This past weekend, Nate and I tripped up to the Okanagan to scope it out, and to enjoy my mom and dad’s empty house. (Supposedly they’ll have moved back into it by the end of the month… but packing seems to be progressing slo—wly).

We drove up after work on Friday, and arrived around 9pm—we were shortly thereafter joined by my brother and our childhood neighbor, Brad Cook. They arrived with beer, rum, and a desire to start a fire in the outdoor pit. Before long, Brad (a self-proclaimed rapper) was laying down the phat tracks—“Yo, yo, yo, I’m Bradley C. and I’m here hangin’ with Sandy and E-- we all be chillin’ ‘round the fi-re and I be laying the lines on the ____” He encouraged us all to freestyle with him—Sandy was pretty sauced and would sit stunned for a few moments too long before spitting out a rhyming word. It was hilarious. Brad puked a few times in mom’s garden, and I don’t remember doing anything but laughing.

The next day, Sandy woke Nate and I shockingly early with demands for breakfast—Brad couldn’t be roused. Sandy is like an angry baby crow when he is hungry—actually, he’s like an angry baby crow most of the time. We headed into Penticton for a White Spot brekkie—usually my favorite, but I keep on forgetting that it has been routinely disappointing lately; crappy coffee, and those dreaded soggy shred-style hash browns that always seem to be lukewarm. Minor grievances aside, it was nice hanging out with my brother and my guy, and having breakfast talk. We went to the farmer’s market and purchased a mish-mash of items; bison sausage, burdock, and fresh honey. The best part was bumping into old friends and neighbors, and recognizing familiar people. I found Greg McLean at the ‘Sacred Sun Body Art’ booth—I worked for him and his wife one summer travelling around to different events and fairs doing henna ‘tattoos’. It was neat seeing him again; he even let me take up my old tools and do a wicked pin-up girl in henna on my brother’s arm. It proved very popular throughout the day, though Sandy did get the seedy eye from a small group of disapproving ladies at the market.

Later, there was to be a big 35th anniversary party at Bob and Kerrel Lincoln’s house—something I would have known about sooner if I hadn’t dropped off of Facebook. (My brother is still disgusted with me for doing so—“what, are you too cool for Facebook?”) Still pooped from the night before, we decided to preface the party with a nap and a visit to Tickleberry’s for an ice-cream cone. I opted for lemon sorbet, and Nate got my fave from last year, a horribly bright ice cream called ‘Play-dough’. Sounds gross, but it’s cherry-banana-blueberry. Yum. The murals I painted still look great; I’m so glad I investigated the colourfastness of all the paints I used, and only bought the best. We inspected the T-Shirts they have put out with my artwork this year—they’re very cute, and are already proving to be big sellers! I felt quite satisfied, and not a little pride for my small-town fame. I’ve had more than my allotted 15 minutes, lucky me! (take that, Andy Warhol!)

We eventually met up with Sandy back at the house and decided to walk up through Kaleden to the Lincoln’s house to bypass any chance of any drunk driving. When we got there I was attacked by a barrage of huggers—great! It was fun to see my old schoolmates and the ‘Kaleden parents’ whooping it up together. The party was neat; it started out sweet and mellow, and progressed to saucy and wild. Bob Lincoln is well-known for the potency of his home-made wine, so I wasn’t surprised to hear about the table-dancing and other highjinx that went on after Nate and I headed home early…

We had breakfast out again the next morning, with Tamara, Brad, Josh, Sonia, Cindy and Cassie. We got to meet Tam and Brad’s new puppy, Ivy… what a cutie! (But seriously—who doesn’t like puppies?) I heard far more about what I missed after Nate and I left the party—I think I’m glad I left! The farther away I stay from trouble, the less of it I get into! Nate and I cruised Penticton after breakfast, and he bombed Carmi on his longboard—that was probably the most scared I’ve been for him while I’ve been following him and spotting for him—how much good am I in a car behind him on a blind hairpin corner? Yikes. He’s crazy. I can’t beat him, but sometimes I don’t know if I want to join him, either. He’ll be up in Vernon next weekend for the DH event there.

It was sunny and breezy and beautiful for the entire weekend—the landscape is relatively unchanged from my childhood, with the exception of more houses being built across the lake from us (more lights on the hillside at night) and the evidence of the pine beetle scourge. Sandy estimates that within the next five years, the majority of the ponderosa pines will be toast.

Anyway, lots of fun was had by all; good to stomp the hometown ground once in a while.

I figured something out today. The less it takes to "make your day," the happier you're likely to be on a daily basis. I'm not saying don't have high expectations-- I'm saying that the higher your expectations are, the higher your level of enthusiasm needs to be.

Let 'what makes you happy' be as simple as dew on grass.

Things that make me happy:

Dew on grass
Snails (both the kinds on sidewalks and the kinds you eat)
Seeing old friends
Hand-written letters
Laughing kids
Chocolate tofu pie (ask me for the recipe!!)
Good dreams
A friendly voice on the phone at work
Sunshine
Shade
Green green bushy grassy early summer

...be happy!

Which sites we surf sort of become like the stores we would have visited back in the day when you actually had to go downtown to do your shopping… only there’s no friendly clerk in the stores. The internet is weird. It gives us these illusions of interconnectedness and accomplishment.

Not that we’re not connected by the internet, and not that we don’t accomplish meaningful things online. But the humanity is dimmed and distorted; layers of courtesy and propriety are peeled back until everyone is a dancing set of sex organs and bones. It’s rude and raw, and beautiful, but it has its’ own reality—I hate to see us all forsaking a sense of real community, and solid human interrelation.

Go hug your mom.

Work is good lately. I don't talk about work a lot, because it seems to be where I focus a different kind of energy; something organizational, very left-brained. It's certainly different than what I might have expected for myself several years ago-- before I couldn't imagine myself NOT in a place where creative chaos was the reigning mode operand. I do like my current job, as I am immersed in a daily opportunity to stretch out and build up aspects of my personality that were previously dim or non-existent. It's the adolescence of my career life; the learning curve is significant.

My parents are in Mexico now... I am amazingly envious! Mexico is not my first choice for 'warm places to go', but when you're wearing fuzzy winter socks to bed in JUNE... something is not right here. I don't like this soggy cold grey nonsense-- it makes me miss Japan too much, and itch to travel when I really don't have the resources (nor time, nor rhyme, nor reason) to do so. Sarah and I have a goal of getting the office ticking like clockwork, so that if either one of us wanted to travel, it would be an easy-breezy thing. Sounds delicious, if not promptly feasible. I wonder if Mom and Dad will bring me a present?

Greedy me.

Last weekend Nate and I went to Kenmore, WA (USA) for a koi auction. We got there late, so didn't get to participate in the auction, although there were some amazingly beautiful fish up for grabs. They were mostly imports from-- (correct me if I'm wrong) Sakamoto of Hiroshima. Nate had to have some real Japanese fish to add to our international family. Unfortunately, we had to shop retail after the auction ended. Nate dropped 150$ on two koi, a feisty Sanke that we named Nozomu, and a funny Kouhaku that I named Zuma-- she has an inazuma or 'lightening' pattern in red along her spine. The fish are reeeally expensive when you factor in the $50 in gas and the $80 fee paid to the DFO inspections guy... not mention all the food the ravenous beasts slurp down. Nate's obsession with these fish sometimes give me the impression that he loves the little slimers more than me. They are pretty, but I still have issues with having a 200 gallon pond in our living room. It's so noisy...

Cancer seems to be claiming a lot of victims lately. Probably no more or less than it usually does, but when it’s hitting the people I know and love, all within a short period of time, it seems to be a more significantly malevolent force than usual.

Goodbye Ernie. What will Gerrie do without you? I remember sitting with you at Donna’s kitchen table, around Easter time last year. Your cancer clinic was closed for the Easter holiday, and so they kicked you out for the duration. Too wracked from chemo to go home, you hunkered down at Ken and Donna’s house, sleeping on the couch when you weren’t sleeping on the bed, always exhausted, never hungry, your skin thin and loose and grey. Donna had made some banana bread, and left it on the table for us, mostly hoping that you would eat something. I made some tea, and I asked you about how you met Donna’s sister, Gerrie. You smiled then; your whole being warmed up when you told me the story. Friends for years, you first met when you were working at the bar that Gerrie frequented. She went through one asshole husband, and then another, and eventually you found each other again, and ventured beyond friendship. You were great together.

Gone: Just a few months ago, my cousin Simone, the beautiful, hilarious, sparkling light of her family.
Just yesterday, Elaina, only five years old. What must her young mother be going through?

Fighting: Our family friend George, wonderful, warm and funny man—I always think of him with his eyes crinkled up and sparkling with laughter.
Gabrielle’s niece, who only recently moved to Ontario to be with the love of her life. She’s only two years older than me…

All I can do is send love, all of my love, and all of my hope. This world deals out wicked shit sometimes.

Cancer sucks.

I’ve been taking a lot of paperclips home in my hair. And pens. I could probably furnish an office pretty nicely with what I have inadvertently been stealing from work. I think I need a haircut. Also, I need to return some pens.

I decided to go see a naturopath, not because I felt particularly crappy, but because I wanted to bolster and support the good health I have now, before I don’t have it anymore; you know, be PROactive with my healthcare as opposed to REactive. The decision was made easy, as my Chiropractor operates out of a Health Arts clinic—so, should I want to try acupuncture or iridology, or have a hot river stone massage (and you can bet that I have)… it’s all right in one place. Dr. F is a new addition, the first naturopath on staff. He is hilarious—he shares my gently whacked sense of humor. We found some problems that I hadn’t previously considered problems, mostly because I’ve lived with them for so long—things like regular headaches, gas, bloating (and I’m putting this info out there because…?) Initially we decided to cut back my coffee intake, and reconsider the simple carbs I’ve been putting away. Now, after the second visit, wheat and dairy are off of my ‘edibles’ list for a month, and I have three concoctions to consume daily, the worst of which is Dr. F’s ‘tincture’ to support the processing of hormones and liver function, etc, etc. Oh, this is a foul concoction of nasty burning evil plant extracts, in a harsh base of pure fiery alcohol- there’s no chance of dripping it in the back of my throat and swallowing without noticing. Oh, gag, gag, gag. Nasty smoldering sickening grossness.

Other than that, I can’t complain. Two days, and I’ve survived thus far; hopefully the bounding good health, high energy, bright eyes and glossy coat will come within the next couple of weeks. Aren’t I lucky to live in a time and a place where I have the option of supporting health rather than battling illness? I will always be grateful for these bountiful and colourful good years of my life.

Namaste.

It has actually been a profundly busy few weeks, a busy month. Love it!

This past Saturday, Sarah and I went on the Skytrain into Vancouver and did a walking tour; we met a variety of characters, and I got to practice my Japanese with some students of The Good English on the train. Sarah noticed how my gestures reverted to 'Japanese style'-- unecessary awkward giggling, and clasping my hand over my mouth when I was feeling uncertain. We walked into Stanley Park, across to Kits Beach, down Davies, up Robson, and into the Greek Taverna that I sometimes go to with my Dad-- but to our great good luck, it was Bellydancing night, and we caught a bit of the show as we slowly downed out pitcher of sangria. I should say I slowly downed the pitcher of Sangria-- Sarah is allergic to alcohol and only drank about a glass-and-a-half! Highlights:

1) Japanese practice with Natsui
2) Meeting Wendy in the Artist's circle in Stanley Park (see http://www.wendysmillionaires.com)
2.5) Meeting lovely vacationing Mexican ladies in the line-up for the girls' potty... I knew Vancouverites vacationed in Mexico, but I wasn't aware that it happened the other way around!
3) Getting stung by angry somethings near the swings (actually, not such a highlight)
4) Having a 'moment' with a gorgeous seal at the Vancouver Aquarium- she looked me in the eye!
5) A ride on the minuature train and smelling the good smalls of the warming summery park
6) Finding secret passageways busting with blooming rhododendrons to Kits Beach
7) Finding Kits Beach busting with warming summery people
8) Beautiful boys on Davies Street (for looking at only, dontcha know!)
9) The Japanese Combini on Robson... mmm! Mochi-mochi!
10) Sangria! Bellydancers! Calimari! Laughing our asses off!
11) Eating the previously purchased Mochi on the steps of the art gallery, people watching, and getting offered ecstasy and acid...
"I'm happy enough as it is," I said.
"Wouldn't you like to be even happier?" asked the dealer.
"I don't know if that would be safe!" I answered. This beautiful life is drug enough for me, methinks.
12) Back on the Skytrain heading home, a good-looking home-boy told Sarah she was gorgeous. Her elation lifted me, too. She is gorgeous after all, and every girl loves to hear it.

A dozen shiny pieces of Saturday! Live it up, folks... the summer is short, but it's yours if you grab it!

One of the huge reasons I want to walk/bike to work is because of the connection I get to the rotation of the seasons-- it's not something that you can really absorb from the seat of a car. I went outside during my lunch break today, and happened to notice that we have gone from the 'season of the profusion of dandelions' to the 'season of the blossoming of buttercups'. The apple blossoms and magnolias have fallen; the dogwood is bursting in pink and white. I see these things, but I don't soak them up and metabolize them the way I might if I worked or travelled outdoors more often.

I remember Bubu saying something about there being—what—28 or 32 or 36 (or more?) seasons in Japan, dependant upon what there was blossoming (and no doubt based upon what was good to eat—what a foodie culture!). I know it has got to be the same here, and I keep on having the feeling that I’m missing them somehow. It’s the same feeling I get when I see a trailer for a movie that I want to see, over and over—and somehow I magically manage to completely miss the movie in the theatre (and to be honest, half the time I miss them in the rental store ten years down the line. Does anyone know where I can rent ‘Almost Famous’? I really want to see it...).
So, the question is—am I missing out because I’m procrastinating? Or because I’m not focusing? Or is it simply because I am ‘home’ and I am subconsciously taking the magic of Western Canadian seasonal shift for granted?

I really want to move to another country again, and teach more English. I do. I’m not sure if it’s in the cards, though. I read today (on my Dalai Lama’s ‘Quote of the Day’ calendar) that you are only successful insofar as the sacrifices you had to make to get your success. So if I selfishly ditch a fabulous relationship to traipse around the world in a singularly absorbent fashion, I have made a sacrifice for my so-called ‘success’ which does not exactly validate said ‘success’. But if my purpose in life is to absorb the juices of the world, up close and in-person—then is the greater sacrifice in staying put?

I need to talk with Nate about all of this—in fact, I’m sure I have. I stress him out, being so wishy-washy. I think he’s more of a homebody. He wants his garden, workshop, koi pond, friends, and hills to skateboard on. He’s very clear about his likes and dislikes and desires. I wish I could be more like him.

Today is Kurosuke's last day on the roads of the Lower Mainland. Kurosuke is my delicious beast of a car, a 1981 Oldsmobile County Cruiser Station Wagon. She's jet black, with a propensity to drink gasoline like a rugby player with a beer-bong. The ominous beginning of her end came a couple of months ago when some idiot-- pardon me-- some careless citizen gave her a huge dent, via hit-and-run. Ahhh, but it's just cosmetic. She still runs like a dream, but the GRVD won't have her; thirsty, fume-emitting animal that she is. So-- Happy Birthday Dad! Now that you are 60, you need a cool black car to cruise the strip in. Kurosuke is going to live the wild life in Kaleden, soaking up the Okanagan sun.

As for me-- tonight I finalize a purchase. I am getting a little red four-door '94 Chevy Cavalier. I was bent on buying Japanese, but it's just not in the budget (or on the market).

What I really think would be best (for the environment, mental clarity, and my expanding booty) would be if I kept up walking and riding my bike...

Coffee breaks aren't really coffee breaks anymore; not for me. They are little slits of time that I can jam my own dreams and plans and doings into. Jam, jam, jam! The more I do, the more I'll get, right? I read that in my horoscope for this year: "The harder you work, the luckier you'll be." Makes sense. I was kind of rocking back on my heels before, waiting for the universe to hand me my gold stars. Now it's clear that I have to go out and earn those gold stars-- being a nice person, and having high hopes-- that's only two-thirds of the equation. Now I have to decide:

What kind of "lucky" do I want to get?

Nathan is taking a test, and I am probing the accessibility of my future (it's looking good, this is supposed to be Capricorn's Big Year-- hooray!). I am back in the Kwantlen Library Computer Room, scoping out the CELTA courses, locations, and the related Expedia costs to fly to said locations. I am planning my future career as a 'REAL' English Teacher. I am going to do this! An aside-- there is a woman who has been here since well before I arrived. She is sitting opposite me, to my left. Her age is indeterminate, she wears a coral flower-patterned Cotton Ginny Plus shirt with a kelly-green windbreaker. She is watching Coronation Street (I caught a glimpse as I went by to the washroom) and she occasionally utters comments on what she is watching... LOUDLY. Most recently, she said "I DON'T TRUST HIM. HE'S A PSYCHOPATH." and before that, 'THEY JUST HAD SEX TOGETHER." Funny, yes. But I am the only other person in this big room, and there is no-one I can make eye-contact with and share the giggle with. Consider the giggle shared, dear reader!

For the record, Lady K (why can I no longer post comments on your blog? Too many stalkers?) I have nothing against people who put slashes through their sevens. I just don't like the sevens themselves. I love graphology... it's fascinating. I would love to have my hand-writing analyzed. I wonder what they would find out about me? "Hmmm, you appear to be a bossy grammar-queen, with a tendency towards..." Tendency towards what, I can't decide. I'll leave to my future graphologist's discretion.

Another funny thing about this library computer room. I have twice tucked my leg under my chair, forgetting about the hydraulic switch-- which my leg triggers, sending me sinking swiftly and shockingly until my chin is on the keyboard... Coronation Street Lady is probably writing in HER blog about it.

We stopped by OPUS before coming here and bought a big jar of titanium white acrylic, and a block of soapstone, and a cheapie carving kit. I saw my old coworkers Ayesha and Colin and was surprised to learn that they both read my blog when I was in Japan... how cool is that? Very cool. I've quit facebook-- it's just too socially weird. It's like letting everyone in your high school yearbook look in your underwear drawer. Of course, when I told my mom this, she was trying to figure out why the blogging is OK, but the facebooking isn't... I suppose it's because I have more of a hand in crafting this blog. It's cleaner, more controlled. What I want you to see, I show you. What I don't want you to see-- well, it's not like someone here can tag me in photo in this blog. Anyway, it's one less thing to waste my time with. I might use it as a marketing tool later, we'll see. Speaking of which... SOON I will have a website! I'm quite tickled about this, and have been working with Amy and Christie of FRESH MARKETING in Fort Langley-- brilliant girls. I love their work, and their enthusiasm. Finally I'll be able to show my artwork and sell it online. It's been a long time coming.

Anyway, I'm done in here. I'm going to go sit in the car and try to release Buddha out of that bit of soapstone.

A small strange observation about graphology (or my preferences): I do not like sevens with the slash through their middles. I like a nice clean 7, with a straight long leaning back, and a little down-turned cap on the left-hand side. What does it say about the personality of the people who do that, make the little slash through the seven's middle? What does it say about me for being bothered by the innocuous line?

Last night, Nate and I checked out a painfully lovely condo in Cloverdale. I wasn't sure why we were looking at it; we haven't expressly said to each other that we were looking to move from our basement suite in Aldergrove, although we have both voiced our displeasure at the lack of space in the kitchen and the absence of a bathtub. The condo was a top-floor beauty with a killer deck and surprisingly great view; skylights, crown molding, open floor plan-- utilities included for only $650 a month. Startlingly cheap for these parts. Scott, the fellow showing it to us, liked us immediately, and wanted us to move in. Right. Now. He was tired of going through the hassle of showing it to person after person, having it empty and costing him cash. I liked him too; liked the paint, the layout, the details; liked the deck and all the bright light that we don't get in the Aldergrove dungeon; liked the $100 less than we're paying now for rent. But driving home, I thought about the reality of the huge commute, the pain we would cause our current landlord by our surprise departure, the hassle and stress of picking up and packing up... all of these things reverberated and I had to say 'No'.

After Nate called Scott back with our (my) disappointing decision, I found myself pensive and sullen. I could see us enjoying that Cloverdale condo-- Nate finally having a sundeck to put his crazy indoor pond out on, a workable kitchen, lots of light and happy houseplants. But what does that make our life about? As it is, I live not 10 minutes drive away from where I'm working, and I can walk or ride my bike on the nice days (if I wake up at 5:30 AM). I don't spend that much time at home, because I'm usually at work, or grocery shopping, and I'm not much for laying about watching TV. My life seems to be mostly revolving around my job these days anyway, with brief interludes of inspiration that send me reaching out for something more-- e.g. school/education, artistic website, future business plans, etc. What does my life become about when all I am doing is travelling to and from work? Paying bills and saving money so that I can buy something and pay more bills? Is this it? Make and spend and make and spend, and sleep and eat and make and spend? It grosses me out, infuriates me. How many people do you know who are actually HAPPY caught up in this self defeating cycle of perceived need and acquired debts? This surface life of skimming the periphery of the deep end, staying in the shallows of consciousness and satisfaction?

Nate took me for breakfast this morning at DeDutch, and I ordered the Hawaiian Toast. That being the French Toast with pineapples and coconut and ham. It was OK. After three cups of coffee and my weird tropical Dutch/French/Canadian cuisine (do French people actually eat French toast?) I felt bolstered enough to launch myself into the tangly mess of the above questions... "seriously, Nate-- what do you want your life to be about?" I admire Nathan for his calm approach, his gentle desire for simplicity and his innate patience. He is natural in the very best sense of the word-- a man of the earth, of slow growth, of greenery and the due course of things. Of course, as much as I admire his qualities, they sometimes clash with mine. I find myself to be a more and more evenly divided between the personalities of my parents, dependant on the situation. I can be the social butter(fly) that my mom is, spreading things smoothly and infecting those around me with a sense of fun and joy and spontaneous-ness. Or I can be the scientist that my dad is, exacting and precise in my research and development, be it technical or creative. Or I can be both at once, spontaneously exacting, joyfully technical and precisely creative. So when Nate calmly answered that he was looking to keep things simple, to stay with his job, to grow, and to one day have his own landscaping company, I had to rephrase, to find out What Do You Want It To Be About? What Is The Big Picture?

When I lived in Japan, my live was about enjoyment and astounding, unprecedented growth. I mean-- I had to grow, to survive. I met new people, learned new rituals, new words, new ways of thinking and being. Thank goodness! I stretched and grew stronger. There was MORE than work, more than bill-paying and grocery-shopping. There was something bigger going on.

I don't want to believe that something bigger can't happen here, in Canada, but I can't help but think that if I want to keep growing at the rate I was in Japan, I'm going to have to keep throwing myself into the deep end of things. I don't want to simply settle for the next nice condo or a new car. What great boon am I to society if I become just another cog in the economic wheel? Luckily Nathan understands-- or claims to. I think my impatience and quivering desire to burst out in all directions unsettles him at times. Fair enough.

We reached a decision though, and shook on it over the crumbs of Hawaiian Toast and DeBacon. No moving. No misplacing the energy destined for great changes on small, futile ones. If I can be secure that I don't have to pack up my art supplies in two weeks and move to Cloverdale, maybe I'll actually use them. If we can be sure that we can be steady where we are standing, it makes it a lot easier to see clearly into the future, and take the steps that will lead us there.

How did I go from focusing on the abundance of the universe to focusing on the 2008 Consumer Report for cars? Maybe the abundance of the universe will deliver to me a car: a reliable, happy car, one that is safe, sound, reliable, and not too thirsty. Or maybe the universe will say,"Screw you, chiquita. Get off of your bum and get walking!"

There are two fundamental rules of nature. Well, actually, there are hundreds, but instead of poking our heads into the mating rituals of dung beetles, let's focus.

One rule is abundance.

The other rule is scarcity.

And whichever one you believe in the most-- that is the one that you will attract.

The idea is that abundance attracts abundance, so I must immediatley drop my fear-based attitude of "I don't have enough," and instead give and receive freely, sound in the comfort that I will always have enough of the things I need to live bountifully.

A beautiful idea, and one that I have come to (and retreated from) repeatedly over the past few years. I guess the question that always sends me retreating is along the lines of: "When Mastercard calls looking for a payment, how do I explain that I am waiting for the abundance of the universe to deliver?"

Just kidding. Kind of.

OK. Here’s the manifesto. No more negative, rude, asinine or drippingly sexual t-shirt slogans. I’m so tired of them. I don’t want to read “Your BOYFRIEND wants ME” or “I’m a Sexy Sexy Sexy Thang” or “Spread Those Legs”, or anything like that. Let’s make T-shirts that say things like: “The Way to a Better World is Through Compassion” or “Blissful, Balanced and Aware” or howabout “Spread Some Kindness”.

Not as catchy, I guess.

So, keeping with this theme of self-actualization, I’ve been furtively checking out CELTA websites, checking prices and student reviews and locations. I’m finally seriously considering going back to school because I need a goal, and I want something to look forward to when this financial drought has come to an end. I’ve known for a while that improving my education will help prevent further financial droughts—however, I balked because my educational history is already quite impressive, if not cumulatively useful. Out of 29 years on the planet, I have been in school for nineteen of them. And I don’t have a doctorate to show for it; instead, a mish-mash of diplomas, certificates, and the ever-useful Fine Arts Degree. Time to solidify this jelly.

It has been nearly a year since I returned to Canada from Japan, and there are times that my longing for my home on the other side of the world feels like a fresh wound.

I received an email the other day from a good friend, from Ryo who managed the tiny coolness-laden bar (think dark rich wood, shining brass in the dim light, and tired, single, beautiful Japanese women coming in to smoke peach-flavoured cigarettes and flirt with Ryo). Ryo had a thing for me, though. Ryo was sweet and smooth and a little bit dorky to boot, so I never could quite take him as seriously as he expected to be taken. We once had an argument over the word ‘Retriever’—as in the dog—Ryo had grown up with an exceptionally intelligent ‘Golden Retliever’. He was SO sure that it was spelled with an ‘L’ that we made a bet. If he was correct, I would cook him a Canadian meal. If I won, he would take me for sushi. Thank god I knew what I was talking about (and it should be general knowledge that Canadians should be taken as your best bet for a correct answer when in contention with Japanese over the placement of “L’s” and “R’s”), because what the heck is a ‘Canadian meal’? Poutine? Pancakes and maple syrup? Maybe some salt cod with a side of Screech? Anyway, the dingy little sushi place he took me to was one that I’d biked past many times before without noticing. It ended up being one of those places with a tank full of terrified critters, all waiting to be scooped out and deftly murdered and splayed over rice for human consumption. It was awesome.

Have I told that story before?

Anyway, Ryo’s bar is closed now; he quit last Tuesday, and no-one was hired to replace him. I guess I kind of expected Tokushima to remain in suspended animation, awaiting my return—which is ridiculous, if I consider how seldom Tokushima stood still the entire time I was there. Since I’ve left, Miho has moved away, Kayo has obtained a boyfriend, Bubu and Haruko are now the proud grandparents of little Youtaro, almost 7 months old. Little earthquakes have come and gone, hundreds of restaurants and bars have opened and closed throughout the entertainment district (like so many anemones), and I’m sure that construction has continued at its normal alarming rate; tear down, build up, and do it all again.

I shouldn’t feel as though I’ll never return. And I shouldn’t force myself to choose a permanent home either; cities are not jealous lovers. I need to allow myself the freedom of considering myself a world citizen, no matter where I end up. Who is to say that I won’t develop a career that takes me bounding across the planet on a regular basis? A delicious prospect.

Anyway, I’ve been feeling really good lately, much better than the last time I wrote—I’m healthier, more empowered. Mostly that comes from the decision I have made very recently. To live my life to the fullest, no matter what. Because the only thing that ever stands in my way is me, and I’ve had enough. I deserve better, and there’s a good chance that I can have it all. If I put in the work, I can get the results. The tough thing, as it always is, is sticking to that decision. I think women in particular find it easy to let ideals slide, in the name of a variety of other causes—“oh, I’ll just stick this crappy-ass job out a little longer, they NEED me here…” or “I’ll just stay with him until he’s got his shit together, I can’t leave him NOW.” I can do myself (and those around me) a favour by being accountable to myself, thereby forcing others to step up to their own responsibilities. Remember this, remember this, remember this!

You ever get the feeling that everybody is having fun but you? Of course you do… I hope you do. I can’t be alone here…

It’s snowing today, snowing and snowing and snowing to the extent that my boss has called for a snow day, hurrah—it doesn’t take much in the lower mainland for everything to come to a standstill. What is there out there, maybe a foot? Schools are closed, traffic is freaky, and I am SO GLAD to get a snow day. For the freedom of it. Not for the financial ramifications of missing a half day of pay.

So, like I was saying, I’m not having much fun. Not because I don’t intend on going sledding as soon as I get off work (I am SO going sledding) but because of money. Money, money, evil, evil money. Astronomical rent, out-of-work student fiancée, gas-guzzling car… maybe it’s not the money that hurts me. It’s the things I find myself spending it on. I have no savings, no financial intelligence. How did I get to be 29 years old and not learn how to take care of cash? I feel ashamed, angry, disappointed. I feel like I’m better than this. I’m better than ‘broke’.

The artist dream seems a wicked thing at this point. We all know we’re not supposed to believe the naysayers when they talk about “starving artists,” and “maybe your paintings will be worth something when you die,” but how often can you listen to that shit without absorbing some of the content? Sometimes I don’t even want to draw or paint anymore—I don’t want to hear about the millions people will rake in when the hock my sketches on E-bay after my demise. Creativity seems to come to me when I’m feeling confident anyway, and let’s face it—when you’re in overdraft to keep the gas tank ¼ full, there isn’t a whole lot of room left for confidence, not a lot of room left for fantasy. Or if there is, it’s a fantasy about having a full gas tank.

I think I just expected more from myself by now, by age 29. I remember having this same crisis of expectations at 23, and at 25 too—where is the house, the kids, the husband, the car, the traveling, the everything? And for that matter, are those dreams valid anymore? Are those the things I really want, or just the things I have convinced myself that I should want? The kicker is that I’ve finally realized that responsibility for oneself is one of life’s greatest lessons; if I’m here, and I don’t like it, I only have myself to thank. If my ass is fat, it is because I had one too many of those lovely silky chocolate balls. If my teeth hurt, it’s because I haven’t been a diligent flosser. Anything I have done, or haven’t done, has got me to where I am now. I suppose there is a part of me that has been waiting for destiny to reveal itself with the attendant flash of light, ardor of jasmine, and song of seraphim. But no-- if my life sucks, it’s because of me, me, me.

It’s a sour cocktail, baby. I gotta procure me a little sugar.

It isn’t easy. To see humanity, in everyone, all of the time. I mean, to see that everyone is possessed of their own brand and flavour of intelligence, to forgive them what you might perceive as flaws, when in fact they are not flaws. They are the warp and weft of humanity, I suppose. The colours of the strings we are woven from. Nubbly, crusty grey wool, or fine red silk, or whatever. I’m probably blue-and-white bed sheet cotton. Fresh, dreamy, insubstantial, childish. Nothing to keep you warm on a cold winters’ eve.



Today is grey and gold, sunlight weak and chilly and shining wet on black-grey pavement. I want to skip and kick a gritty soccer ball across the melting earth, I want to shout to my distant friends, speak in schoolyard squeals of bright winter afternoon joy.



Tongue is different from hand. Tongue speaks and sets boundaries and sculpts. Sculpts emotion. The hand can reach, reach. Out, out to give, to take, to give. To quantify, to establish and make real. I can say I will give this to you, but only actions will prevail, or they won’t. Only hand can act.



In Japanese, there is one word for heart, mind and soul: kokoro. Stop dividing your spirit. Live whole. Feel, think, know, and do them all at once.