Cat Skinner Club

High Holy Days

Playground love - Olivia Bee

Playground love - Olivia Bee

It’s ten o’clock. I’ve just come home after an action-packed day at the office followed by a lucrative production meeting which only served to make me love my business partner that much more.

As I walked home from where the donated cab ride ended, I knew two things; I wanted to sit on my terrace, and I wanted to smoke a cigarette. The former I do frequently, the latter not so much.

I fetched my dog from the main floor of my almost two hundred year old house, dropped off my things and took a pee break in my stifling attic apartment (would that the bedroom window would open!) and headed to the 7 eleven to satisfy my nearly-never craving. (Please note, I do not advocate smoking, but I was feeling nostalgic for Paris).

With Arthur in tow, I encountered a gigantic party in my neighbour’s yard, with a tent and blue lights, and now as I am typing this the exuberant strains of Punjabi music are the soundtrack to my perfect evening at The Fortress.

I’m lit by the blue glow of my lap top and a single beeswax pillar. I’m wearing a Japanese style robe procured from some unmentionable vintage shop and a pair of lacy red shorts. I’m sipping Perrier with a splash of Cassis and I am thanking every Deity from every pantheon for my unbearable sense of freedom.

My neigbourhood is alive with gardens, bursting forth in a riot of spring-ripened blossoms. Every ten paces is a fully-blooming lilac bush, and Arthur and I stop and drink in their heady scent. Each and every morning my life is put into perspective as I stroll through this familiar neighbourhood, and I am so, so grateful.

I won’t be taking a vacation this year. I will be looking to make some extra cash on the side. The bottom line is, I will not give up this freedom for anything. Nothing in all of the world is as important as this feeling.

(Cassis and Perrier is not an ideal combination, in case you were wondering.)

I’m thinking of a few select people who have touched me deeply in this last year of my life. I’m thinking of any of you who have borne witness to my metamorphosis, and my growth. I’m thinking of my girlfriends who are equal parts relieved that I left a very bad relationship, and worried that I will never experience their wedded bliss or child-bearing joy. I thank you all for your love, in whatever capacity you were able to give it. It has been fuel to my fire, and although I know my path has been one of seeking independence, I recognize that you cannot be truly independent without knowing that you can accept love when you need to.

We all need to.

Long have I maintained that I lead with my heart. Some of us lead with our head. Some of us from the gut. Or the elbow. All of us need to know we are loved, I don’t care how smart you are, or how many credentials you have earned. To say you don’t need someone to soothe you, or hold you, or cheer you on is ridiculous.

Accept love. I dare you. It’s incredibly difficult, and I know. Accept that you are deserving of love, and that people want to give it to you, whether it be platonic or otherwise, because they see the noble nature of your soul.

I’m not ready yet, but I will be. Perhaps after a languid summer of freedom, filled with experiments in charcoal grilling and the perfect Sangria. Perhaps after cottage trips that grow blurry in their re-telling.  Soon I will be ready, I can smell it in the promise of summer that hangs in the breeze.

Will you be there when I am?

This Never Went to Press

Emily & Cody - Olivia Bee

Emily & Cody - Olivia Bee

I am forcing myself to write this, which makes me angry, because I feel like this shouldn’t require an effort.

I’m stretching myself too thin again, and its making me feel overwhelmed and uninspired, and I don’t even want to leave pieces of myself here, because it feels like too much to give away right now. But I feel guilty for not writing, and angry at myself because it isn’t coming to me naturally.

I’ve always enjoyed coming into a person’s home for the first time. I think it’s fascinating, the way people reveal their private world to you, and I think our homes say so much about us. The tiny artifacts we choose to display, the messes we hide, or clean, and the messes we feel are acceptable left in plain view, the state of our refrigerators, the art we select, the things on our fridge door, how many plants we can maintain, or not, the colours we choose – these all speak to our character, I think.

When someone comes into my home for the first time, I’m very at ease. I’ve become much more comfortable on my own turf than I am anywhere else. I like to make sure they have snacks, and then it’s usually carefully selected music, and good conversation, with a sleeping animal somewhere near by. I try to be very aware of how my apartment smells. I’m paranoid that it smells like cat. I hate the carpet leading up my stairs, I need to paint my landing and a couple of doors, and I need the help of a burly friend to clear some old planters and furniture off my patio. I need to hang a couple of pictures, and a mirror, and some curtains in my bedroom. A once over with the broom to clear the cobwebs from the overhead rafters would also be a good idea. I love my home though. It really, really feels like home to me.

I think it’s beautiful when you come into someone’s home who isn’t used to having company. Typically, these places are really fascinating. They are usually neatly organized, and filled with interesting bits of personality and history. Friends who are used to solitude, who invite me into their space typically want to reveal something of themselves to me, and I love this. Old photos, family keepsakes, favourite albums, travel stories, snippets from favourite movies. There are so many things we can give each other that are free, and so valuable.

This weekend, I was at the home of a new friend, a remarkable friend who I find endlessly fascinating. He pulled out the guitar he hadn’t touched in a while, and I noticed he’d grown his fingernails. I was really surprised that he wanted to play without me having to convince him. He strikes me as incredibly shy, so it suddenly was clear to me how deep and comfortable his relationship to music must be. He played beautifully, and I hope he’ll continue to play more frequently now. I wonder if he had any idea what such a gesture meant to me? I could listen for hours to someone with such effortless skill.

I haven’t had anyone here who I have played music for. I haven’t dragged out my box of old photos, or my scrapbook of my artistic history. I haven’t shared stories of old hankerchiefs, or let anyone feel the fabric of the costumes I’ve made. I haven’t let anyone really come into my space.

My home has been filled with friends, and food, and music, and this has all been lovely of course, but theres’ a box filled with newspaper clippings, faded letters, and sepia photos that continues to gather dust, and I can scarcely bring myself to look at it some days.

Some people believe that there is no such thing as fate. That the people who enter our lives do so merely by coincidence, and that these meetings are completely random. I believe that each person who touches us, who has impact on us, is there because they have something to teach us. I believe that we in turn have something to teach them too.

Am I open to the lessons that I ought to learn?

Should I consider home schooling?

Still, Centre, Quietly Turning

degas.violet-tutues
I’ve neglected my writing, my ficus is dead, my dog is angry with me because I haven’t been home all week, and my job is hectic enough right now that my boss went out and purchased our own in-office Bozo the Clown inflatable punching bag.

Still, I must persevere, and share a morsel or two in the interest of communion.

A fascinating new work colleague was kind enough to take me to a dance show tonight, and I wasn’t really into the first act, I will confess. I was tired, and kept fantasizing about my dog, and my pyjamas. The second act however, consisted of two exquisite “dancers” and a multimedia artist accompanying them with a series of looping pedals and what looked like a mandolin. These “dancers” were in fact Dervishes, and one of them was a woman.

She began the piece, against the backdrop of grainy film footage of several male Dervishes, whirling in blurred soft focus. She was regal, and all in white, with mosaic-like shards of mirror sewn into the hem of her voluminous skirts. As she began to turn, she instilled in me an immediate sense of peace. I was transfixed; and my eyes didn’t leave her. The tension in my shoulders eased, the line between my brows softened.

Eventually, she was joined by a stately man in red and black who began to turn with her. Both were lost in their own mind-space, somewhere with God, but acutely aware of where each other had claimed their space. The were moving about the stage too, it wasn’t rooted to one spot. The music was layered over the sound of a record that had come to the end of its rotation, which only now strikes me as poignant, and it was a delicate compliment to their quiet contemplation.

The man and woman then moved closer to each other and began turning very closely with one another, while still maintaining their own perfect rotation. After spinning quite steadily for about fifteen minutes, this was indeed a feat. They were perfectly aligned, perfectly in tune to something greater than us all, and perfectly respectful of each other. It was so, so beautiful.

If we are in harmony with self, and in harmony with spirit, perhaps these moments of perfect union become more possible.

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” – Rumi

All the Poetry I’ve Been Missing

This week has been a struggle. I’ve had just enough energy to survive the work day, and all I care to do is come home and lay down. All of my resources are tapped, and there’s not an ounce of creativity in me. Several lovely people have pointed out that perhaps I need this time where absolutely nothing is going on. I suppose that’s true. I also need a money truck to back up to my patio and unload it’s contents. And I need an all-expense paid, month long vacation in Italy.

And I need someone. Just a little.

I haven’t felt like that in a long time. I’ve wanted people for many of the wrong reasons. I’ve behaved like I need someone there most of the time. I’ve acted like I just can’t make do without someone to flirt with, and what have you. I haven’t really needed someone. It’s possible to continue to get by quite well on my own, and the idea of a summer of absolute freedom is not without its own allure, but I’m starting to wonder exactly what I’m doing.

There are certain things I need to address, and work harder towards resolving before I can really look someone in the eye and say “Yeah. This could work.” This is the major reason why I continue to be a singleton. I’m ok with this, it’s time, but there’s something about being sick, and feeling vulnerable to the point where you miss cuddling your mom that makes you kind of look at the bigger picture.

I haven’t had a lot of single time in my adult life. I’m coming out of two major relationships, back to back, and this time in my life feels like the fairly magical time when I was between high school and college. I felt free, and happy, and mad about my friends, and so very creative. The exception, of course, is this week.

Tell me, how does one make the most of the time they experience without a romantic partner in their life? I have my own formula, but I’m so curious to hear what else is out there. Are we confidant, and happy, and independent and fulfilled, or do we mask our loneliness by projecting these qualities?

Also, I’ve realized I’ve made bad on my promise to write poetry every day for April. In lieu of my own pathetic attempts, here is some poetry by a great master, as curated by some very good people that I know.

For you because I understand:

For you because you are true and noble:

For you because you inspire me:

For you, and our talks and spiced oranges:

For you, because I think you can hear my thoughts:

My current choice:

And one for your sad and beautiful eyes:

And for you because you are so sweet to me:

Coming At You Live from the Sick Bed

Thank you for being a friend...

Thank you for being a friend...

*This entry contains more colourful language. What can I say?

When I was little, whenever we would get sick, my mom would make us a sick bed. This would consist of draping a fresh, crisp sheet over the entire couch, and tucking it over us, then layering heavier blankets on top. She was also always at the ready with a fresh, cool pillow. A small footstool was at hand with Kleenex, a paper bag (for used Kleenex), a glass of ginger ale with ice and a straw, and sometimes a plastic bucket underneath. Today I’ve re-created this set up, sans bucket, and it is immensely comforting.

It seems I’m losing my week-long arm wrestle with this cold/flu thing. Despite my mother’s concerns, I’m fairly certain that it is not Swine flu…unless you can contract that from eating excessive amounts of bacon. (She also warned me this morning that ingesting raccoon feces can be fatal. I fear she may have some serious misconceptions about the kind of life I’m living here in Toronto…)

People have been kind in sending me various articles, videos, and other tidbits to amuse myself with, because in my typical needy, narcissistic way, I broadcast my illness to the world of Facebook, so I thought I’d share some of these distractions in case any of you are also feeling under the weather, and a little bit bored.

First, this very interesting article from my favourite spiritual adviser:

You can probably skip the video component, but here is the link to MSNBC.

The subject above really fascinates me, and I thought it was timely. Last night I attended a screening of feminist porn, sponsored by the Toronto store Good For Her. I was curious about what exactly made pornography feminist. I am not personally a fan of the standard in this genre, so I was hopeful it would be enlightening. Based on the examples we were given, feminist porn is largely geared towards lesbians. With a comfortable niche carved out by the trans-gendered community. The only hetero example was shot like a soap-opera, was definitely softer (on the core scale), but it rather felt like it was produced by the Harlequin people. Give me good ‘ol Anais Nin any day.

Moving along…

I rented the first season of Big Love, the HBO series. Fascinating stuff. Also timely, and topical. Imagine a matriarchal polygamist structure? This could really be something. Like the queen bee, and her workers, and honey makers. Yep. Something indeed…

Then I was directed to the Onion website. This was a bi-product of some Facebook Creeping. (Mom, Facebook Creeping is when you voyeuristically check out other people’s Facebook profiles.)

I found the following videos there, which made me laugh out loud:

Should We Be Doing More To Reduce The Graphic Violence In Our Dreams?

Study: Children Exposed To Pornography May Expect Sex To Be Enjoyable

In other exciting news: I was caught on the streetcar in the middle of a sandstorm yesterday, and the whole thing filled with dust; the raccoon on my patio is off today, but last night was brave enough to come close enough that I could almost touch him; The LUNCH BOX at Keele and Bloor makes the greatest vegetable beef soup in the entire world; I have not given up on my plan to go on a date with George Stroumboulopoulos; Toulouse lives on, but has now taken to hiding among my rack of costumes; and it may be the flu, but I think Bill Pullman is kind of sexy.