London – Ottawa – London

Theatre people at SubDevision. Photo credit: Julie Laurin

Following a two-week visit to Ottawa, I feel rejuvenated and inspired. Man, I needed that. I needed to see my childhood home in the spring time. I needed to see my friends busy at work and play. I needed to perform poetry in the park. I needed to attend a theatre carnival and be welcomed by the majority of the people in the room. I needed to climb my favourite tree and bike along the canal and visit the farmers’ market and try contact improv and get drunk with my high school buddies and have lunch on a patio in the market and go salsa dancing and run into people in the street.

Having seen plenty of incredible theatre in London, I was pleasantly surprised by the sheer quality of the work at SubDevision and The Extremely Short Play Festival. And finally we have an Ottawa theatre brochure!

Having experienced bouts of anxiety and depression in recent years, I was relieved to find myself capable of relaxing, enjoying simple pleasures, living in the moment. Spending time with a three year old and his wonderful caregiver (i.e. one of my favourite people in the whole world) can really help with that.

Having suffered through severe heartbreak recently, I was ecstatic to realize that I still have the capacity to fall for someone in less than twenty-four hours. Thank you, Rosemary; you inspire.

Why don’t I just come back? Well, I have many reasons - but one of them is, simply, that I need to be away for a while. Moving across the ocean is the riskiest thing I have ever done, and I question myself  constantly for having left behind everything I know and love. Simply existing here in London is a challenge. Whereas in Ottawa, jobs were offered to me on a silver press kit and friends were never far away, here I have to fight for everything I want. If I don’t want to spend time alone and lonely, I have to make an effort to connect with people, to make plans on my own initiative, to force myself to get out of bed in the morning and be productive. I’m finding this very difficult, but I’m not going to give up yet.

This summer I have a number of activities planned: among some of the more exciting, I’m moving into a new flat that will require minor renovations and decorating; I’m planning a European tour for my company Second Skin Theatre; and I’m planning to get more involved with my Walthamstow neighbourhood – anything from volunteering, to offering workshops, to attending more local events. Running London’s West End might be a more ambitious aim, but I’m the kind of person that likes to immerse myself in a tight-knit community; the goal of ‘making a difference’ is that much more attainable. And, hey, maybe I’ll attempt to take over the big city next year.

’4in1′ Ottawa Park Acoustic Sessions

Not only is there a fabulous new Ottawa arts blogger in town, Matias of ‘Ottawa Showbox’ also gave me a flattering review for my impromptu poetry performance at new series ’4in1′ Ottawa Park Acoustic Sessions, hosted by photographer/music lover Ming Wu. Perfect end to a magical two weeks in Canada’s capital.

4in1

Jessica Ruano gave me a second, more forceful dose of spoken word. She was the designated ‘time killer’ since Del Bel and Lisa Bozikovic had to run for sound check. Wow. Jessica touched on themes I think we all experience at different points in our lives – particularly powerlessness, but also strength to recover from our our times of weakness. She kicked ass.

A reminder

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, 
talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of 
God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
 we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,

Our presence automatically liberates others.

—Marianne Williamson *

*not actually Nelson Mandela, as so often thought

Brag Therapy (or, what makes me totally f***ing awesome)

So lately my self esteem hasn’t been all that great. I get down on myself a lot for making mistakes, not being pro-active, and falling into ‘nervous wreck’ mode. Some days I’m downright depressed. And it isn’t fun.

Then recently a friend of mine sent me a horoscope (now, don’t roll your eyes…!) that contained the following challenge:

Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

When you’re ready, carry out the exercise called Brag Therapy. Grab a good listener or a recording device, and boast extravagantly about yourself for at least 20 minutes. Expound in exhaustive detail why you’re so wonderful and why the world would be a better place if everyone would just act more like you.

Don’t be humble or cautious. Go too far. Heap extreme glory on yourself. Brazenly proclaim the fabulous qualities about you that no one has ever fully articulated or appreciated. Don’t forget to extol the prodigious flaws and vices that make you so special.

OMG. Totally self-indulgent. The only thing more self-indulgent than actually completing this exercise would be sharing it on my very public blog.

Ahem.

Not only am I a good writer, but I know how to use semicolons and apostrophes and sometimes even hyphens – though I’m still getting used to those

I appreciate all different types of art, and despite the fact that I’m university educated and enormously critical, I don’t descriminate based on genre, and I have nothing against commercial theatre, because we’re all trying to make a living out there

I get along really well with children: I speak to them like adults with a limited vocabulary, and I don’t mind explaining things when they have questions

I didn’t get upset when a seven year old beat me at Chess

I often look pretty good on a yoga mat and in a dance club: flexibility and a basic sense of rhythm helps

I have a body that makes it reasonably easy for me to shop for clothes and feel good in what I’m wearing

I have a fucking M.A. degree and I worked fucking hard for it

I helped organize two major poetry festivals in Ottawa that were awesomely successful

I had one year of solid poetry performing and featuring at lots of different venues in Ottawa, and I won a poetry prize in Cardiff – not bad for someone who’s only written like 10 spoken word pieces

I was a straight-A university student who managed to volunteer, work, and engage in lots of extracurricular activities at the same time

When I feel comfortable with someone, I’m fucking awesome in bed – partly because I’m enthusiastic, partly because I’m willing to try quirky stuff, and partly because I generally know what I’m doing

I have a good phone voice and radio voice: I even speak more slowly!

For someone who used to bite their fingernails, I have really nice fingernails

I know how to cut my own hair, bitches

I’ve always been pretty smart with money, which means I can travel across Europe whenever I have time off

I managed to score myself a Spanish award in grade 12, even though I don’t speak the language

I’ve also scored with some pretty hot guys and girls

I choose to ride my bicycle rather than take public transport whenever possible: being able to control your route is so satisfying

I have a good relationship with my parents

I actually enjoying cleaning, which means my living environment is often tidier than most

I almost always wake up at a reasonable time: 8am or 9am

I make an effort to eat healthy food, though don’t feel guilty about indulging in the occasional bag of crisps or slice of cheesecake

I’m articulate in writing, and my blog has occasionally inspired some pretty wicked discussions

Rusty Priske announced to a room of 600 people that I am “the best publicist on the planet”, which was pretty sweet

I believed in Ottawa’s local arts scene when few other people did, and I did something about it – namely by promoting the heck out of my favourite artists and companies

I’m honest – and I’ve been told that’s a good thing

There, I showed you mine. Now please share in the comments section the things that make YOU totally fucking awesome. Go.

a café of one’s own

Paris continued…

Thanks to an ill-timed general strike in Spain (and yes, everything does revolve around me), I spent an extra two days in Paris, mostly on my own. My friend Amy was kind enough to share her intimate apartment with me for most of the week, but she was in the process of moving out, so I spent the remaining nights at the house of my other friend Mélissa and her lovely wife, Sarah. Their living environment is a sensualist’s dream: delicious food on the stove, bold black and white photographs on the sunset coloured walls, books and music records on the shelves, and two guinea pigs sunning themselves by the window.

One afternoon I spent alone in a nearby Parisian café. Just look at how lovely it is:

La Chambre Aux Oiseaux Café

La Chambre Aux Oiseaux Café

As I sat there I mused about wanting to find the ideal writing environment:

All I needed was to find a friendly looking café with Alice in Wonderland furniture and drink green tea with honey, eat buttered bread warmed by the light of the front window facing the street of gardened balconies. Remembering the freelance life: laptops in coffee shops, meeting for work dates, happily distracted by interjections from the regulars, ordering panini and staying for hours after I’ve finished eating.

Where is my life exactly? I still haven’t found that very special writing spot in my neighbourhood. Perhaps the café opposite the street from my work; lovely decor and a decent lunch platter, or just some tea. And on sunny days I’ll find myself some patio to read, lifting my eyes occasionally to flirt with passerbys.

Wondering how long I can camp out here. I am inconspicuous in this little corner.

Once in a while my mind slows down enough for me to write, write until my hand hurts and my fingers cramp, and my words are illegible. Thank goodness we do not live in a time in which handwriting is valued.

Being in Paris has made me realize that while I love company, I need these hours alone to write and reflect. I must not look at this time as boredom or limbo, but rather as a quick refreshment, my own version of a smoke break, a repose from a life that is and will continue to be full of people.

The Hammam

Everything is blindingly hot. The walls drip steam as I lie on the smooth stone furnace looking upward, the ceiling glazed with a mosaic of rich colours and shapes. My eyes burn and I close them. Wearing nothing more than a bathing suit bottom, my back softened melts into the raised surface, sweated tears down my ribs, my thighs lose their muscle, my heart slows as my breathing mutes.

I love being touched. When it is my turn for a massage, I place myself face-up on the table, and I am surprised at how freely the woman’s hands run across my torso, over my breasts, rubbing them as she does every other part of my body. I remember sexual encounters I have had at which I wished that my partner would just touch me without fucking me. I feel safe in this moment realizing that I am only being touched, only being massaged, and that nothing else is going to happen.

This room is full of women, and they are so beautiful, I can’t help but stare. I am fascinated by the older women, their wrinkles, their posture, their changed breasts. I am fascinated by breasts in general. Observing the younger women, most of them slender and softened by the heat, I wonder if their bodies turn me on, or if I am only drawn to them aesthetically, as though they were living marble in a museum.

Outside the air is fresh, our hair is wet, and we have tea and pastries. We smile. We sigh. We breathe.

European poems

Berlin

Kinder parks darkened

Imaginations enlightened

There, a sharp stool

There, a dull red bench

Slide straight and narrow

Empty, for lack of light

Echoes of children passed: we were here

we were here once

Kinder ghosts

A new type of chocolate

Wrapper left in the sand box

We were here

 

Paris

Blunt pencil shades

Rodin inspired ebony tits

Stone nipples rise

With the garden breeze

Fleshed heavy and heaving

Leaves no room for breathing

 

Barcelona

Spoiled bulldog whines

Fills the balcony with excrement

‘Bueno’ spits his owner

And throws him into the ocean

(True story)