Way Down

I think I might have to break down and buy Tori Amos 'A Piano' box set. For those of you who know me for my notorious cheapskatedness, this is a rather bold pronouncement.

The only thing. Only.ONLY thing that has buoyed me through this week has been the acoustic version of 'A Sorta Fairytale' which is so god-damned heart-breaking that it makes me want to curl up in a ball and wail.

That and 'Intro Jam/ Marys of the Sea.' This 8+-minute song which includes such epic lyrics as 'Back that ass up now' and 'you built your rock that’s on sand' (which i actually thought until just now was 'hey you built a rocketship on sand’ and I gotta be honest, am kind of disappointed is not. meh. I've been making up my own tori lyrics for 15 years. Why stop now?) has been propelling me to and from wherever I've been coming and going from.

“Back me on up
I gotta face some kind of evil tomorrow
I need to know that you're gonna be there
and you know my faith is in your hands, now
just back me on up
just back me on up
back me on up”

I need all the help I can get.

This week has been strange; I have been on auto-pilot. I feel like I've been in some sort of vacuum, or tunnel. All I can hear is white noise. And Tori Amos.


This bitch has got my back.

Quote of the Day

I have had this post sitting in my inbox since SUNDAY NIGHT and I have not posted it because it SCARES me. It scares me because it's from the Bible and the preachy, religious undertone makes me uncomfortable. But here it is, tapping its foot and saying 'Are you gonna go ahead and post me already or what?'

So I decided to look it up and what do you know? It's not from the Bible at all. It's from Hindu scripture, with which I have no problem.

Maybe the root of why it scares me resides in the fact that I feel like a fraud for not living up to this quote, which is all the more reason to put it out there.

And it's so powerful:

So gah! Here goes:

“Out of abundance, he took abundance and still abundance remained.”
-The Upanishads

This one goes straight for the jugular and hits me where I need it to. There is more than enough for everyone. I need to remember this right now.

Paddle Your Own Canoe, Row Your Own Boat: A Breakthrough

...Continued...PART II (Read Part I here.)

This week, my Subconscious Mind has been a double-fisted Barbarian baying for blood.

Belief Re-patterning is all about accessing the limiting beliefs in the subconscious mind which are well, limiting you. From what I understand, it is essentially the same basic premise as cognitive behavioural therapy, but jazzier (jazz hands).

Our subconscious brain, by the way, occupies roughly 95% of our mind. And she's a tough old boot. She is conditioned, essentially, to protect us. The subconscious brain is where things like driving skills, shoe-tying and the lyrics from every 80s song and TV jingle are stored. That is good: we need those conditioned, automatic responses. What we don't need so much is to hang onto beliefs about never succeeding, money not growing on trees, being a failure, being boring, being ugly, being stupid...or whatever other crazy ingrained beliefs we have had the great misfortune to pick up along the way. Take your pick.

In the last months or so, it has become increasingly difficult for me to ignore my Authority Issues. Yes friends, I have authority issues.

Shocking.

I am a rebel without a clue. But it's one thing to rebel against an overly-structured Public School System; a tyrannical employer, a domineering parent...it is quite another to be rebelling against my own self.

Because the truth is, I have all the Freedom I ever asked for. I got exactly the life that I have always wanted. So, why am I still rebelling? And against what?

So in search for answers, I have been taking time to observe all the areas of my life in which my rebellious nature gets in my way. And the answers have been shocking to nobody else but me. Because friends, my authority issues are like Stage IV Cancer: they're everywhere; metastasizing to nearly every area of my life.

For the last month or so, I have been chewing on the following idea: Rebelling is all about a desire for more Freedom. We need Structure to create Freedom.

Yeah that's great, except even the word 'Structure' gets my back up. My subconscious mind is a brutish carnivore, a Palaeolithic cavewoman warrior with a really sharp spear. She is protecting me from getting eaten by lions. Which is great, except that the Stone Age is over. And those lions are just a figment of my own imagination. Those lions, in fact, are me. So, I'm rebelling against myself. That's productive. And she is so busy protecting me with her war cries and rain dances that she is getting in the way of my hopes and dreams. I want a husband, maybe a baby; a healthy lifestyle and a successful career. Oh. And shitloads of money. And the FEAR is getting in my way.

Also, I realized that my first book was about Fear of Failure. My second book is about Fear of Success.

*sigh.*

So basically, I realized that I have HUGE. HUGE limiting beliefs around structure. Structure ties my stomach in knots. Rules and 'Shoulds' and telling me what to do sends me reeling down a self-destructive, defiant, and decidedly grouchy path.

So here's what I came up with: My subconscious mind perceives STRUCTURE as...are you ready for this? stifling.

That's it. That's my breakthrough.

So. The Belief Re-patterning allows you to acknowledge your limiting beliefs, forgive yourself for them and then looks at moving past them through Permission, Freedom and Choice.

It's all very liberating.

And eventually it gets distilled into an affirmation. You see, I was skipping over the most important steps, trying to get to the Affirmation before forgiving and permitting and doing all the grungy work.

And FORGIVENESS is HUGE for me. HUGE.

So my affirmation now is: I am a woman who is living in the Abundance and Prosperity that comes from Structure.

And the walls came tumbling down. The floodgates opened and I wrote. I wrote like the wind, i wrote like the dickens, I wrote, I forgave, I created, I exulted.

The walls came tumbling, tumbling merrily down.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream.

A Pound of Flesh

Writing is hard.
Writing is scary.
Writing--along with any other artistic or creative endeavour--will take years off your life.

I imagine that writing a book is a lot like giving birth: you forget how hard it is until you’re right in the thick of it. If you didn’t, no one would ever do it again.

And the reason that we do it again--even if we know what we're getting into--is because the end result is totally and completely worth it and will wash away all the pain, fear and anxiety.

So. I have had a rough week. A shit week. A week which makes Chris Brown's week look like a walk in the park. Yep. Woe is me.

Except that that kind of thinking is not going to get my book written.

All of the tools that I regularly use to pull myself up and out of the gutter weren't working for me this week. Affirmations? Not working. Visualization? Stopped doing it. Meditation? My mind was so up in arms and so, so far away from a peaceful state that I was up until 4 in the morning tossing, turning, agonizing.

So how about asking for support from my Mastermind Group? That is what they are there for, after all. I run to our meeting, in a panic, lost, scared, confused. I tell them my conundrum: I am not writing; I am a failure; I am stuck, I am scared, helphelpHELP!

Eight pairs of eyes stare at me, blinking.

-Maybe you could try setting your alarm?
-Maybe you could create a checklist?
-Maybe it's because you don't like the topic of this book?

!!!!

I leave the meeting thinking: I'M FUCKED. I am rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic here people. My request for support has fallen on its ass. I am on my own.

It's not about organization, time management or alarm clocks. It is about FEAR. Ball-twisting, tit-squeezing, suffocating, destructive FEAR.

It is up to me to find my own way out. Me who is involved in an illicit affair with my demons, french-kissing them inappropriately in a booth at the back of a bar...

I'm Stuck in the middlle...with me.

One more day goes by. Then two. I am waiting for an answer. I am consumed by fear, fear, fear. I am looking at quotes about how courage is strength in the face of fear; I am writing new affirmations about being a talented, competent and dedicated writer.

Nothing.

Fuck you stupid quotes!

I have a ten-ton weight on my back. I am carrying the book around with me like a shackle, a burden. I am trying to carry on with the rest of my life. I am at an aquacize class, lumbering around like a maniacal evil twin, a ghost of myself. I am meeting clients and doing my job, the thought bubble above my head a jumble of swear words and red, angry exclamation points. Another day goes by. Time will not stop for me. It will not wait for me to get my shit together. It will not.


I am entreating the Ghosts of Writers Past to open a door, throw me a bone, cut open a vein. Something. Anything.

I am screaming out for help. Someone help me.

And the help finally comes. A friend. A glorious, glorious friend asks me one simple question:

-'What's your payoff?"

<*blink*>

-What do you get to be right about?

<*blink, blink*>

-What is this fear supporting in your Belief System?

<*blink, blink, blink*>

I sit there, agape. Silent. Heart in my throat. Squirming.

Cheque please.

This, my friends, is what they call Resistance.

And then she sits down and takes me through a series of questions about Forgiveness, Permission, Choice, Freedom and Surrender.

It's called Belief Re-patterning. It saved my life.

I got the answers I was seeking.

Want to know what they are? Read here.

Full Frontal Fiction

When I'm writing a book, I also need to be reading a book. I enjoy the inspiration lent to me by other authors; I like the reassurance of someone else's completed manuscript in my hot little hands; the proof, the reminder that: See? It can be done.

So short stories are where it's at when I'm knees-deep into writing; I don't get so attached and involved in the story and if I do, the outcome is quickly revealed and I can get some sleep without being preoccupied with the state of my characters' lives.

And now if you'll let me set-up the post here, you'll need to follow me on a little side-journey. Bear with:

I have taken it upon myself to become the Go-to Gal with my friends in the sexuality and sensuality department. Clearly, I would rather be the go-to-gal for women's empowerment than the go-to gal for brownie-making or...or...floor-mopping. So it is not uncommon to hear me professing "So-and-so needs to get in touch with her sexuality." And then proceed quite unabashedly--and often without being asked-- to give tasks, homework, projects and sex-toy parties to these poor unsuspecting women who have had the great misfortune of telling me about one or another of their hang-ups. Comfort zones, in my opinion, are meant to be broken.

I recently came across a book that I have had for 8 or 9 years, given to me by friends when the tables were turned, 'lo those many years ago...I pulled it out to lend to aforementioned victim-friend, and realized that I had never read past the first story, so traumatized had I been by it. I won't get into the story of the Siamese twins which will forever remain SEARED ON MY BRAIN, but the other stories aren't so bad. So before I pass it on, I have been having it for dinner with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

It is erotica literature at its best, even after all this time. It is dirty, appalling, touching, happy, sad, morbid and festooned with bumping, grinding, licking, panting and moaning in all the right kinds of ways.

And a note from the editor:

"Few writers make the attempt [to write about sex.] Those that do find themselves at the end of language's tether, seeking to find words and phrases to circumvent the pat clichés of erotica and pornography. You are unlikely to think that English is short on adjectives until you start trying to describe what sweat on skin tastes like, or what is seen in the flash of emotions as you enter someone or someone enters you. A million components of sex are taken for granted; when you try to recover them in language, their immediacy becomes distant, their familiarity strange. The pen falters.'

Well, I daresay that they have done a (pardon me) bang-up job at finding a happy medium and it is with great joy and delight that I have rediscovered this book on my bookshelf, waiting, it would seem until I was better positioned (sorry, I just can't help myself) to appreciate and receive it as it was meant to be.

Q is Dead. Long Live The New West

Reader's Digest Version: Canwest/The Calgary Herald has pulled the plug on our beloved Q blog. I don't quite understand the reasoning surrounding this, since none of us get paid for blogging; however, we have pulled up sticks and are moving on over to the New West.

You may recall that I was a regular columnist to this online webmag last year before we all got distracted by other projects. (Read: we sold out.)

At our peak TNW had about 2,000 regular readers. A year after the last site update, we still get 200 unique visitors per day.

So it is with much joy and affection that we make our triumphant return.

So go check us out: And you can sign up for a membership, which is free!

YAY!

I Love You PostSecret...

Send in the Clowns

I happened to catch Steve Harvey on Ellen earlier this week (yes, I work from home. What?) I never watch Ellen, and I vaguely remember the comedian. In any case, I have survived--quite successfully I might add--another Valentine's Day. Or Singles Appreciation Day as it is known 'mongst some crowds.

So since that hurdle is over, I'm wondering if there is some new dating advice I could get out there from...oh I dunno. Possibly a washed-up-mighta-been-funny-once-upon-a-time-Comedian?

Harvey has a new book out called Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man: What Men Really Think About Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment.

Uh really? Isn't he on marriage number three? Isn’t this the same man that cheated on his second wife with his third wife, and screwed his second wife in an ugly divorce settlement?

I'm taking advice from middle-aged black men, people. Send in the clowns.

Well except that he kinda, maybe has a point. Or two.

His angle is that if a man is approaching you, it is because he sees something he likes and he is coming over to find out how much it is going to cost him to get it.

Men are either playing you or planning with you. (See how clever he was with that wordology?*) Anything else they tell you is just bullshit. It's smoke an mirrors. (Or, as I like to call it--smoke and morons.)

Raise the bar and the man will rise to meet it;If he doesn't he's playing. In fact, if he does anything other than be serious, honest, open and commited, he's playing. Doesn't call when he says he's going to? Playin.' Lies to you? Playin.' Telling you that things are moving too fast? PLAY-IN. This is basically Steve Harvey's version of 'He's Just Not That Into You."

What I did find intriguing was that he thinks women should institute a 90-day rule. He enjoys likening it back to the Ford Motor Company's probationary period. You don't get the benefits package until the 90-days are up and the employee has proven that he is fit for the job. His take is that if the Ford Motor Company makes you wait ninety days, then why are women only making you wait three dates?

So what he's saying is not rocket science. Nothing new. Old as the hills. And so totally and completely and embarrassingly obvious that it should go without saying.

So...why is it resonating so much?

Could it be?

I'm finally?

listening?

The interesting thing is that my friend L has been trying to drill this EXACT SAME INFORMATION into my head for the better part of a year now (not to mention countless years previously invested by other friends) and I have more or less dismissed it because she is a Christian.

I think those Christian folk play by an entirely different rule book. You see, when they were handing out the rule books in kindergarten, I didn't get the 'You're-worth-waiting-for' handout or the 'Wait-until-marriage-or-you'll-burn-in-Hell handout'; Nope, I got the 'take-what-you-can-get' handout and the 'Get-it-while-you-can' handout. Me and Janis Joplin.

So I wasn't rejecting outright what friend has been telling me, I just don't really think we play by the same rules. Different handouts. I don't need God in my bedroom; and so I don't need the same God rule book.

I hate the game; I hate the rules. Why can't it be about two adults in a mutually beneficial agreement where everyone is happy? Well, because that would just make too much sense. And also, I think for that mutually beneficial thing to work, it might help to have clothes on.

So yes Friends: I am going to take dating advice from a thrice-married brother. And then I'll probably sleep with him. But not until the ninety day probationary period is up.

Ha! (Even typing it makes me laugh out loud.)

Place Your Bets.

*not a real word, I know. But Steve harvey might think it is.

Pompous French Humour Has Cheered Me Up!

Cupid, You Always Were An Asshole

*sigh*

It's Valentine's Day and try as I might, I just can't ignore it. As good as I am at avoiding the commercial aspect of this bogus day, I can't really get away from the emotional one. It is a full-time job for me to avoid thinking about Valentine's Day and AVOID falling into the the pit of despair which regularly befalls us single folk out there on a day which practically rubs loneliness into our lonely little faces.

No one loves me. *sigh*

Well, no man, anyway. Although when I think about it, even when I have had a man, I completely rejected this forced acknowledgement of affection, taking a rather high sanctimonious stand on my soapboax along the lines of "You have 364 other days of the year to show me your love"

I was young then, though.



Now it just seems sad. I have made a valiant effort, though to completely pick myself up, dust myself off, rally the troops, go on dates, enjoy my own company, successfully forget the day even exists and a myriad of other creative and crafty ways to avoid THE PIT.

But you know, it's been nine years now. Nine Valentine's Days of being alone. Couple that with nine New Year's nights, nine birthdays, nine Thanksgivings and Christmases and I'm fresh out of creativity.

And I think that's ok too.

Crushing Indecision

I am having a hard time standing behind my business name. The more I use it, the less I like it. Does this say more about my confidence related to the business in general, or is it about my ego...or is it just a bad name? Am I throwing up unnecessary road blocks? Over-complicating matters? Or just being true to my instincts?

Just when I think I have come up with a viable alternate solution and pitch it to my Web Designer, he'll throw something at me like, "What is this? Death by cliché?" which will then send me into a tailspin of epic proportion. Because actually what I hear is "That's a dumb idea."

Attempting to set my perfectionist tendencies aside and just choose my choice, I am then backhurdled into realizing that my "briliant idea" is so trite and old that I might as well call my company Trite and Old Media. Welcome to DumbAss Communications: we're uninspired.

It's of course a good thing to have a Creative Powerhouse Genius in my corner, and him pushing my creative limits and my comfort zone can only benefit me in the end. It just means that he is doing a fabulous job.

But right now, I want to kick him in the teeth.

Twenty-Five Things

This is all over Facebook. Twenty-five random facts, habits or things about you. I held out as long as I could:

1. I grew up in Indonesia and lived there until I was six. We had servants. I am convinced that it has turned me into a person who loves being waited on hand and foot and is lazy around the kitchen.

2. I love working from home, even if that means I am always working.

3. I am embarrassed by my stubby fingernails, but not as much as I am embarrassed by fake ones.

4. I think I have a great laugh.

5. I spend more money than I probably should on makeup and hair products.

6. It is hard for me to go out in public without make-up. I feel like people are judging me and reeling at my hideousness. I do it anyway.

7. I don’t like repeating myself, which is probably why I never really made it as a teacher.

8. I absolutely love and adore the show Coronation Street and would secretly love to make a cameo appearance as a stranded Canadian traveller in need of a brew. Mostly, I am fascinated by how much all the ugly, poor people get laid on that show.

9. I enjoy judging people, but will only say it out loud if I know you won’t judge me for it.

10. Someday, I would like to go to a Fashion Show during Fashion Week in New York City.

11. I love making you laugh and spend time, thought and energy figuring out how to do that.

12. I love late nights. It makes me feel like I am getting away with something.

13. I have never gotten over moving away from Edmonton and still wonder what my life would be like if I had stayed.

14. I will always believe in love.

15. I think men are the cat’s meow. No matter how often they do me wrong, say stupid things, hurt my feelings or how much time they spend fulfilling their primal destinies, I will always think there is nothing greater on this planet than to be in love with one of them, and have that love returned.

16. I am a shameless flirt.

17. I enjoy shocking people.

18. I love swearing. It makes me smile on the inside.

19. There is nothing better than a good belly laugh. Except remembering how funny it was later on.

20. Patience is not my strongest virtue. And I’m alright with that.

21. I forgive, but not easily.

22. I see absolutely nothing funny about bodily functions.

23. I don’t miss the town I grew up in one single bit.

24. I am annoyed by people who take things literally.

25. My dad is the greatest person I know.

This is What I Live For...

In 1999, a Canadian tourist sued a Starbucks after claiming that a faulty toilet seat smashed his penis against a toilet bowl, which, according to the Toronto Star, left his genitals ‘bruised, crushed and rendered ineffective.’

He sued the giant coffee retailer for $1.5 million.

Edward Skwarek, was in a seated position on the toilet when he turned to retrieve the toilet paper in back of the seat when the seat shifted causing his penis to be caught and crushed between the seat and the bowl.

The suit alleged the coffee house was careless in "allowing a defective toilet seat to remain open ... causing a hazardous and unsafe condition ... in its public restrooms."

Skwarek, a government financial worker, alleged that the incident took place on Aug. 20, 1999 at a Starbucks in the Chelsea district of Manhattan where he and his wife, Sherrie, 37, dropped in for some coffee. The suit also claimed that as a result of Starbucks' carelessness, Skwarek suffered a "crushed penis, Peyronie's disease, retrograde ejaculation with consequent substantial reduction in sperm count, infertility, severe bruising to his penis and sexual function impairment."

Peyronie's disease usually causes deviation of the erect penis to one side. Skwarek sought $1 million in damages and his wife $500,000 because she has been "deprived of his services."

Uh, I would like to meet the man whose "services" are worth half a mil...

CATHARSIS

Is there anything better than a Sunday morning, a good night’s sleep, a good cup of coffee? Toast. Eggs. Carrot juice. And because it’s Sunday—yogurt and strawberries. Sarah Slean is playing, I am writing. I am cozy and dishevelled. I am unkempt and thinking and typing. I am warm and happy.

My last visit out to The Hideout was...well I can’t describe it as anything other than traumatic. I woke up, I ate breakfast, i wrote. I ate lunch, i wrote. I ate dinner. I wrote, i wrote, i wrote, i went to bed. I wrote from fear and panic, i wrote, uncertain if I could do it; i wrote not knowing at all if i was making a horrible mistake, i wrote worried that i wasn’t good enough, smart enough, disciplined enough to pull it off. I wrote. I came back 2 days earlier than planned; fleeing that small Ghost Town like it was the scene of a crime. In fact, it was. It was stark and lonely and harrowing. It was unsettling and disturbing, filled with ghosts and a past that hadn’t yet been cleared. I had worked, being my own slave-driver, driven by fear, fear, fear.

My return back here for my second book was reluctant, inevitable...and thoroughly lovely. A fresh coat of paint, a new window, a burgundy-flowered duvet, some good lighting and curtains which said ‘welcome.’ Oh and running water that didn’t smell like the depths of a horse’s ass.

Some good DVDs to keep me company, even better speakers and Annie, Sarah, Tori, Joni...all my muses to keep me feeling safe, comforted, happy and writing. Mostly, I feel free. And unencumbered from responsibility. All I have to do is write. I don’t have to worry about money, worry about income, worry about income, answer phones, answer questions, worry about income, explain myself, say no, say thank you, say sorry.

All I have to do is write.

And sleep. I write and write and write and sleep and sleep and sleep some more. And eat. Eat without guilt; Eat like I haven’t been fed for months.

Last time it was like a prison out here; this time, it’s a warm cocoon. Just another reminder that situations are what you make of them.

And my eternal lesson: Suffering is optional.

The fear and worry is still there, but for this day, for these several blissful moments, I can put the world and the worry on hold. I can nurture and cuddle and be quiet and unapologetic and be myself. I can think and examine and take an objective look at that life from which, right now, I seem so removed. I can see the truth for what it is; I can see what it is I really need to do. I don’t have to pretend or keep up appearances. Here, I can stop lying, stop pretending, stop, stop, stop. Stop pretending that everything is fine, that I've got everything under control.

But here. Here, I can stop holding my breath. I can breathe and sit in the stillness. Oh, the axe is going to fall square on the back of my neck. It’s only a matter of time. But not today. Not in this peaceful place.

And I don’t want to leave. I want to stay in this false reality for longer. But the real world will not wait; the real world is impatient and needs to be paid. The real world wants its answer. The real world has a return call to make and emails to fake.
But here, in this moment, there is just me. And the writing. Is all I need. And I am grateful.

Listen to these today:

KINGS OF LEON: closer ('Stranded in this spooky town...’ Indeed!)
SARAH SLEAN: notes from the underground
ANNIE LENNOX: wait in vain
A-HA: celice
PAUL SIMON: under african skies
TORI AMOS: parasol
JONI MITCHELL: california
KATE BUSH: sunset
ATMOSPHERE: puppets (because this song kinda sounds like a The Roots song and will make you want to clap your hands over your head)