanked her when I was a kid, probably for anything.

This is my small way letting you know I noticed, and I still think you're the best—mother and friend!

(ps. I know she'll read this because she's also my biggest stalker fan :))

here + then

Sometimes searching for an answer is all you have to stop, in order to find one. Sometimes letting go is the only way to have what you really want. Sometimes cliches are true, sometimes they’re cheesy, often they’re both. But words aren’t nearly as powerful as the moments that breed them. The silence between breaths that catches the glint off a soda can on the side of the highway. The light that multiplies as the world sets behind a water glass. I’m not sure if anything really ever changes, but I’m sure nothing ever stays the same. I often find myself comparing the present to the past, or rather an idea in my head I call the past, a fabrication of my current state in colors and shapes. My future self shakes her head, fighting for predictability, crying for vulnerability. Symbiotically, there’s solace in the word, comfort in being heard, freedom in every step toward a brighter unknown.

songs from oh twelve

one of my favorite things about music is how it can transport you to a time + place in no seconds flat. as i've been reflecting on the last year, i've naturally been digging into some of my old playlists. here are some of the songs that kept me company in 2012... my dear friend caspar made me a wonderful playlist for my birthday last year. he truly makes an art of it, meticulous + thoughtful. and because i couldn't figure out the settings on my new smartphone, i ended up strolling the grey streets of vancouver with this song on repeat. it was absolutely perfect. [embedplusvideo height="365" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/6dPIK9Qe7K4?fs=1" vars="ytid=6dPIK9Qe7K4&width=450&height=365&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep1539" /]

though this album is a few years old, i discovered 'the xx' last year and fell in love. their minimal and melodious sounds mixed with some sweet synth riffs are perfect for reading, or writing too. just the right amount of ambience and familiarity to drift off, but enough emotion to engage if you're in the mood. [embedplusvideo height="365" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/UfTfHTUUee4?fs=1" vars="ytid=UfTfHTUUee4&width=450&height=365&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep1120" /]

i can't remember where i first heard this song, but it was way before you could hear it on the radio every five minutes. luckily, it holds its grace and i still can't help but smile + crank up the volume when it's on. i'm really looking forward from these guys. #icelandrocks

[embedplusvideo height="281" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/ghb6eDopW8I?fs=1" vars="ytid=ghb6eDopW8I&width=450&height=281&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep8436" /]

it was an unlikely match when i first met this goth band from virginia. they were headlining a sci-fi convention i was a guest at and my first introduction was an acoustic version of 'earth angel' (during which they clearly courted richard hatch, not me). but once i got to know them, i decided to give them a chance and was completely blown away by their compelling harmonies, dark and emotional lyrics, and just all-round awesome sound. i literally cried when i first heard this song, and i still get chills when andy hits some of those low notes. beautiful stuff. (he also has a solo project called 'the rain within' + another great act as 'brighter fires.')

[embedplusvideo height="365" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/sGc7dIjMAb8?fs=1" vars="ytid=sGc7dIjMAb8&width=450&height=365&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep3118" /]

and now for something completely different. i decided to take hip hop classes last year (something i've done on and off over the years), but this time we actually had a performance at the end of it. oh i'm sorry, a "recital." it was so great, especially since we were followed by clumsy little girls in sequined tutus. probably better that they were backstage for this one anyway ;) but this song remains close to my heart for [embedplusvideo height="281" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/4JipHEz53sU?fs=1" vars="ytid=4JipHEz53sU&width=450&height=281&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep8977" /]

getting back on track, here's a little throwback to the nineties. i had the good fortune to attend a screening of a documentary about the drummer from Hole (among other cool bands as well), and after the screening and the q & a, all the members sans Courtney Love got up and played a few songs. it was epic. one of the songs was sebadoh's 'brand new love' and i quickly became re-obsessed with it. i literally made a playlist with as many covers as i could find. here's the original, but the deadsy version is also pretty deadly. [embedplusvideo height="365" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/WUA9fF8RYDI?fs=1" vars="ytid=WUA9fF8RYDI&width=450&height=365&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep5531" /]

this song is fairly recent, but it totally blew me away when i heard it. i love the way it builds and the sheer drama of it. it's also great for running because it has a steady tempo and crescendos in a beautiful, ethereal way that makes you feel like you're in the middle of your own movie. [embedplusvideo height="281" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ek0SgwWmF9w?fs=1" vars="ytid=Ek0SgwWmF9w&width=450&height=281&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep7185" /]

another newer track that continues to haunt me. i just love her voice, something about it sounds other worldly. [embedplusvideo height="281" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/UznHTBZIa8E?fs=1" vars="ytid=UznHTBZIa8E&width=450&height=281&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep1308" /]

there are so many more, but i don't want to ramble. to close out, here's a beautiful number by first aid kit that's apropos for the occasion. it also happens to have accompanied me on several late, contemplative nights. [embedplusvideo height="365" width="450" standard="http://www.youtube.com/v/PiZ1sMkspJQ?fs=1" vars="ytid=PiZ1sMkspJQ&width=450&height=365&start=&stop=&rs=w&hd=0&autoplay=0&react=1&chapters=&notes=" id="ep3641" /]

thanks for listening and hope you enjoyed the assortment of tunes. feel free to share yours + may 2013 be filled with a bestselling soundtrack of your own!

going home this year

Today I flew home from being home. I know, it’s confusing sometimes. Home is where the heart is. Make yourself at home. Home, Sweet, Home. Home is whenever I’m with you. Such a simple, benign, yet loaded word. When I was young, it was common sense that home was the  house where I lived—it was the place where my mom tucked me in at night, where I spent sick days watching tv on the couch, where my friends would come over to play, and where there was an infinite supply of toilet paper and Alpha-Bits cereal. Now, it’s not so simple. On nights when I explain where I’m going after a movie, it may mean the place I sleep and keep my stuff, but when I’m asked if I’m going home for Christmas, or “Where’s home?” it’s not so black or white. Today I walked through the Chicago airport, my flight delayed and running on empty, and felt this strange feeling, the kind that occurs when you mix black and white together, turning it into an unidentifiable shade of grey. I felt sad to be leaving home, but at the same time excited to be going home. My awareness sparked another color to enter the mix, a bright and joyful color. I realized that whether I’m in one city or another, one house or another, with family or not, the only consistent thing is me. If it’s familiarity that matters, then certainly the Chicago airport should feel more like home than some of the places I’ve lived, but I really don’t think “home” is a place in the traditional sense. It’s a state of being. It’s a feeling of comfort, of presence, and a complete acceptance of where you are in that moment in time—literally and figuratively.

In the end, it’s much less work to focus on building your internal home than trying to control everything outside, travel long distances, or buy lots of material things, just to get that feeling. Certainly places can inspire nostalgia or make living more comfortable, but if we practice being present and excited about where we are, then why can’t the whole world feel like home? Instead of setting a resolution that’s based on getting a result this year, I’m going to start building the biggest home in the world—so big it encompasses the entire planet (and maybe beyond!), yet is entirely invisible. A home where every person on Earth is welcome, and no room is off limits. A home where the only keys I need are an open mind and an open heart, and an open-door policy for new experiences. That way I’ll never have to worry about whether I’m leaving home or coming home, but simply being.

act naturally

It was the last shot of the day. We’d been shooting for hours already and were finally turning around to get coverage of my two lines. The words had all but crumbled in my mind, the result of repetition had drained all weight and meaning. It was like running with a backpack to catch a train, arriving, breathless, only to find the contents had escaped, leaving behind an empty, gaping (laughing?) mouth. All the preparation I’d done was inaccessible to me now, I could only trust my instincts, and the momentum of the moving train. I mustered what energy I had, trying not to squint into the newly positioned lights. There were thoughts, when did I eat last? Did I turn my phone off? And action! Cut. I didn’t make any mistakes or mumble my words, but it was far from brilliant. That fist clenching expression that says, “I nailed it!” was a distant echo from some other movie set. The director came over, and after a brief moment of intense contemplation, he said plainly, “We need more Nicki. That’s why you’re here.” I nodded before he had time to finish. Yes, of course, story of my life. “Just be yourself!” “Oh, that’s so you!” “You’d be so perfect for that role.” But what does that even mean? Can someone please spill the beans because it appears to be obvious to everyone but me? Then I chuckled. In actuality, I am the only one who really knows. I’m the only one alone with my thoughts; with my feelings, my fears, my desires, and my memories—true or untrue. All others see are the sparks—the friction between my soul and my smile, dampened only by the shackles of my yearning to be accepted and understood. But within that desire for identity, within the search for self, is the key to better understanding and experiencing this “me” everyone keeps talking about. So while I really had no idea what the director’s vision was, nor the quality of Nicki-ness he was hoping for, I brushed aside the fear and the judgement and did what I do best: absolutely nothing. I just watched myself experience the moment, with no expectation and no fucking idea what was going to happen. Oh, and… I nailed it.

the gift of giving

I was surrounded. Freckle-faced, fidgety and uncomfortable in their frilly dresses, they stared with the focus of a predator before attack. I smiled cautiously and sighed in appropriate measure. And for a few seconds, I stared right back, after a not-so-subtle nod from my mother, and said “thank you.” And giggled. When I was a kid, I really didn’t like getting presents. Not because of some innate monk-like tendencies leading me to renounce the world and its material offerings. No, I loved getting shit! Who doesn’t love getting shit? To my still-forming kid brain it meant I was loved and special and deserving of all the wonderful goodies the modern world has to offer. I was just like any other first world brat in that way. But I also happened to be very picky and, let’s say, “specific” about what I liked. My mom might call that an understatement, but she’s not writing this. To the untrained eye (any grown-up), the line between what was cool and acceptable and what was a severe threat to my miniature self-image was a fine one—one oft misunderstood or just flat-out disregarded by others. But that’s not the problem per se. In fact, think it’s very good to know what you like.

The problem was being taught that in order to be “good,” one had to be polite, appreciative, grateful, nice. Okay, still not that big of a deal. I was a really sweet kid despite my temper tantrums when the peas touched the creamed corn. The problem was *drum roll please* that I was also taught to be honest. What? Who? How? Ah! I would say 80% of the gifts I got from other kids (ie. their parents) and relatives (sorry) were total bullshit. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t grateful. I really did appreciate the gesture and I really, really wanted to like them. But what can I say? I wasn’t into Barbies or books about babysitters. And yes, I liked socks, but they had to be the slouchy kind, and bonus points for neon. Parents don’t realize how important these distinctions are. They can mean the difference between being able to trade fruit roll-ups at lunch and having the sticky wrapper of one stuck to the side of your frizzy bangs.

Life is just less fun being not cool, so why make it harder on yourself? But I digress. I knew what I liked. I knew what I thought was “cool.” And when someone gave me a gift that didn’t fit the bill, I had a major existential crisis. Wow, you must be thinking, way to be dramatic about something that’s not that big of a deal. Just smile, say thanks, and give it to your cousin on her next birthday. And yes, that would make sense, but I just wasn’t that kind of kid. I took things very seriously. I took them to heart. I felt both hurt by people’s inability to see that I had my own unique wants and desires, and paralyzed by my inability to be honest with people and say, “Well, while I don’t like your gift, it’s okay, because I still love you as a person and very much the time and effort you put into buying it.” (By the way, my eight-year-old self speaks like an after-school-special pep talk, always.)

So now that we’ve established I was an intense kid who spent too much time worrying and not enough time getting play-dough under her fingernails, I want to switch gears a little bit. I was contemplating the act of giving the other day as I unwrapped a gift that ignited a similar slightly minor ethical dilemma. Without going into details, it was simply a product I wouldn’t buy for ethical reasons. But as I thought more about the nature of giving, I realized that receiving a gift is SO not about me at all. Giving is about the “giving” (duh). I had had it all backwards. As kids (and grown-ups) often do, I thought it was all about me, and like some sort of circus monkey, I was meant to perform the appropriate “gift-getting” ritual so as to please my humble subjects. But the reality is they already got their show. They got it through the whole process of thinking about the gift, buying or making the gift, imagining how great it is and how the person will love it. At the end of the day, if the person happens to love it, it’s just icing on the cake. The actual handing over of the gift is the final putt two inches from the hole; the joy is playing the game.

remembering to care

I was really nervous to go see her in the hospital. Even though we’d shared so much, spent whole summers at each others' houses, riding our low-rider bikes around town, co-ordinating our outfits, and playing Super Mario Bros on bean bag chairs that spilled their styrofoam guts everywhere. We had gradually grown apart in high school. I resented her unsubtle attempts at fitting in with the “popular” girls. I wasn’t willing to be, what I perceived as, humiliated the way she was. Even if I did want them to like me, I would never have admitted it. She changed the way she dressed, started listening to different music, drinking a lot, and even obeyed their juvenile orders when they said she had to walk 10 feet behind them. I wasn’t sure who I hated more: them for doing it, or her for letting them. Either way, even though she started to hang around with them more and abandoned her social status as a “skater” (a label I’m still not sure I’ve outgrown), I maintained the feeling that she was my friend more than anyone else’s. Maybe because she was my friend first, or maybe because I felt like they didn’t understand her the way I did, or maybe because I just wanted it to be that way. Yet when I visited her in the hospital, I felt like I was visiting a stranger. Words abandoned the part of me that speaks them.

She sat propped up in her bed. A television mumbled from high up in a corner. I remember it being bright, she could see out into the world, but not truly be in it. I can only assume she spent months in that bed, as that’s how long she was gone from school, nearly a year. I remember the fact that her toilet had a bucket in it to catch whatever went in it because she wasn’t trusted to use it responsibly. They measured and regulated everything that went inside and everything that went out. I never asked her what that was like. I never asked her why she did it, or what she was afraid of. I probably just talked about things that were going on at school and asked her about the other girls on her floor. Talking about other people is always easier than talking about oneself, especially when the truth is uncomfortable. But the thing I regret the most is not telling her how much I missed her.

I began to miss her even before went into the hospital. I missed her when she started acting differently, losing weight and dramatically giving away all her food at school. She wasn’t the girl who had tried to drink milk through her eyeball or left fart bombs on my pillow. She wasn’t the friend who would skateboard with me for hours before going inside to eat white bread cucumber sandwiches. She wasn’t the person who did a wicked imitation of her Scottish dad: “Go shite up a trrree ya wee harry!” She was different. She wasn’t just losing weight, she was losing herself, and I was losing a friend.

I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t a very good friend to her. I didn’t tell her how I felt, I just pretended I didn’t care. Pretending not to care is so much easier than feeling the pain, the loss, the heartbreak, but it limits your ability to love. Thinking back, I realize it was my own petty fears that got in the way of being there for her. For the same reason she stopped eating, I stopped expressing how I felt. What would people think? Will I be rejected? Will they think I’m weird? Get mad? That age comes with a bag of insecurities, and I let mine weigh me down.

It’s incredible to think about how much time we spend creating fears about these things, rather than sharing ourselves with the people we care about most. Or most importantly, just experiencing ourselves, in all our beautiful quirks and imperfections. I may never know what that year was like for my fifteen-year-old friend in the hospital, nor the years that followed when she went to new school and started a whole new life for herself, but I do know that I want to be the type of person who thinks about it. And cares.

this made me think of you!

Receiving a message from a friend saying, “This article made me think of you!” can be a slightly unnerving experience--at least until you find out what it’s about. Sure, they say it’s the thought that counts, but articles include everything from how to diagnose that pesky rash to in depth analyses of psychopaths. I would hope anyone sending an article with such pretense would be mindful of the implications woven within, but you just never know. Have you ever been having a conversation about liars and blurted suddenly, “Oh by the way, how is so-and-so?” Ooops! Let’s hope they didn’t catch the linear trajectory of that one! Anyway, I digress. Just a little dose of Nicki neuroses (nickoses?) before I share this article my friend sent this morning (that reminded her of me). Quite honestly, it’s nothing new, and I’ve even read articles who articulate it more eloquently, but there’s a certain frankness, like it’s coming from a successful relative who sits you down and says, “Look kid, all you gotta do is this. Stop making it so hard for yourself.” And I appreciate that. Hope you do too!

I particularly like this quote, “As Douglas Pagels wrote, ‘Each new day is a blank page in the diary of your life. The secret of success is in turning that diary into the best story you possibly can.’”

Writing for Your Life

Thanks Adrienne!

have you seen my baseball?

When I lived in LA, I went out with a guy who played college baseball and took me to the batting cages on one of our first dates. Since I grew up playing sports, one of them being softball, I was pretty confident in my ability to hit the round thing with the stick thing, but I quickly realized I was in for more than wasting a couple quarters. First we picked up our baseball bats. Yes, baseball. Then proceeded directly to the cage that read 90mph displayed like the address of that one spooky house on halloween: Enter at own risk. He was adamant that with the right instruction (his), I could easily hop into stance beside the plate and knock ‘em out of the park. Not one to step down from a challenge, I went along with the little experiment with a combination of curiosity, excitement and a healthy dose of ‘you’ve got to be kidding me.’

We started by just watching the ball. He taught me how to split my focus, watching the ball travel in three parts, slowing it with my mind like a jedi. I stood directly behind the strike zone as stalky testosterone-charged athletes swung at (and often missed) their speeding target. My boyfriend talked to me like a dad coaching his adolescent son, but it was early in the relationship, so I could still find those things endearing. Ever the eager student, I listened and focused. I watched the ball. Once I mastered following it in 3 still frames, it came down to two. Then he taught me how to swing and hold the bat and I was ready to enter the cage. Slightly trepidatious, I was also excited. I waited on deck as he went to bat first (to show me how it was done) and he did pretty well. For every one he missed, he muttered some excuse and what he needed to adjust.

So I walked in with my converse, yanked up my skinny jeans, and tapped the edge of the plate like I’d seen in the movies. He put the token in for me so I could be ready and the machine began to hum and rumble. The little light appeared and I reminded myself to breathe. The first pitch whizzed by and I barely even swung. It was low anyway, or at least that’s what he said. I practiced my swing and quickly got back into position. Lean back, elbow up, he said. I obeyed despite how awkward it felt. Another pitch came flying out and before I could even register what I was doing, I heard the crack of the bat making contact. Fuck! It felt so good! I quickly learned that if you hit it in just the right place, you don’t even have to swing too fast. I also learned that if you hit it slightly off, you can zing your hands nearly right off your wrists. The impulse to hold the bat tightly makes it even worse, so I followed his counter-intuitive advice and loosened my grip, lifted my elbow and kept my eye on the ball.

The batting cages became a regular thing for us. The people who worked there gave us knowing nods when we arrived and we bought a booklet for tokens that saved us money over time. We even kept batting gloves in the (hehe) glove compartment. I have to admit, beyond the self-satisfaction of being good at something, I sure got a kick out of waltzing in there in my jeans and sneakers, ignoring warnings from baseball burnouts and dudes with their own bats. It got to a point where I could hit every single pitch and sometimes I wouldn’t leave until I got a perfect round.

This morning I went to the local batting cages near my house. It was a beautiful day, I was on my way to the gym, but there’s just something about the energy and focus required to hit the round thing with the stick thing that is very grounding and invigorating. It’s almost like yoga in that it gets you out of your head, forces you to breathe and helps your body release pent up tension. I only did a couple rounds and I didn’t hit every ball, but I hit enough that I had a big-ass grin on my face for most of it. That sound. The perfect connection. There’s nothing quite like it. And all the the times you swing at the air, nearly spin yourself right around, or only catch a stitch of the ball, make that hit that flies past the imaginary short stop’s head that much sweeter.

high-five yourself!

I was feeling inexplicably joyful as I walked to my seat down my first flight’s narrow aisle, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. Call it a habit, a good deed, an impulse, when I’m in a good mood, I like to share it. But before I reached my seat, something caught my attention. There was a person a few rows ahead pulling at her cuffs, fixing her bracelet, shrugging her sweater into place and brushing her hair back just like my friend Esther. Her yellow hair was so similar, and yet I had said goodbye to her the night before with full knowledge that she was leaving on an early flight the next morning and I wouldn’t see her again until the middle of next week. Yet the resemblance was uncanny. I waited. Hoped. And when she looked up and I saw it was her, a rush of excitement charged through my body. An EEG machine probably would have registered Christmas I was so excited! I felt like I had the funniest joke to tell and lacked the patience or self-control to spit it out in any articulate manner. I yelled her name and awaited her shock and excitement. It was there, but nowhere near mine. But then, I actually said, out loud, in front of a plane full of bored and indifferent passengers, “This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me!” As the words formed and eventually made their way through my vocal chords and out my mouth, even before I uttered the first sound, I was well aware that this was not, in fact, the best thing that had ever happened to me. Not really even close. But I decided to go with it because, quite honestly, who’s counting? In that moment, in a crowded airplane aisle full of strangers and reluctant travellers anticipating an uneventful and lonely journey, seeing the smiling face of one of my favorite people was the best!

I can’t help but think that in the end, all moments can be this awesome. Why judge and compare, or create hierarchies of awesomeness? All we have and all we know is what is happening right now, so why not let this very moment be the greatest thing that’s ever happened? Seriously, reading this, right now, is the greatest! Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Just enjoy it, no one else cares. So go high-five yourself and have an awesome day!

Editor's note: my friend slept the entire way and we barely talked on the other end, but I'm still smiling about it.

from awkward pose to awesome pose!

Today I decided to squeeze in a yoga class after having lunch with a friend across town. I’d only been to this particular place once before, so I wasn’t really familiar with the facilities, the sign-in process, where you put your shoes ’n shit. I was a little disoriented to find all the rooms empty, but I was still a little early, so decided to get changed and await further instruction. While I was changing, I heard someone else come in who seemed to be greeted by a voice with a hint of authority. I felt reassured, but when I came out, there was no responsible party to be found. The woman who had just arrived, also there for her second class, kindly showed me the ropes as she had just learned them, and I continued to wait around awkwardly reading the bulletins on the walls. Five minutes after the class was supposed to start, there was still only one other woman there, which made three of us. By ten after, I went and knocked on the door at the very end of the hall. Apparently there was some sort of teacher training going on. My knock was received with an abrupt, “WHAT!” Then a laughter-infused, “Come in.” They glare-smiled at me as I opened the door, jokingly upset about the interruption. I’m never quite sure how to take gestures like this because it feels more like a weak attempt to cover up real pissed off-edness with lame sarcasm than any sort of actual joke, but—I digress. A woman came out to help, but only succeeded in confirming the uncertainty of the situation by checking the website (why didn't we think of that? oh wait, we did. thanks) and calling the owner (who had no knowledge of a cancellation).

Fifteen minutes after the class was supposed to start, one woman decided to call it a Sunday, but the other lady and I looked down at our bare feet and figured, when in tights, stretch! So we plopped down our mats and proceeded to breathe deeply and crack our bones. I told her about this cool yoga website I’d been using to practice at home. Quicker than I could say downward facing dog, she had pulled up a video and placed her iPhone between us saying, “Do you mind?” By this point, there was really no decision to be made. I had untied the ropes, placed my foot firmly on the dock and set the boat in motion. Besides, the experience was worth far more than any story of somewhere more productive I could be. Not to mention the pattern completion of actually squeezing in some yoga.

So that’s what we did. In a big empty room with shiny hardwood floors, Indian fabrics lining the walls and statues of goddesses as our audience, we did our yoga practice bowing to a leopard print iPhone (we kicked it over for the standing poses). We also got to know each other a bit and even came up with the genius premise for a comedy where two women get locked in a yoga studio overnight with nothing but yoga props and an iPhone to pass the time. Actually, now that I say that out loud, it sounds a bit different, but I’ll leave that to your own conscience.

I wanted to share because I love little experiences like this. Ones that can so easily be overlooked or passed by, like throwing out an important letter in a pile of bills. I could have decided to go home when the teacher didn’t show without hesitation, but when I came to that fork in the road, for some reason I chose the uncertain path over the familiar one. You never know what’s going to happen, but that’s the beauty of it. You might solve a problem, you may even create a new one; you might make a new friend, or quite possibly an enemy; but in the very least, you will likely end up with a funny story to tell. And that's always worth it.

talking about kevin, talking about life

I watched a film last night that left a deep impression on me. Not only due to the dark and challenging content, but because of something kind of funny that happened while watching it. I went over to a friend’s house, snuggled up with a blanket in front of her high-definition tv, and felt the typical anticipation I feel before I watch a critically acclaimed movie with a-list stars and a difficult premise. I knew We Need to Talk About Kevin was somewhat of an indie flick, but when we started watching it, the “indie-ness” became wildly distracting. As the movie progressed, it continued to feel like someone’s home movie of a community theater production. My enthusiasm turned to disappointment, but more than anything I was confused. I genuinely wanted it to be good and had heard good things, so it didn’t make sense that it would have such poor production quality, especially with technology these days. I even tried, and failed, to reason how the poor quality could be an artistic choice. So despite my initial optimism, the drama, sadly, kept falling flat. In my mind, and also out loud, I criticized the cinematographer, questioned the director, and furrowed my brow in disbelief. I was frustrated that a movie with so much potential, from the concept to the characters to the actors, would cut corners like that. That is, until another friend came over and, upon hearing our commentary and watching us shake our heads, started googling tv settings and resolution. He hypothesized the quality had to do with the different ratio of what the movie was filmed on and  the tv settings... or something! He changed some settings as I looked on skeptically (but hopefully). Lo and behold, the color changed to a cool, almost washed out and stylized blue-ish tone, much more polished looking and fitting for the theme. The movie suddenly transformed from a daytime soap opera to something I might actually see in an art house movie theatre.

Still, something about it felt like a first year film school project (no offence film students!). We watched for a little longer and just when we were about three quarters of the way through, my friend made another breakthrough in his research. He had another hypothesis and, despite his uncertainty, I encouraged him to experiment... just to see. (Truth be told, I desperately wanted it to be better. While the others had given up and filed it under weird, I still had hope.) Again, he searched through the controls and finally found one that adjusted the picture speed and turned some fancy function off. Sorry I can’t report any of the technical details. All I can tell you is that with a flick of the menu’s back button, it became a whole different film.

Suddenly, I was emotionally engaged. The music gave me goosebumps. Tilda Swinton’s gaze became captivating. I could see deep into the characters’ souls. And the film developed a dramatic weight that felt like I’d just been thrown a bowling ball. Firstly, I was excited. As I said, I really wanted it to be good and I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t.

But what is even more profound to me is how seemingly simple and “inconsequential” effects can drastically change a film’s quality and potency. To be specific, the speed and the filter changed my whole experience. I finished the film feeling satisfied and moved by the performances. That’s when my mind began to expand on this epiphany. If you look at your life as a film, your surroundings a set in which the drama of your existence is played out, the filters through which we see the world and the pace at which we move through it are incredibly important. They can dramatically change our experience of our selves and our lives - positively and negatively.

Have you ever been in a state where you felt completely on track? As if everything around you was happening on cue and you were standing exactly on your mark? Sometimes I feel this way waiting for a subway train or brushing my teeth; other times, it’s at an amazing concert or lying in shavasana at yoga. The reality is, the time and place is irrelevant. It’s my own internal settings that allow me to experience any moment exactly as it is: perfect. It was a good reminder that next time I’m feeling dissatisfied or critical, rather than blaming or trying to figure out why, all I have to do is mess around with my internal settings. After all, finding the right hue, the right speed and just the right emotional soundtrack can completely change the way you “talk about Kevin.”

"When we are no longer able to change a situation - we are challenged to change ourselves." - Viktor E. Frankl

adam yauch + a humble reminder

Hearing the news of Adam Yauch’s death hit me in an unexpected way today. Seeing a facebook post that read “RIP MCA” led me to investigate and sure enough the twitter and tumblr-sphere were alive with RIP’s and condolences. I would say my fan cred lies in that grey area between die-hard and clueless, probably just like most people within my age demographic. I know all their hits and most serve as anthems for one life phase or other. The Beasties were a staple of suburban teenage-dom and discovering them was a rite of passage for any white kid trying to make amends with their rebellious streak. I remember thinking the music video for “Sabotage” was brilliant because it was a music video but it also pretended to look like a movie (how clever!), and it was campy, self-aware and bad-ass. I think that was the first video my friends and I recreated once we got our grubby little hands on a video camera, donning hipster moustaches before they were a thing. Anyway, having one of your adolescent idols pass away is inevitable and not all that uncommon. I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I cried, and for months was scribbling “K.C.R.I.P.” on all my notebooks. The sadness and disillusionment with life came with the teenaged territory and we wallowed in our esteemed rockstars’ woes. Meanwhile we saved our lunch money for concert tickets and used our creative energy to make fashion statements out of safety pins and try not to care too much when our purple hair dye washed out and made it look grey.

So what does this have to do with the Beastie Boys and Adam Yauch’s death? The Beasties were different. They were positive and empowered. They were smart and worldly. Admittedly they had their misguided attempts in the world of role-model-dom, but they weren’t famous for their struggles. They were famous for being fucking rad, knowing how to party and having sick rhymes. And just like they didn’t live for their struggles, Adam didn’t die by his. He died from something that can happen to any of us. He died from something that happens to distant relatives and friends from high school’s parents. Or our heroes.

Obviously I’m not the same age as Adam, but sometimes sharing an imagined identity forms a much stronger connection than how long you’ve been alive. I can relate way more with the Beasties and their frame of mind than I can with a lot of people who share my graduation date or who watched the same after-school specials. I feel deeply saddened by his death. I feel humbled by the reality that no amount of external anything - fame, fortune, friendship or fly beats - can keep us from the inevitable. Adam’s death is a reminder of that; that thing we all know, but conveniently avoid as we put things off or fail to tell our fellow humans we love them. I hope he was able to be with the people he loved during his final days, and reflected on his life believing he’d done alright. I truly believe we all do our best, but allowing ourselves to embrace that truth can be the hardest of all. In the end, we all just gotta fight… for our right… well, you know. Peace and love in the next world Adam.

love in the time of villa carlotta

Most of the time nostalgia waltzes in of its own accord, like a sizzling waft of the neighbor’s barbecue, but sometimes I get this curious itch to seek out a particular time from my past. I’m not sure “time” is the right word. It’s usually an object, a song, a place or a person, but it brings me back to a particular time and, more importantly, a particular feeling. By no means am I one to dwell in the past, but I think revisiting these feelings is important. It’s easy to surround ourselves with certain situations and get lost in familiar patterns, sometimes losing sight of what got us there along the way. The memories might be painful, joyous, sad or exciting, but they are part of us nonetheless. Accessing those experiences is, I believe, a way to keep ourselves connected to all the different facets of ourselves and deepen our wisdom. This morning I saw a link on twitter to a celebrity’s favorite old building in Hollywood. Immediately I got a little excited hoping it was the same as my favorite building, the one I resided in for the better half of 2006: the Villa Carlotta. Alas, Moby’s favorite building is the 7th Day Adventist Church, but at this point my synapses had started firing and they weren’t about to stop. A flood of memories came rushing into my brain. The incredibly serendipitous way I got the apartment in the first place (people have been on the waiting list for years to get a spot) and the fact that I leased it from one of the celebrity carpenters on Trading Spaces, so it had all the latest appliances and was pretty nicely furnished. I began to wonder if there are still tiny bb pellets in the cracks of the aging floorboards. I had a birthday party where I was generously gifted my very own bb machine gun. The night started off innocently enough, with tentative and willing victims standing far from their shooter, and getting carefully pelted with equal parts pain and excitement. As the night wore on, however, let’s just say “don’t try this at home kids!”

When I moved in, the previous tenant (a cool young German writer who I became friends with and was working for Michael Bay, I wonder what he’s up to…) warned me about the neighbor below being a grumpy old curmudgeon who complained about stomping and too much noise. So before I had aforementioned birthday party, I slid a little card under his door warning him of the event and letting him know to call me if anything bothered him; basically an advanced apology. Even before the night came, he wrote me a note thanking me for my gesture and encouraging me to enjoy my party. From that experience, I learned that most of the time, grumpy old curmudgeons just want to feel considered and treated like human beings; and for the most part, there’s no such thing as grumpy old curmudgeons, just lonely people who want to feel cared for and considered.

I had heard rumours about the building being haunted, and certainly if there ever was a setting for a classic ghost story flick, this was the perfect place. There were odd noises, flickering lights and the decor likely hasn’t changed since it was built; added to maybe, but never redone. I’ve always felt a little nervous in new places I’ve lived for the first couple nights. I think there’s a natural reaction to unfamiliarity that breeds thoughts like, someone's breaking in my door!?! You need to acclimatize your brain to the noises and ambience so it doesn't trigger your fight or flight. Having said that, during my first few nights at the Villa Carlotta I had some pretty, I don’t know what to call them, “spiritual” experiences? I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or simply the power of the human brain to generate whole body sensory experiences, but I woke up (or at least entered that weird in between waking and sleep state) completely paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I felt petrified, and I became aware of another presence in the room, or what my mind perceived as such. The thoughts I had were in the vein of, “I need to show them I’m not afraid. I need to face this on my own. I need to make peace and they’ll leave me alone.” I immediately vowed not to have any overnight visitors (that lasted a little while) and face these demons on my own. Whether they were my own demons or those haunting the Villa Carlotta, I’ll never know, but it was a really intense experience, and made me ever the more fond of the place.

Another thing that made the building unique was the manager, Tom. He was incredibly friendly, jovial, mostly drunk, and would stop at nothing to give you a hard time (all in the name of humor, of course). I bond well with characters like this, so we hit it off immediately. I also paid my rent on time, so we were in good shape. I had numerous interactions with him during my stay there, but my favorite one was when he called me out of the blue months after I’d moved back to Vancouver. When I saw his number come up, I couldn’t even guess what he’d wanted. For some reason I decided not to pick up, but later I got this rambling message about how I hadn’t paid my rent on time and that he was upset with me and he wasn’t sure what to do, etc. I immediately called the guy I had leased it from, fearing that somehow they didn’t know I moved out and that some big misunderstanding had taken place, but he immediately burst into laughter and said, “He’s just drunk and fucking with you.” I was totally shocked. Not that it’s not completely in line with my sense of humor, but it was so random and out of the blue. I loved Tom a little more after that.

Living at the Villa Carlotta also amounted to many nights spent eating pasta and talking about poetry at La Poubelle, drinking coffee and "working” on my laptop at the Bourgeois Pig, spending whatever savings I didn’t have on used books from Counterpoint, waking up at 7 a.m. to move my car on street cleaning days (or getting tickets, I alternated), getting a constant view of the bustling and mysterious Scientology Celebrity Center, and being part of a small and eclectic scene of young actors, artists, musicians and writers. I used to be at parties with Katy Perry, who was working hard on some demo, I heard she had a good voice. Same goes for others, both previously unknown, still unknown, once known or flat-out famous. It didn’t really matter though, we were all just trying to make sense of our lives. Find meaning in books about philosophy, art and history and try to find a sense of place in a city that seemed to feed off superficiality and satiation. As you can tell, my nostalgia for the time is rich with fond and happy memories and laced with some of my richest moments of existential angst. I treasure all of them, and find it pretty frickin’ cool that I got to be part of a history that lives on not only in my mind, but in all the people and stories that weaved themselves in and out of that building.

pretty sure i won mysticon

Nearly a year ago, I got an email through my website inviting me to a convention in Roanoke, Virginia. Not knowing where this was nor anything about the con, I was a little hesitant, and put it in my “get to it when I get around to it” folder (otherwise known as the abyss). That is, until I got the second email, just checking to see if I got the first, and if I was interested. This should have been my first clue, though I wouldn’t truly learn it until later, that when Carla Brindle (president and PR director of MystiCon) wants something, she doesn’t stop until she has it, someone  has it, or she finds out it’s physically impossible. This, I must say, beyond even cleverness and wit, is something I respect tremendously. Without dwelling in the details, I will tell you there’s no way I would have made it to Virginia without her perseverance, creativity, and sheer will to make it happen. I really want to thank her for not only persisting so I could come to MystiCon and have an amazing time, but also showing me how obstacles are only road blocks if you let them. Yay Carla! The whole weekend was packed with super fun people, panels and podcasts, oh my! I often feel like a broken record when I come back from these things, but seriously, everyone was so nice! I guess it makes sense. People don't generally go to a con without a pretty high starting level of excitement and enthusiasm, but it's definitely contagious. If I had one complaint from the weekend, it would have been the lack of dance par-tay. Friday night I had my dancing shoes on and was raring to go, but the sad, confetti-covered floor of the ballroom was totally empty. I’m guessing there was a party somewhere, but it was probably in someone’s room and you probably weren’t allowed to enter without proper larping credentials (look it up, mom). Thankfully the hotel bar had its own club with a handful of locals getting down, so I did my best to dance it up and managed to conjure at least a tiny reputation for myself the following day.

The next night was probably the best surprise of all though. I met the  boys from Bella Morte at the opening ceremonies and quickly had them flagged for some serious radness factor. Singing an acoustic version of “Earth Angel” to a room full of anxious and excited con-goers was a ballsy move, and absolutely no indication of how hard they rock out in their live show. If you haven't already, you should definitely check 'em out and get their new album. And definitely see them live if you can! The fact that they dedicated a cover of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” to me, and completely pulled it off, and totally embarrassed me, and were hilarious and heartfelt and awesome, pretty much made them my new favorite band. Not to mention that they’re just great. Did I mention they're great?

Anyway, thanks to everyone who came, everyone who made it happen, and everyone who hung out in the hotel lobby when the fire alarm went off at 2am! (That means not you Andy!)

Oh! I nearly forgot, I did a podcast while I was there too! We had a really ridiculous and good time. Not sure how that translates to aural entertainment, but I’m sure I made a fool of myself, so at least there's that: Geek Radio Daily

be nice to your _______ (self)

I just re-read the very first interview I did ever. I’m collecting press for my visa application and it’s proved a special kind of challenge—reading about yourself and the things you’ve written. A pressure mounts gradually, fuelled by petty fears and insecurities. A type of pressure typically only relieved by hearty belly laughs between friends, or a cathartic cry over the helpless nature of it all. In this case, I did both. And then I read the interview. Whatever judgments lingered were quickly dissolved when I read the part where I said my age: 21. That’s seven years ago. A quarter of my life ago. I was a baby. My words were laced with innocence and I read on with the curiosity of a mother reading her child’s poetry. No need for perfection, only subtle cues indicating where I was at, how I was feeling and what makes me me. It ended up being a really cool experience. I felt like I could accept a part of myself I’ve always avoided looking at. The innocent part. The part that really wants to do well, sound smart, have people like me, whatever. But that’s not who I am. Who I am is in my decision to even share myself in that way, my desire to make meaningful connections and continue questioning what I’m doing and why. I thought it was a sweet interview in the end. And it inspired me to think about why it takes seven years to be able to feel compassion for my journey, to not need to meet some ridiculous standard. Why not look at what I did a year ago, a month ago, a minute ago, with the same acceptance and understanding? It’s said that time helps put things in perspective, but how much time? By the time we even become aware of our experience, it’s already in the past, so we always have a choice of how you want to feel about it—with light-hearted curiosity or the fear-driven control of an over-protective mother. Whether it’s an important presentation or a macaroni necklace, we’re all doing our best to find ourselves and create meaningful expressions. So be nice. I’m certainly going to try.

If you’re curious, you can read my interview here.

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." - Antoine Saint-Exupery

resolutions are my friend and i love them

New Year’s resolutions. I don’t know, I find the term overused to the point of mutilation these days. Often more referenced as a mockery than any serious act of commitment, my upper lip unwittingly snarls at the mere mention of it. And it’s not that I haven’t tried! Last year I sat myself down and expressed my desires for the approaching year—how I wanted to live better, do better and ultimately be better. I was actually a little nervous to go back and read it. Both because I’m always nervous to go back and read my writing for fear that I sound like an arrogant a-hole, but mostly because I was concerned I had been a total failure. Despite my hesitation, I dug it up and was actually pleasantly surprised. I don’t think I sound too arrogant, and I’ve made progress in all the areas I wrote about. Sure, there have been failures, but I’ve been far more consistent in my commitments, focused on building better relationships and have even developed a practice of doing things I’m not amazing at, and enjoying it even! Last year I performed a song onstage, something I never thought I could do. And I even read a whole chapter book! (Kidding, sorta.) So I actually feel pretty good about the little wins, as well as some other breakthroughs I’ve had throughout out the year. Still, the whole notion of making “resolutions” at New Year’s launches me into depressed teenager mode, shrugging at the dinner table when asked about my day. “I dunno.” I went to one of my favorite yoga studios for a special two-hour class today. I figured it would be a good way to start the year—to connect, reflect, feel strong and push myself. I love this particular teacher too, she has a way of dropping pearls of ancient wisdom mixed with her own experiences in the most humble and accessible way. However, as you can imagine with any yoga class that adds spiritual and philosophical teachings to the physical practice, it was only a matter of time before “New Year’s resolutions” came into play. In my head I was like, “nooo, you can’t make me.” But I’m also the type of person who, when I engage in something, I want to do it full on. My mantra is typically to save the judging for later and just go with it; which, upon reflection, has lent itself to some pretty interesting stories, but that’s another day. So I reluctantly picked an “intention” for the new year, came up with some random words that seemed sufficient for the occasion. I was even feeling a little self-righteous about my active participation until she suddenly announced what we were going to do next: “partner work.” *Gasp* And I was doing so well. To me, this is akin to attending a poetry reading and being told you have to get onstage. Like, I didn’t sign up for this.

I’m not even sure what’s at the root of my resistance to it, but I’m sure it’s mostly to do with social anxieties and the awkwardness of touching someone’s sweaty yoga body as they put themselves in vulnerable positions, in your face. Usually, I’m scanning the room in my head for my most preferable candidate, all the while judging myself for being so superficial. But this time we were automatically partnered with the person across from us. For me, this meant a shaggy haired middle-aged man with a sort of stoner vibe and an oddly endearing boyish awkwardness. I tried to make eye contact with him to show him I was totally cool with it, but he never looked at me, at least not when I was looking. So it came time for us to touch and stretch each other and I stubbornly forced myself to embrace the experience. And that’s when it hit me: none of the shit that’s going on in my head is actually happening! I let go of my insecurities, squeezed his sweaty palm, breathed deeply and embraced him affectionately as if we were old friends. It felt great! Not only did I “get through” the thing I don’t like, I actually learned to enjoy it, maybe even love it  little. I love doing partner work! Haha. This is a revelation, because at the end of the day, it’s just better to love shit.

So I’ve discovered my New Year’s resolution. As with most things in my life, not without great resistance, but I come by it honestly. My resolution this year is to embrace the things I fear and learn to love them. It’s not enough just to grit your teeth and get it over with. You need to open yourself and find a way to love what frightens you, make peace with it, invite it into your home, serve it tea, give it a massage, you get the idea. Only then can it seize to have any power. I think sometimes we aren’t even aware of what scares us because we’ve developed such incredible strategies to avoid the discomfort. Whether it’s certain types of people, environments, activities, abilities, we have lists of excuses to keep us safe in our comfort zone and give our fears the nourishment to smother our experience of love, and of life. Kinda makes me want to take my inner teenager out for pizza, aaaw.

I recently watched the film Another Earth. It’s a spectacular film and I highly recommend it, but there’s one particular scene that really stood out for me. The main character tells a story about a Russian cosmonaut who... well, you should watch it. It demonstrates what I’m trying to express quite beautifully. (Also, the dude kinda looks like the guy from yoga. Weird!) Find what you resist, and learn to love it. Become friends with your fears and you will gain ultimate freedom. Happy New Year friends!

Shooting #Catfish in a Barrel

***I wrote this a while ago and just re-discovered it. It brings up questions I'm always curious about, so I thought I'd share and hear what you think*** One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was around the time when there were all sorts of scandalous reports challenging the accuracy of James Frey’s memoirs, A Million Little Pieces and his follow up, My Friend Leonard.  Jt Leroy, the troubled, young, writing wunderkind, had also just been outed as a creative scheme with a middle-aged San Francisco woman at the helm. In all honesty, despite my intellectual musings about how all our stories are ultimately fiction, I felt sad and disappointed, and a bit of a fool. I had devoured James Frey’s A Milion Little Pieces. I cried when his words sang into the hollows of my own despair; I sighed when his imagery echoed the experiences of my own father’s struggle with substance abuse; I laughed when his self-conscious inner monologues sounded all too familiar. Needless to say, I was moved. Just as I was moved reading JT Leroy’s far more raw and provocative works. Evidently, I’d read all his books before he became a counter-culture icon; Asia Argento directing and starring in the film version of one of his books. I was a fan. I had friends who were “friends” with him. I’d even met him at a film festival party in Toronto. I was too shy to introduce myself or share how much I’d enjoyed his work. As was typical, he was wearing massive sunglasses, a hat and I think even a wig. He had a whole persona. He was brilliant, shy, tortured and innocent all at once. That’s what made him so appealing.

So what does it mean when our illusions are shattered? When what we think is real—people, stories, events—turns out to be fiction? Does it matter? Yes, it matters. Of course it matters. If we don’t have truth, then what are we left with? Well, I think that’s the most important question of all, because in the end, there is no truth. The past doesn’t exist in the way we think it does, or want to believe it does. There’s no magical history book that documents life’s events, ensuring an accurate record we can reference at will. No, the past only exists in our experience, in the present. And since time is always moving forward (presumably), and the present is always changing, so are we—along with our thoughts and memories. So when I ask again, does it matter if our stories are fact or fiction? Does it make our tears any less real if we discover a tale to be tall? My answer is no. It shouldn’t. Or at least I don’t think it should, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel compelled to protest against false advertising (which is really the underlying moral issue). No, I have those feelings because I’m a human being and I want to feel like I know what’s real and what’s not. It even makes me more survivable to know the difference between a real tiger and an Imax 3D one. The only real danger is when I’m so afraid of the feeling of unpredictability that I think the tiger isn’t real when it is.

I feel like I’m sort of shooting fish in a barrel here, since I was fortunate enough to play a character on tv who was faced with this exact struggle. Très apropos. Everything she knew to be true was dismantled right before her eyes. I mean, we’ve all had experiences when the truth stung, when the cold, dismal reality of someone not being who we thought left us shattered and untrusting, but you have to admit Cally met a particularly unfortunate fate. Not only was her husband not who he said *spoiler alert* (she was torn up at the idea of him having a measly affair), but he turned out to be the epitome of everything she feared and had fought against her entire life. He wasn’t just not human, he was the enemy. And he wasn’t just her husband, he was the father of her child and the only person she ever truly trusted. So yeah, pretty harsh. Needless to say, she didn’t handle it very well, and who can blame her? But it’s unsettling to recognize how much our identity is wrapped up in what we think we know. Not to get too spiritual or anything, but I have a hard time believing we’re solely made up of atoms and energy that ferments into some sort of “consciousness.” I believe we are more than just our bodies, more than our minds even. And if we knew this, maybe we wouldn’t disintegrate if we discovered something we thought was true to be false. We would simply be “ourselves” with a new perspective. Is that really so bad? It certainly feels like it at times, but perhaps that’s the beauty of being human—discovering the truth beyond “knowledge.”

So I just finished watching the movie Catfish. *spoiler alert - watch it!* Let me just start by saying I thought it was brilliant. Intentional or not, the fact it pissed people off and caused speculation as to its “authenticity” is win/win. I was so uncomfortable through the whole thing. I was uncomfortable with what was happening in the film, enthralled with its characters and their unlikely story, and I was uncomfortable with what was happening in my living room, frustrated with my own inability categorize what I was seeing and make sense of my own emotions. I fell into this recursive loop of existential uncertainty, only to be sucked in by scenes where I thought to myself, “You couldn’t make this shit up!” Only to be violently pulled in the other direction, thinking, "There's no way this is real!" I’m not going to give an opinion as to whether I think the film is real or fake because, quite honestly, I don’t care, and it doesn't matter. That’s the best part! It was so well done and the questions it raised are questions we should all be asking regardless; whether it’s by projecting on people having experiences in a documentary, or whether it’s through our own experience watching a “documentary” and speculating its legitimacy. Like a chinese finger trap, hating on it only distracts you from the truth, wrapping you tighter in your own limiting and warped delusions. And yet, I am only human after all, and I would just sleep a little sounder if I knew, like, was that shit for real or what?!?!

Further reading...

review of Catfish on The Documentary Blog

musings on "authenticity" by Andrew Potter

"Jt Leroy"

James Frey on Oprah

#NYCC and me

The week post-NYCC has flown by, yet it also feels like an eternity ago. The contrast of daily life against the sci-fi and fantasy Disneyland that is New York Comic-Con, is not a transition one traverses lightly; or at least I don’t. Like emerging from the wardrobe after discovering Narnia, I’m still dusting snowflakes from my hair or, rather, quippy buttons, flyers and business cards. I met so many amazing people and went on some pretty cool adventures (some I’ll talk about here, some you might have to read about in my unauthorized biography #pretendingtobefarmoredangerousthaniam). But all in all, it was an awesomely fun, productive and exciting weekend.

Even though the media guests were sanctioned to a far away wing, I was stoked to see all the friendly and loyal fans who came by to grab an autograph, snag a t-shirt, or just to say hello. The laid-back pace was actually a welcome break. Hanging out all weekend allowed me the freedom to come and go and carry on real conversations, rather than frantically packing in a rush of autographs in just a few hours. Admittedly, I only ventured out into the madness twice. On Saturday, I naively walked around artists alley thinking it was the main attraction. A friend of mine with a comic book booth educated me on the different smells emanating from the different areas—that way if I got lost, I could navigate using my ninja olfactory skills. According to him, the publisher’s area was the most offensive, but I didn’t test his hypothesis. I chatted a bit with the cool and talented Cat Staggs, who was kind enough to give me one of her books. Apparently she’s going to be making some BSG art in the near future, so you should definitely keep an eye out. You can find more of her artwork on her site. I also tripped over Scott Adsit (Pete from 30 Rock) pimping out his precious sketchbook for artists to draw/paint/doodle/make magic in. I learned about his idea last year, but this year I actually got to see some of the fruits of his many travels and contributions from incredible artists. I’m not sure how many sketches he has in total now, but it’s an impressive amount and he’s somewhat modest about it; either that or he’s a little self-conscious about the inherent geekery in such an undertaking. I personally think it’s awesome! I also love anything that challenges the fan/celebrity separation. At the end of the day, we're all fans of something, right? And if you're not, sucks to be you! Anyway, I digress, Scott was also kind enough to be excited about my “OH MY GODS! THEY KILLED CALLY” t-shirts and even sported his very own on Sunday. If you catch him in any pics or videos that day, you’re sure to see him representin’. Thanks again Scott! If you're in the city, catch him doing Celebrity Autobiography. It sounds super hilare!

On Sunday I had the good fortune of having a dear old friend from Vancouver serve as my sidekick. So during the slow times we got to catch up and reflect on the good ol’ days kicking around Vancity. It was really nice, and always humbling to have old friends to help you remember how far you’ve come. It was also really neat to hear her perspective on the convention. She moved to NYC seven years ago and has since become a hugely successful and sought-after stylist. She loves her job, but will be the first to admit the fabric holding together the commercial and fashion industry is one of carefully constructed facades and shiny veneers. Her and I have always bonded over our mutual love and appreciation for the nerdier side of life, so it was perfectly apropos for us to unite in such a setting. Her comments on the event were both refreshing and endearing as she compared the people at the convention to the people she normally works with. Sure, they both dress up in outrageous outfits, some of them even with outlandish make-up and accessories. They both obsess over material commodities and identify themselves with their specific interests; most of them form social groups as a result of these interests. But still, there seems to be something tangibly different about these “genres,” if you will. I might be so bold as to say that sci-fi fans seem genuinely happier than my experience of fashion-industry types. But aside from that, I feel the major difference is expressed in their intent. Rather than trying to create an image in order to fit in and be liked by others, comic and sci-fi fans are expressing themselves in a way that is not typically accepted by mainstream culture, and cons are the one place they can actually share that passion with others. I don’t get the sense that con-goers are trying to be cool; in fact, it’s cool not to be cool at a con (the irony is not lost, but you get my point). To put it simply, I it seems like people at conventions come together through a shared LOVE of something, rather than a shared FEAR of something. And that's just cool.

Well that’s enough waxing philosophic for now... More to come on Baba Brinkman’s Rap Guide to Evolution, the Occupy Wall Street protests, and some more cool (mis)adventures I embarked on last weekend.

Oh, and did I mention, I KILLED it in this Black Eyed Peas dance game? KILLED. IT. :)