The Novel

“There are various ways to overcome fear, Alexander. None works,” she replied. City of the Beasts by Isabel Allende.

Until now, writing a novel had just been a dream, and dreaming is very pleasant as long as you are not forced to put your dreams into practice. That way, we avoid all risks, frustrations and difficulties, and when we are old, we can always blame other people for our failure to realize our dreams.

My troubles started a few days ago when I committed myself to start the writing of my novel on New Year’s Eve. Since then I have felt so terrified by the fact that I actually must start it that I have been suffering from insomnia for the very first time in my life. I have that knot in my stomach as if I will be sick any minute now. But I will do it. At midnight I will be sitting in front of my computer. I will even drop you a line on Twitter. Now, let’s just hope it will not be on that night that I’ll suffer my first writer’s block.

The Karma Continues...

I am determined to start the New Year as the decent person I have been most of my life, save perhaps for some exceptions which came about during the course of this ending year. However, nothing says that I cannot allow myself one last strike, in the hope of clarity, before reverting to a more courteous being.

As expected, just in time for New Year’s, another close encounter of the third kind occurred, this time via e-mail. I guess it had occurred to him that I may have avoided his numerous phone calls deliberately. Obviously his primitive brain understood as much as to conclude that the telephone was not an effective manner to reach me, but not so much as to grasp that perhaps I had no desire to be reached at all.

Here is the verbatim content of his e-mail; the result of weeks of reflection no doubt:

“Hey, I tried calling a couple of times. I know you have caller ID so I guess you already know. I just wanted to thank you for the time we spent together and say that you made 2008 a special year for me. The Creme Brulle (I can't spell that) was spectacular that night. I will never forget. Have a good new year and if you feel like calling me go ahead.”

I simply could not resist the call of badness: “Let’s make 2009 truly special: vanish”.

How long before I hear from him again? All bets are on.

In Retrospect

This past year has been very difficult, intense, draining and exhilarating all at once. It started with gruesome, mind-numbing discoveries which thrust me to question every aspect of my life so far. Every choice I ever made, every thoughts, preferences, all the challenges and difficulties I have had to face over and over, my reactions to people, to events, and ultimately the vision I had of myself, of my worth, strengths, capacities, dreams, desires and most importantly, of the space I was allowing myself to occupy in this world.

It took a full year of painful reflection to realize that I was a person worth knowing, that I could have dreams of my own, that I was entitled to live and blossom and open up to people, to circumstances and that sometimes I may be hurt, but most of all, I’ll be fine.

With questioning comes frustration, rage, anguish, and eventually retaliation but also, understanding, acceptance and determination, if only to move on, to leave it all behind, even though it will forever linger somewhere in your mind.

This year also witnessed the agony and death of a long friendship, a friendship which had transformed itself over the years, into a ruthless path of hot coals. Still, a friendship which I will always cherish for what it once was.

In the midst of the ebb and flow, in the most unexpected of settings, I found myself sharing breakfast with an unusual personage who quickly became a friend. Not yet one who can pretend to years of acquaintance but certainly to reflection, respect and intelligence.

Unbeknown to him, he provided me with the key to let all my torments go: a blog, this blog. A space where I could share my story with others who perhaps face the same challenges, where I could share my mind about the most trivial of subjects, if I so chose. But also a space where I can slowly open up, expose myself to the world, share my dreams, my increasing joys, learn to brave up, a place where I can dare to dare.

The same friend posted on his blog recently predictions for the New Year by Tom Asacker. Two of them really made me think:

The first one said that many things will change in the next year, but many people will not. That most of us will be doing, thinking and feeling more or less the same things this time next year as we are now. That if you don’t want that sameness, you should grab yourself by the collar and yank yourself off of that comfortable, well-worn path and onto the one less traveled by you. To let go of your past and grab onto your future. Because while you’re waiting for that grand insight to point you in the right direction, the beauty of life is flying right on by.

The second said that most people will sit quietly in their seats and watch life unfold around them. That the best way to know what kind of life you want is to put yourself in charge of creating it. To let the pull of what excites you and what you care most deeply about be your guide.

At first I was devastated in some ways, thinking back about the last year. Then I started putting things into perspective. Sometimes action is more than just physical. And I had plenty of it. My world shifted several times during the year. It was not comfortable, it was not easy, but it was enlightening and it made space for new beginnings, just like the ending of that friendship had done. Removing some of the dusty old – things - we carry makes space for brand new ones, which correspond more to who we have become. I could have done more, I am sure, but I did the very best I could. And that I am proud of.

What will the New Year bring? I don’t know. What I know for sure though, is that at midnight on the 31st, I will be sitting at my computer writing the very first words of my novel. So let’s wait until this time next year to see what really happened. Some of us – me – might be tormenting publishing companies, others might have succeeded in losing some weight or would have joined shameful organizations, and others might be sitting in front of the TV, watching their own show being played.

Whatever happens, keep in mind that the longest journey begins with the first step.

Christmas

I don’t know what Christmas means to you: the birth of Jesus, the gathering of family and friends, a race against time, or simply time off work. Perhaps it is all or none of it. Perhaps like me, you have been brought up in Christian traditions and although you understand the meaning of the celebrations, the sentiments seem to have passed you by. I have a very tortuous relationship with The Lord, myself. I consider him with certain perplexity. I have often felt that he ignored me in times of need. Yet, I have also been cherished in some odd ways more than most.

I am not sure what Christmas really means to me. All I know is that at Christmas I used to visit my aunt Lulu in her convent, where we would attend mass together and more than once, I felt touched.

Merry Christmas

It Must Be Karma - 2

There was a time when it was generally understood that no actually meant no. It does not seem to be as clear nowadays or at least not to all. A while back, in a posting called - It must be karma - I talked about that guy who didn’t grasp such a concept too easily. I guess this is the sequel.

After ending this affair in the most obscure of circumstances, actually the beginning was pretty obscure too; I hoped I would never hear from him again. That was not to be. Last Thanksgiving, months after the fact, he sent me an e-mail suggesting that I call him if I wanted to go for a coffee. I thought my answer was clear and to the point. Apparently not. I guess I am the only one to blame for this lack of clarity.

Last Friday I had just arrived home from work when the phone started ringing. It’s not in my habits to race to answer the phone, I usually let it go into the voice mail and then check who called. I used to receive so many calls from telemarketers who don’t get the concept either that no means no. A quick look at my call display showed a number that was somewhat familiar but which I could not quite place. A quick check in my portable confirmed what I suspected. Him! Not only did his number appear on my display but next to it was – x17 -. The guy had called seventeen times in the previous two days. Woo. I was in for a long weekend of hide and seek. I managed to dodge the seven other calls he made to my home without ever leaving a message. I guess in the back of his mind, rejection is still a strong possibility.

Of course, he only calls when he has a perfectly good excuse to do so should I turn out to be completely unreceptive. How could you be so rude, after all, I was just calling to wish you Merry Christmas. Yeah right. Well, after Christmas, there is New Year, Valentine’s Day, Easter. Let see if there will be another sequel…

Hungry Planet

Hungry Planet: What the World Eats by Peter Menzel and Faith D'Aluisio.

Photojournalist Menzel and writer D'Aluisio traveled the world photographing average people's eating habits, visiting some 30 families in 24 countries, 600 meals. Each family was asked to purchase - at the authors' expense - a typical week's groceries, which were artfully arrayed for a full-page family portrait.

Have a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osSpWbmEYF4

The Meat Pies

It is becoming quite embarrassing to pretend to great culinary skills when lately all I do turns to disaster. Unfortunately, with the Christmas season generally comes a great deal of cooking. It is at that time of the year that we all expect homemade traditional dishes and delicacies.

Last weekend, the task ahead was making tourtière, a meat pie originating from Quebec. It really is just a pie filled with ground pork, beef and game, onions and spices. It is a deliciously fragrant and savory dish especially anticipated during the Christmas celebrations. But a good tourtière has its secrets; a mystery ingredient, a superstitious order of assembly, a special mold. It’s one of those things. Every family has their own – original - recipe, passed down through generations. Marco’s mother gave me hers last year. I guess it makes me family now.

On that Sunday morning, I had seven tourtières to make. No one ever makes one single tourtière. It’s unheard of. By definition, tourtière is an assembling dish, made with the expectation that they will be shared with others. Therefore quantity is in order.

Generally speaking, tourtière is an easy dish to make, fairly straightforward. I made the filling, the dough, assembled the pies, covered with top pastry, pressed the edges to seal, cut decorative shapes from the remaining pastry and arranged them all in a pretty pattern on top, brushed the pastry with an egg mixture to make it all shiny, and baked for 45 minutes. The result was splendid. A row of hot and golden brown tourtières was cooling down on the kitchen counter.

My work was done. It was time to relax. I made myself a nice cup of tea, put on Benny Goodman, grabbed a book, sat next to my cat and stroked her gently behind the ears. The couch was bathing in sunrays. It was pure heaven. That is, until all hell’s broke lose. A loud – KABOOM - made us both jump out of our skin, startled, confused, and eventually panicked. I nearly scalded my cat to death when I dropped my hot steaming tea all over her. It remains unclear whether the noise or the hot water set her running across the apartment as if her life depended on it, making a trail of hot sweet tea on every carpet and pieces of furniture along the way. Her tail was apparently rather soaked as it splashed tea on the walls and ceiling like arterial blood in horror movies. In her desperation to get away she had knocked over a plate of biscotti’s which landed on the floor. Although the biscotti’s completely crumbled to pieces, the plate did not break until I actually stepped on it. In my race to catch up to my cat, I failed to notice that I had cut my foot, pretty deep. Eventually, I found her sitting on the bed, drying herself off. Apparently calm, cool and collected. A quick check revealed nothing to worry about. She was fine. That’s when I noticed the blood, my blood. It crossed my mind that I may faint and bleed to death; thankfully I managed to tend to it on time. How I found the strength is beyond comprehension, I get feeble at the mere sight of blood. Although it was pretty clear that I might need stitches and a better bandage than my grey sweatshirt, I was more concerned by the fact that it may upset my plans to wear my brand new heels at the office party the following week.

It’s only when I returned to the kitchen to get a bucket of hot soapy water and a sponge that the origin of the commotion became clear. It turned out that the – KABOOM – in question was generated by all seven tourtières exploding at once. There was ground meat everywhere. As if someone had splashed walls, cupboards and ceiling with molten porridge. To make matters worst that was exactly the moment Marco chose to knock at the door. Surprised, but not overly bewildered, he kindly suggested he’d come back later.

Back in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the microwave door. In an attempt a brushing off my hair, I had put blood on my forehead, my mascara probably splashed by hot tea was running down my cheek, my hair was disheveled and a piece of wet dough was caught in it, I looked slightly possessed. Yet, I had not lost my cool.

Meticulous investigations revealed that I may have neglected to cut steam vents on the top dough…

By dinner time, all traces of the slaughter had been removed. I had to part with my favorite sweater, but otherwise all was quite fine. Exhausted, I grabbed my book, aimed for the couch, and sat straight into a puddle of tea. Darn.

Vancouver Winter Storm

December 16, 2008 10:42 AM

Chilled Vancouver commuters faced their second day of winter hell today, as an additional centimeter of the peculiar white stuff fell, bringing the lower mainland to its knees and causing millions of dollars worth of damage to the marijuana crops. Scientists suspect that the substance is some form of frozen water particles and experts from Saskatchewan are being flown in.

With temperatures dipping to the almost but not quite near zero mark, Vancouverites were warned to double insulate their lattes before venturing out.

Vancouver police recommended that people stay inside except for emergencies, such as running out of espresso or biscotti to see them through Vancouver's most terrible storm to date. The local Canadian Tire reported that they had completely sold out of fur-lined sandals.

Drivers were cautioned to put their convertible tops up, and several have been shocked to learn that their SUV's actually have four wheel drive, although most have no idea how to use it.

Weary commuters faced soggy sushi, and the threat of frozen breast implants. Although Dr. John Blatherwick, of the Coastal Health Authority reassured everyone that most breast implants were perfectly safe to 25 below, down-filled bras are flying off the shelves at Mountain Equipment Co-op.

"The government has to do something," snarled an angry Trevor Warburton. "I didn't pay $540,000 for my one bedroom condo so I could sit around and be treated like someone from Toronto."

The Great Darkness

The last time I spoke to my mother, she had just left a message on my voice mail praising my brother’s unequal extraordinariness, even though he has not uttered a word to her in almost twenty years. Despite the fact that she knew very well that I despised him, that he molested me as a child, which in my opinion should taint slightly his merits, and that he was a violent person even to her, she found it appropriate to leave such a message to me. It is useless to say that after a long day at work and excruciating new shoes, it was like getting a brick across the forehead.

That night, I finally lost my cool and called her back in the mist of a raging mood. It was time to set some things straight. The moment she answered the phone, I had become murderously calm and cold. I told her to never, ever, ever again leave such a message on my voice mail or even dare to talk to me about him if she intended to maintain the slightest of contact with me and I hung up before she could say anything. There was no room left for negotiation or interpretation it was as clear as a threat can be. I don’t mind her loving him, after all he is her son, but I need not be the one she shares it with. Especially when I know this feeling is not extended to me. I have never had a good relationship with my mother but on that day, it no longer mattered to me. Her love was no longer worth the pain, the effort, the humiliation. The craving times had passed. It was simply too late. It didn’t matter anymore. She did not matter anymore. I was finally free.

Yesterday, months after the fact, I called her. On a human level, I can appreciate that her life kind of sucks. I was a little edgy as you can imagine, but I don’t think she noticed, she was essentially focused on what she had been up to – not much – but repeated at nauseam, it may seems like a lot. She is very good at re-writing the past, at enhancing her role as a mother, but most of all, she is excellent at blaming. Blaming life, karma, heavens, children, ex-husband, solitude, and most of all: me.

I was listening to her distractedly while watching TV, when she started again on my utter ungratefulness for refusing to move back closer to her so that I could take care of her as she gets older, just like she had done for me as a child. That’s when I lost my cool all over again. First of all, she never took care of me, as a child or else and second; it was her job as a mother. Even if I was so stupid as to consider such a move, she would treat me like a servant, devoid of any gratitude. Of course, this sudden burst of hostility was the perfect excuse for her to point out all my flaws and wrongdoings.

You want – me - to remind you of all that – you - should have done differently as a mother? You wanna talk about all these things you are conveniently shuffling under the rug, as if they never happened? Because if you want to get into this, I have a long list for you, a foot long. I am sure you would rather not have this conversation right now or most likely ever, would you. …Wounded silence… Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’ve got to go now; we’ll talk again sometimes in the New Year.

I was so close to snapping. A mere comment on her part would have pushed me over the edge. She has spent a lifetime trying to make me believe and everybody else around that I was crazy, disturbed, aggressive, a lunatic who ultimately did nothing more than disturb their otherwise perfectly fine lives.

My mother has always assumed the position that nothing has ever happened to me, but that if something had happened, it would have been my own fault for provoking it, and chances were I had probably been the one who molested my big brother in the first place. I was simply jealous of him. If I ever was to breach the silence surrounding the – subject -, she would never validate my grief. She would dismiss it as a craving for attention. My brother was the golden child, the untouchable, the son. I was nothing. I was a girl, a Jezebel.

It may not be the most enviable situation I find myself into, but at least, I managed to secure myself a nice and peaceful Christmas time and perhaps the New Year will witness the end of the Great Darkness, mine that is.

Something Greyish

Yesterday my Manager asked me to go with her do so errands for the office. I agreed, ever so reluctantly. The mere thought of spending time with Diane is exhausting. She is mainly a good person. But she is also an energy sucker and in every other aspects of her personality, a peasant. But in her mind she was doing me a favor and thus left me no choice, I had to go.

On our merry ride, we stopped at Costco. I was glade for the opportunity of getting a few blocks of Parmesan cheese, since my membership had expired a few months earlier, but the experience left me dizzier than I expected. Not only did we not need to patron this establishment for the office, but she further insisted that we go through every aisles. At some point, between the cream puffs and the cheese cakes in the frozen section, there was a display of Poinsettias’. In each pot someone, presumably the Poinsettias’ marketer, had planted sparkling red or silver stars held on metal rods. Diane stopped dead in her tracks. I believe I neglected to mention earlier that Diane has also a pronounced taste for knick knacks of all kind, mainly the useless, cheapest ones and in vast quantities. Her office at best of times looks like a dollar store on clearance day.

Diane was frozen in front the Poinsettias’ display. At first I thought she had in mind to get one, but it was the little stars that had caught her attention. Quickly she pulled out a red and a silver one and asked me which one I preferred. None really, but if I must choose, the red one I guess. She immediately put them both in the upper basket of our cart. In fact, not only did she put them in the cart, but she deliberately put them under the red plastic cover which I assume is designed to close the openings when there is no child sitting in the cart. I thought for a moment she was about to buy it for me. How embarrassing. But I was all wrong; she was planning on stealing it for me! I was mortified. What is the etiquette in such circumstances? What are you supposed to do? I had a quick note to self, a reminder to keep my drawers locked at all times from now on, but what are you suppose to say? I mean, she is my boss. If I go along does it mean I am a thief? Would it extend to the workplace? Was it a test of character? I was stunned. So I chose to wait and see.

Fortunately or not, a nosy cashier spotted the deed right away. She asked a few questions, but luckily I was a mile away from the action at that time, entirely focused on some guy’s advertizing a land mower for sale. I would have bought it if it had guarantied a faster exiting of the premises.

On our way out, it was pretty obvious that I had not appreciated to be part of this great plan. Not the least fazed by my – stuck up – attitude, she explained that it was actually Costco’s fault for not selling the stars on their own. They had forced her to do such a thing. Candidly she explained that it was routine for her to – adjust – prices or ownership on items of choice. It was not really stealing; stealing is such a dark, dark word, it was something greyer…

Well, stuck up or not, to me it felt like shoplifting. We had three more stores to visit that afternoon, needless to say, it was a long one.