End of an Era

I heard over the weekend that Savage Garden will be closing its doors on January 4th 2009.

Although I haven’t been to the Garden in several years, this makes me a little sad.  I spent many many many weekends in my mid-late 20s at the Savage Garden.  I was first drawn to Savage Garden through the LARP that was played there at the time.  Additionally, the bar was open as a cafe during the day, and so during this per period of unemployment, I found my way there almost every day.  I became a fixture, and later became the busboy, removing glasses and empty bottles from tables, a task that earned me the nicknames of “Bottle Bitch” and “Drink Vulture”.

During that time, Savage Garden became my weekend living room, a place that I went to hang out, a place that I was comfortable in.  I’ll echo what I have heard from many others in the last couple of days: it was a second home.

I haven’t been back there in quite some time.  I’ve dropped in now and then to say hi to Paul and Brenda, usually early in the evening.  But I the few times I’ve gone back recently, I never felt as at home as I once did.  I hardly knew anyone there, and the bar had gone from that place where “everybody knew my name” (cue the music) to a place where I didn’t know anyone.

And so I haven’t really been back. 

But I’m going to have to go back soon.  Before January 4th.  I don’t know if the party that night is an invite-only affair, but if its not I may drop in.  If it is, I’ll have to find another night to go.  Because though I haven’t been back in a long time, the place was a fixture to me.  I’d just assumed it would always be there.

But really, the Garden is now the Grand Old lady of Queen West.  15 years is a long time for a club, and Savage Garden is one of those clubs that we particularly long lived.  It couldn’t last, however.

And I’ll be sad to see her go.

Let’s call him Shawn, eh?*

*quote from Wallace and Gromit, A Close Shave.

On Saturday, we’re doing a photo shoot for Keystone Theatre, and since the style of the silent film era really requires me to be clean shaven, tonight I have gone from this:

To this:

Pretty frightening, isn’t it?

Truth is, I hate doing this. I’m so used to seeing myself with facial hair, that its quite a shock to me to see my face without it.  I don’t even really register that its even me.  It looks like someone else.  Which is really awkward when a face I don’t really recognize is looking at me from the mirror.

The things we do for art.

In other news, its really hit me today that my dog is getting on in years.  I mean really getting on.  I noticed today that when we went on our walk that he was looking like he was working at it harder than he used to.  And he moved slower than I recalled from what seems like just a short while ago.  Worst of all, twice, he lost his back legs out from under him.  Both times, he got excited about seeing a squirrel and tried to lunge forward, but is back legs just wouldn’t cooperate.  It was sad to see.  Made me realize that I’m probably not going to have him for much longer, because age will claim him. 

I remember during some of the worst times in my life, over the past few years, he’s been there.  When Erika and my sister died, he stuck by me, lying at my feet, following me around, making me laugh when I really needed it. Its going to be hard to say goodbye when I have to.

Practically speaking…I’ve also realized that I have no idea what to do when he does.  If he dies at home, then I’m really not sure what to do.  Don’t know any of the legalities around, what to do with the body.  Even though I don’t want to think about it, I’m going to have to.  Anyone out there know what one is supposed to do when a pet dies?  Especially if they are a larger animal?

Harvey Korman

Harvey Korman has died.  Here he is trying to keep a straight face while Tim Conway plays his dentist.

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That time of year

My emotions have been relatively raw the last few days.  Its the time of year when I once again approach the anniversary of Erika’s suicide.  This brings up so many issues, it isn’t even funny, not the least of which is the secret fear that something I might have done was a factor in driving her to it.  Naturally, there’s no real logic to this.  Its one of the irrational "issues" that comes out of the suicide of someone you love.

I’m not afraid of the hurt though.  Its a healthy hurt.  It reminds me that I haven’t forgotten her.  Its strange, but the hurt is part of working through it, even now…5 some odd years later.  I enjoy the hurt.  The tears that I’m not even fighting (except in places where its not acceptable, like at work).  I’m enjoying it.  And it will pass.

I actually find that as an artist, I’m currently more open.  Maybe that’s the hurt that I’m feeling forcing me to see and feel things.  But whatever it is, I don’t think its bad.  Its not depression, because I’m certainly not debilitated by it: not stuck in bed unable to do anything.  Truth is, its pushing me, forcing me to feel and write and create.

Odd, maybe.  But still good.

So, if you see me with red eyes, you know why.  But don’t dance around it or be afraid to mention it.  Its a good hurt.

….if any of this makes sense.

Waking up is hard to do

Actually, I wish that was so.

Truth is, that for the last couple of days, it hasn’t been a problem.  What has been a problem is waking up at the correct time.  I don’t have a problem with sleeping in.  I have a problem with waking up too early. 

Yesterday, at 3am, I awoke.  I knew that it was early for me to be awake, but when I looked at the clock, my heart sank.  There was no way I could get up.  So, I tried to go back to sleep.  I failed. I lay there, staring at the wall until 5:30.  Then I got up.

Today, I woke up at 3am again.  But this time (thankfully) I was able to get back to sleep.  And I woke up at 5:30 again.

Its annoying. 

Though…on the upside, at least I’m not late for work…

Crush

It’s silly to fear a song.

There’s a song that I have had a hard time listening to for several years.  The song, is Crush from the Dave Matthews Band.  I haven’t listened to this song for at least 3 years.  I just haven’t been able to.

Crazy how it feels tonight
Crazy how you make it all alright love
You crush me with the things you do
I do for you anything too
Sitting smoking feeling high
In this moment it feels so right

Naturally, this is about a girl.  Not just any girl.  Erika.  And I don’t think I’ll surprise anyone by saying that she was the love of my life.  While she and I were together, this was our song.  It was the song that expressed best for me what I felt when we were together.  When she left me, I couldn’t listen to the song.  There was too much put into it for that, more than just us as a couple.  There was a baby on the way, and the song soon began to encompass all that I felt about both Erika and my impending fatherhood, so when she left, that hit me harder than anything had before.

Lovely lady
I am at your feet
God I want you so badly
I wonder this
Could tomorrow be
So wondrous as you there sleeping

Eventually, Erika waltzed back into my life, with a one year old girl that I finally got to meet, and slowly, I was able to work through some of the emotions that were tied up in the song, and slowly I was able to listen to it again.

And then.  Well, then.  When Erika died, everything came back.  I had lied to myself and believed that she and I were just friends.  But I never did stop loving her.  And so, when she died… well, at the very least, I wasn’t able to listen to the song that had once been about us any longer.  There’s more, but that’s been covered elsewhere, so there’s no need to go into it here. 

The point is, that although the song has remained in my playlist ever since.  I’ve never been able to bring myself to just delete it.  Usually, when the song comes up I quickly skip it.  Its just always remained to painful to listen to.  Tonight, however, the song came up, and I didn’t skip it.  I listened for the first time in years. 

Let’s go drive ’till morning comes
Watch the sunrise to fill our souls up
Drink some wine ’till we get drunk
It’s crazy I’m thinking
Just knowing that the world is round
Here I’m dancing on the ground
Am I right side up or upside down
Is this real or am I dreaming

It really is a gorgeous song.   But yes, I did feel the same things I always did.  I felt how I loved her.  I felt the hurt of her leaving.  And I felt the loss of her death, which brings so much more sadness to the mix.  But I felt it.  Instead of avoiding it and skipping the song, I felt it.  I let it pass.  In the end, it felt good.  Listening to the song is like saying good bye to her.  Which is something I was never really able to do.  Not properly. 

Lovely lady
Let me drink you please
I won’t spill a drop I promise you
Lying under this spell you cast on me
Each moment
The more I love you

And so, the upside here, is that although the song brough up a lot of feelings that I usually keep hidden pretty deeply, the fact is that I got through it.  I conquered it.  And that’s a good thing.

After all, its silly to fear a song, isn’t it?

Remind me of our common cause

Smoke behind the church, little fascist jerks;
Remind me of our common cause
To buy a duffel trunk, Kill a nazi punk ;
And We’ll go bury him in the backyard
 ~ Ron Hawkins: Small Victories 

Last night, on my way home from a workshop, I was accosted by a pair of nazi skinheads.  I’ve seen these two around in my neighbourhood (well, mostly at the subway station to be specific).  They are always “flying colours”.  They don’t actually seem to be going anywhere, and from where I sit they seem to choose the station they hang out at because of its proximity to several heavily ethnic neighbourhoods.

Anyway, last night, I was on the subway, when they came onto the train.  They marched over to me, and plomped their white-laced docs on the seat (to make sure I saw them).  They smelled of booze and were clearly drunk.  I don’t know what drew them to me.  Its not like there weren’t other people on the train.  Then they accused me of being a member of the ARA, and told me that they would kick the crap out of me if I was (”that’s what we do in Europe” they said proudly).  They then began spouting as much racist garbage as they could.  I’ve never heard so many “n-words” spouted in a few minutes.  It wasn’t just for my benefit that they said it.  There were many other people on the train, and many of them were the very people they were spouting invectives about. 

These jerks were proud of their racism.  It clearly defined who they were to them.  It was who they were.

I kept feeling like I should say something.  That I should tell them that they were full of shit. That racism didn’t belong in this country.  That it was wrong.  But I didn’t.  Because they made it pretty clear that they were quite willing to kick the crap out of me if I said something they didn’t like.  I just stared straight ahead, trying to keep my temper in check, and trying to avoid an altercation.

And I felt (and still feel) ashamed that I didn’t say anything.  I felt like by not saying anything, I was giving them permission to say what they were saying.  And I felt like every time they uttered an “N” word I was betraying my brother.   I felt like every time they used the word “jew” that I was betraying my grandfather.  And I felt like every second I sat there saying nothing that I was betraying myself.  But even though I feel guilty for not saying anything, I don’t know exactly what I might have said.  Especially since no matter what I chose to say, it likely would have resulted in the loss of some teeth.  Yes; I was afraid.  And in my fear, I allowed them to continue to insult everyone on the train, as well as people I hold dear (though they didn’t know it).

I was happy that when I got to my station, my bus was waiting for me (since the nazi’s got off at the same stop).  I really didn’t want to continue the “conversation” nor did I want to witness them harrassing anyone else.  But as I rode the bus, I found myself wondering, what it must be like to be so consumed by hate that you let it become who and what you are.  Where is the joy in life in hating people?  They just seemed so angry at everything and everyone around them, and I couldn’t imagine being angry all the time.

I don’t pity them.  I can’t pity them.  They are, after all, willingly racist.  Its not like they don’t know any better.  They don’t want to know any better.  The worst kind of ignorance (the most unforgivable kind) is willful ignorance.

I hate the whole experience.  I hate that I didn’t say anything.  I hate that I was afraid to say something.  And I hate that in this country, racism like that exists at all.  Because I believe in Canada’s policy of Multiculturalism.  I believe that through the embracing of the many cultures of the people that make up our country, we are made stronger.

And yet, the disturbing thought that runs through my head is: if that’s true, then why didn’t I say anything?

Stupid Media

OK. So, on Wednesday, some freakshow idiot, walked into a Montreal School and started shooting people. Fortunately there were some police on campus already, and they acted quickly. The gunman was shot.

Now, the media hand wringing begins. It appears that the gunman considered himself a “goth”, and played “violent video games” and posted on “scary web sites”. The media, from the Toronto Star, to the Sun, to the CTV News. Have been giving examinations (which are really little more than a gloss) of gaming culture, and the goth scene. You know how it goes “how did ___ turn this man into a killer?”.

Sad truth for the news papers and tv news journalists. The Goth scene didn’t turn this guy into a killer. I know lots of people who are members of the goth scene. Not a single one is a murderer, hell most of them aren’t even close to violent. I also know lots of people who play video games. Again, each and every one of them knows the difference between the Game World and the Real World and would never think of actually picking up a gun.

News Flash: it wasn’t goth or video games that turned this guy into a killer. He was just crazy.

Abandoning Parental Responsibility.

The five meerkats were euthanized at the Minnesota Zoo Thursday, a day after a 9-year-old girl reached her hand into the exhibit and was bitten.

Apparently, state health protocol requires that the animals be destroyed because the 9-year old girl’s family didn’t want the girl to have rabies shots (which might be painful).

For the child to put her hand into the enclosure, she had to work hard to get her hand inside:

Zoo officials said she must have crawled over a driftwood barrier, climbed up more than 3 feet of artificial rock and reached over 4 feet of Plexiglas to get her arm into the exhibit.

And the parents were doing what at this point? Was the child unattended? Did the parents just watch? Regardless, shouldn’t a 9 year old know better? Who goes to the zoo and sticks their hands into cages? And do they get what they deserve?

At this point, I’m not angry because some cute animals had to be put down. I’m just lamenting the stupidity of the general populace.

In Memorium

She stands at her easel, poised and ready. Her eyes do not stray from the canvas as her brush hovers, awaiting the next thought that will carry her hand forward. She does not merely use the brush - it is an instrument. She does not merely paint upon the canvas, she is conversing with it; the brush forms abstract words in paint as her hand directs the idea.

        That is how I choose to remember her: Erika, the Artist

But more.

At the park, she watches and laughs as once again Gwen goes down the slide. A moment later, she takes her baby in her arms, and for an instant all sound and sight is lost. this is a moment shared between the two. A moment of perfect love.

        That is how I choose to remember her: Erika, the Mother

There are so many memories I carry, of her. In each of them, she is smiling, painting, laughing, loving, passionate, stubborn, imaginative, and too many other things to mention.

There are the ways I choose to remember her: Erika, the artist. The mother. The daughter. The sister. The dreamer. The seamstress. The designer. The friend. The confidante, The philosopher. The film buff.