It's almost been a year now since I stopped blogging. Shortly after my last entry, I was dumped by Mr. Vanilla, and I didn't want to blog about it. I didn't want to blog about it because I was tired of blogging about my boyfriends. The last thing I wanted my(cyber)self to become was a woman defined by her relationships with men. After I had recovered from the heartbreak, nothing very exciting was happening in my life; I was still working at the bookstore, still singing in the choir, still living in the co-op... and then I fell in love again, and I didn't want to blog about it. I've been sharing my sandwich pretty seriously now for the last few months, and I'm feeling like it's time to resurrect the blog, not because I want to talk about sharing my sandwich, but because in addition to the sandwich that I'm sharing, I sometimes still need a sandwich all my own.
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Monday, 18 January 2010
Sharing my sandwich
A few weeks ago I ordered a sandwich at a cafe. When the woman behind the counter asked me if I wanted mustard on it, I said yes. Then I thought to myself: “But I don't like mustard. Why did I just say yes?” And then I realised... the mustard was for him. Somewhere deep inside I already knew that the sandwich wasn't just for me. I was going to share my sandwich... with my boyfriend. And yes, I call him my boyfriend, in the completely heteronormative, committed, and monogamous sense of the word.
He didn't understand the symbolic importance of the gesture, and seemed confused as to why I was making such a big deal about the mustard. But you, cherished blog readers, I think you will get it.
I shared an actual sandwich with my boyfriend.
And the best part? I even enjoyed it.
Looking back on who I was and what I wanted only a few months ago, this is quite a departure. It's as if I had been campaigning for years for the right to a diversity of ice cream flavours, and just as I finally convince my local ice cream shop to offer 50 different varieties, I go in and order vanilla. Now there's nothing wrong with vanilla, I like it very much, and it may in fact be exactly the flavour I want right now. But I feel like a bit of a fraud. When I was craving tiger tail, and rocky road, and bubblegum, I hated it when people would tell me that one day I would realise that what every girl really wants deep down is vanilla. How dare they tell me what I really want! And it kills me to admit now that they were right; That after sampling all those exotic flavours of ice cream, nothing has ever made me as happy as vanilla.
He didn't understand the symbolic importance of the gesture, and seemed confused as to why I was making such a big deal about the mustard. But you, cherished blog readers, I think you will get it.
I shared an actual sandwich with my boyfriend.
And the best part? I even enjoyed it.
Looking back on who I was and what I wanted only a few months ago, this is quite a departure. It's as if I had been campaigning for years for the right to a diversity of ice cream flavours, and just as I finally convince my local ice cream shop to offer 50 different varieties, I go in and order vanilla. Now there's nothing wrong with vanilla, I like it very much, and it may in fact be exactly the flavour I want right now. But I feel like a bit of a fraud. When I was craving tiger tail, and rocky road, and bubblegum, I hated it when people would tell me that one day I would realise that what every girl really wants deep down is vanilla. How dare they tell me what I really want! And it kills me to admit now that they were right; That after sampling all those exotic flavours of ice cream, nothing has ever made me as happy as vanilla.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
The Void or The Las Vegas Wedding Chappel of Personal Identity learns to choose her fights rather than pick them
Back when I started this blog I was about to graduate, and was ready to reinvent myself. I said that I was ready to leave behind my identity as a philosophy student, that I wanted to be a person instead. After graduating I went to Iceland for three weeks where, in addition to finding myself in arm-tubes lying on the ground in the middle of a road blockade, I fell in love with consensus decision making. I fell in love with communal living. I fell in love with direct action, with anarchism, with activism. I felt empowered and alive. I wanted to spend the rest of my life living like that. So I walked through my Las Vegas Wedding Chapel of Personal Identity and committed myself to activism, embracing my new identity as an “Environmental Activist”. This wasn't something completely new, I had been an activist all throughout university. In fact, I'd been an activist all my life. At age 7 I spent my recess time at school cleaning up litter in the playground. At 9 I decided to be a vegetarian. At 14 I staged my first sit-in and blockaded myself into the bathroom in protest of a family trip to Utah. I have always had a passion for making the world a better place. Activism has always been in my blood. But that summer after graduation, I made activism my primary occupation, I made it the defining feature of my life. In rejecting my identity as a philosophy student I had created a void, a raw gaping hole that begged to be filled. What I should have done was to let the hole heal. To allow the void to evolve, to encourage something real and genuine to grow into that space. To become a real person. But voids are scary. Growing is scary. Even healing can be scary. And I was scared. So I stuffed activism into the hole and forgot about the whole issue.
But since labelling myself as an activist, I haven't really accomplished much. I've been flailing around trying to figure out what to do. I've been thinking myself into circles about what kind of activist I want to be, what form of activism I want to use, which form would be most effective, whether tactics can be justified by their effectiveness, with whom do I want to work, with whom would I be willing to work... And with all this thinking and flailing, there hasn't been much doing.
In addition to using my new activist identity as a way to avoid dealing with the post-graduation void, I also used it as a way to justify coming back to Edmonton. Because, hey, if I'm an “Environmental Activist”, and arguably the most environmentally disastrous development project on Earth (aka the Alberta Oils Sands) is happening where I grew up, how can I possibly justify being anywhere else, right? The move couldn't possibly have had anything to do with feeling lost and not having anywhere else to call home. It's not that I didn't have anywhere better to go. I obviously came here out of a sense of duty. That's what I told myself at least.
The ironic thing is that for all my flailing and thinking and self-righteous dedication to the cause, I find it really difficult to fight for Alberta, because deep down, I don't even like Alberta. I didn't come back here out of a passionate love for the place. I don't lie awake at night lamenting the destruction of my beloved homeland. It's difficult to be passionate about fighting for something you're not passionate about. And I'm tired of fighting anyway.
Shortly after taking on the label of activist I also took on the label of anarchist. In the basic sense of the word, I am an anarchist. I believe in non-hierarchy, I'm anti-authoritarian, I'm anti-capitalist at least in the sense of being opposed to our current capitalist system. But the term anarchist also brings with it a whole lot of baggage that I'm not so sure I want to carry around with me anymore. I'm not interested in class war. I'm not interested in organizing the workers. I'm tired of struggling, and fighting, and waiting for the revolution.
I was a better anarchist before I took on the label, a better activist before I made it my identity. The problem is that I let the labels become prescriptive rather than descriptive. When you can look back at things you've done and retrospectively decide that a particular label is in fact appropriate, go with it. Descriptive labels act as verbal shorthand. They make communication easier. But when a label becomes prescriptive, it ceases to serve it's purpose. I let my identity as an activist define my actions. I started doing things because I was an activist, not because I actually wanted to do them. So I'm not going to be an activist anymore. I'm going to gather up these skills and ideas and experiences that I've been collecting over the past few years and store them on a special shelf in my heart next to my vegan ideals. And I won't hesitate to dust them off when a situation calls for them. But it's time for me to start choosing my fights rather than picking them.
And now that I've pulled activism out of that gaping hole in my identity I'm left with the void again. This time I'm not going to stuff it full of something just for the sake of filling it. I'm going to have to wear it on my sleeve and let it do it's thing.
But since labelling myself as an activist, I haven't really accomplished much. I've been flailing around trying to figure out what to do. I've been thinking myself into circles about what kind of activist I want to be, what form of activism I want to use, which form would be most effective, whether tactics can be justified by their effectiveness, with whom do I want to work, with whom would I be willing to work... And with all this thinking and flailing, there hasn't been much doing.
In addition to using my new activist identity as a way to avoid dealing with the post-graduation void, I also used it as a way to justify coming back to Edmonton. Because, hey, if I'm an “Environmental Activist”, and arguably the most environmentally disastrous development project on Earth (aka the Alberta Oils Sands) is happening where I grew up, how can I possibly justify being anywhere else, right? The move couldn't possibly have had anything to do with feeling lost and not having anywhere else to call home. It's not that I didn't have anywhere better to go. I obviously came here out of a sense of duty. That's what I told myself at least.
The ironic thing is that for all my flailing and thinking and self-righteous dedication to the cause, I find it really difficult to fight for Alberta, because deep down, I don't even like Alberta. I didn't come back here out of a passionate love for the place. I don't lie awake at night lamenting the destruction of my beloved homeland. It's difficult to be passionate about fighting for something you're not passionate about. And I'm tired of fighting anyway.
Shortly after taking on the label of activist I also took on the label of anarchist. In the basic sense of the word, I am an anarchist. I believe in non-hierarchy, I'm anti-authoritarian, I'm anti-capitalist at least in the sense of being opposed to our current capitalist system. But the term anarchist also brings with it a whole lot of baggage that I'm not so sure I want to carry around with me anymore. I'm not interested in class war. I'm not interested in organizing the workers. I'm tired of struggling, and fighting, and waiting for the revolution.
I was a better anarchist before I took on the label, a better activist before I made it my identity. The problem is that I let the labels become prescriptive rather than descriptive. When you can look back at things you've done and retrospectively decide that a particular label is in fact appropriate, go with it. Descriptive labels act as verbal shorthand. They make communication easier. But when a label becomes prescriptive, it ceases to serve it's purpose. I let my identity as an activist define my actions. I started doing things because I was an activist, not because I actually wanted to do them. So I'm not going to be an activist anymore. I'm going to gather up these skills and ideas and experiences that I've been collecting over the past few years and store them on a special shelf in my heart next to my vegan ideals. And I won't hesitate to dust them off when a situation calls for them. But it's time for me to start choosing my fights rather than picking them.
And now that I've pulled activism out of that gaping hole in my identity I'm left with the void again. This time I'm not going to stuff it full of something just for the sake of filling it. I'm going to have to wear it on my sleeve and let it do it's thing.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
The entry that wanted to be a poem?
Hot and sticky, I climbed the stairs
one by one, then two by two as the suits rushed past,
bumping me with their briefcases,
our lives colliding while we trudged up the escalator,
propelled by the momentum of the City.
Surfacing long enough to get a coffee, I walked to the next station, anxious to hear the beep and the click of the opening barrier, ready to descend back into the underground. For me the destination was simply an excuse for the trip, the real goal being the time spent in transit.
I watched the other passengers, guessing at their lives, fabricating the stories of the girls with hoop earrings, and the elderly couples with matching fanny-packs, while they simultaneously fabricated a story for me. Jostling back and forth in unison to the clacking of the rails beneath us, I hoped that I passed for one of them, hoped that the me who lived inside their heads sounded like she belonged.
I used to ride the tube to pretend that I lived in London. I rode the tube to pretend I was one of the people who rode the tube, not realizing until it was too late that I was never really pretending. These days I ride the train to pretend that I'm not here. I pretend that I can get off at the next stop to change platforms and go in a different direction. I pretend that when I press the button, the doors will open to reveal a bustling station alive with possibilities.
I pretend that when I get off the train I'll be home.
Soon I will run down those familiar tunnels again,
craving the gust of warm air that will tousle my hair,
and fill my lungs with the dust that turns
my flip flop feet black,
hoping that maybe this time it will settle.
one by one, then two by two as the suits rushed past,
bumping me with their briefcases,
our lives colliding while we trudged up the escalator,
propelled by the momentum of the City.
Surfacing long enough to get a coffee, I walked to the next station, anxious to hear the beep and the click of the opening barrier, ready to descend back into the underground. For me the destination was simply an excuse for the trip, the real goal being the time spent in transit.
I watched the other passengers, guessing at their lives, fabricating the stories of the girls with hoop earrings, and the elderly couples with matching fanny-packs, while they simultaneously fabricated a story for me. Jostling back and forth in unison to the clacking of the rails beneath us, I hoped that I passed for one of them, hoped that the me who lived inside their heads sounded like she belonged.
I used to ride the tube to pretend that I lived in London. I rode the tube to pretend I was one of the people who rode the tube, not realizing until it was too late that I was never really pretending. These days I ride the train to pretend that I'm not here. I pretend that I can get off at the next stop to change platforms and go in a different direction. I pretend that when I press the button, the doors will open to reveal a bustling station alive with possibilities.
I pretend that when I get off the train I'll be home.
Soon I will run down those familiar tunnels again,
craving the gust of warm air that will tousle my hair,
and fill my lungs with the dust that turns
my flip flop feet black,
hoping that maybe this time it will settle.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Cowboy Wisdom
I took the bus to my parents' house this afternoon. After having a short conversation of pointing and smiles with the child sitting across from me about the coffee I was drinking, I gazed out the window watching images of the city speed past. I found myself saying good-bye, not sure if I would ever see that office building, that flower shop, that particular piece of graffiti ever again. I was flooded with memories, riding past a park in which I had sung an a cappella rendition of 'kiss the girl' with my friends the summer I turned nineteen, past the Alberta Choral Federation where I had held a part-time job during high school as the librarian of their sheet music library, holding my breath for old time's sake as we passed the large downtown graveyard. I said good-bye, knowing that I would not miss any of it.
Ever since I've begun to entertain the idea of moving back to Britain as a real and immediate possibility, I've been happier than I have been in a very long time. Happy to be here, at this point in my life, having so much to look forward to. My Mother commented on how I don't seem angry anymore. A friend told me that he's glad to finally see me excited about life. Another friend told me that he always knew, from the moment he met me, that I would go back.
A strange customer came into the bookshop last week. I'd say he was in his seventies, smelled of rich tobacco. He told me stories of his old man who was apparently a legendary cowboy. I zoned out for most of it, but one thing he said stuck with me: He said the most important thing his father ever told him was to always tell the truth, that way you didn't have to have a good memory, and you'd never be embarrassed. Almost more important than being honest with others, I think, is to be honest with yourself. I'm finding that life is much easier, much happier, much better, when I allow myself to follow my heart instead of the idea I have of what my heart should want. Irrationally following my heart is what got me to Scotland in the first place, how fitting that it should take me back.
Ever since I've begun to entertain the idea of moving back to Britain as a real and immediate possibility, I've been happier than I have been in a very long time. Happy to be here, at this point in my life, having so much to look forward to. My Mother commented on how I don't seem angry anymore. A friend told me that he's glad to finally see me excited about life. Another friend told me that he always knew, from the moment he met me, that I would go back.
A strange customer came into the bookshop last week. I'd say he was in his seventies, smelled of rich tobacco. He told me stories of his old man who was apparently a legendary cowboy. I zoned out for most of it, but one thing he said stuck with me: He said the most important thing his father ever told him was to always tell the truth, that way you didn't have to have a good memory, and you'd never be embarrassed. Almost more important than being honest with others, I think, is to be honest with yourself. I'm finding that life is much easier, much happier, much better, when I allow myself to follow my heart instead of the idea I have of what my heart should want. Irrationally following my heart is what got me to Scotland in the first place, how fitting that it should take me back.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Blueberry Whine
I walked past a liquor store this evening and spontaneously decided that it would be nice to have a glass of wine with my dinner. When I walked in, the first thing that caught my eye was a bottle of blueberry wine. “Mmm, blueberry wine”, I thought, “that sounds perfect.” So I bought it, and walked the eight blocks back to my apartment. I unpacked the rest of my groceries, got out a wine glass, and opened the drawer to get out the corkscrew.... Corkscrew? I was sure I had one. How could I not have a corkscrew? Have I seriously not opened a bottle of wine in the entire eight months I've been living here? I guess not. I didn't have a corkscrew. So I tried to open the bottle with a metal coat hanger, but that didn't work. I was getting pretty desperate, so I plucked up the courage to knock on the door next to mine and ask my neighbour, whom I've never met, if I could borrow one. She didn't have one either. I knocked on every single door on my floor. Nothing. Eight households, and nobody had a corkscrew.
One of my co-workers lives a couple buildings over from me, so I called the bookstore to get his number. He didn't answer. It was a long shot anyway: he doesn't drink. While I was thinking of work I remembered that we got a letter in the post a couple days ago with a complementary swiss army knife key chain in it, which happened to include a corkscrew. The downtown location of our bookstore chain is only a couple blocks away from my apartment, so I walked over there to see if they got the same thing in the mail. Of course they didn't, but Chris searched the store for me just in case there was one hiding somewhere. When his search failed, he told me that there was a wine store around the corner that was probably still open. When I got there, there was a sign on the door saying they were closed for a private wine tasting party. Just my luck.
I crossed the street and went into a small upscale grocery store. I found a rack of pretentious kitchen utensils. I found five different spatulas, a garlic peeler, a garlic press, a nut cracker, a lobster cracker, a melon baller, even a citrus zester. No corkscrew. So I asked an employee for help. He showed me to another rack of kitchen supplies. We found more spatulas, two different kinds of can openers, a silicone pot holder, a beer bottle opener (we were getting close now). No corkscrew.
I was about to admit defeat and began to walk home when I decided that I'd come too far to give up. I was so frustrated by that point that all I wanted was a drink. Ironic that. That the frustration of not being able to open a bottle of wine only increases your need for it's contents. And I knew that if I returned home without a corkscrew I'd spent the rest of the night staring at the bottle in agony. So I walked the eight blocks back to the liquor store I had left nearly three hours earlier and bought a bloody corkscrew.
And after all that, the wine isn't even very good.
One of my co-workers lives a couple buildings over from me, so I called the bookstore to get his number. He didn't answer. It was a long shot anyway: he doesn't drink. While I was thinking of work I remembered that we got a letter in the post a couple days ago with a complementary swiss army knife key chain in it, which happened to include a corkscrew. The downtown location of our bookstore chain is only a couple blocks away from my apartment, so I walked over there to see if they got the same thing in the mail. Of course they didn't, but Chris searched the store for me just in case there was one hiding somewhere. When his search failed, he told me that there was a wine store around the corner that was probably still open. When I got there, there was a sign on the door saying they were closed for a private wine tasting party. Just my luck.
I crossed the street and went into a small upscale grocery store. I found a rack of pretentious kitchen utensils. I found five different spatulas, a garlic peeler, a garlic press, a nut cracker, a lobster cracker, a melon baller, even a citrus zester. No corkscrew. So I asked an employee for help. He showed me to another rack of kitchen supplies. We found more spatulas, two different kinds of can openers, a silicone pot holder, a beer bottle opener (we were getting close now). No corkscrew.
I was about to admit defeat and began to walk home when I decided that I'd come too far to give up. I was so frustrated by that point that all I wanted was a drink. Ironic that. That the frustration of not being able to open a bottle of wine only increases your need for it's contents. And I knew that if I returned home without a corkscrew I'd spent the rest of the night staring at the bottle in agony. So I walked the eight blocks back to the liquor store I had left nearly three hours earlier and bought a bloody corkscrew.
And after all that, the wine isn't even very good.
Saturday, 2 May 2009
The Day My Visa Came Back
When I originally made the decision to come back to Canada, I made the decision with the knowledge that if it didn't work, getting back into the UK would be relatively easy. At the time, something called an ancestry visa existed. All I had to do was prove that my grandparents were born in the UK, and I'd get a five year visa to be able to live and work in the UK, after which I could apply for permanent residency. Just as I moved back across the ocean, however, Britain overhauled it's immigration policies. My visa disappeared. And my hope of easily returning to the UK crumbled with it.
For the past eight months I've felt trapped. With my life in Britain locked behind a big door of bureaucracy, I've felt stuck in Edmonton, legally obliged either to stay here, or to start over from scratch somewhere else in Canada. I've been angry at Edmonton. Angry at it for sucking me back in and holding me hostage. I've tried to blame it for my unhappiness. I've tried to forgive it and give it a chance. I've tried to make it home again. I've tried to detach myself and know that my time here is temporary. I've tried imagining a life for myself on Vancouver Island. I've even tried imagining a life for myself in Calgary. Yes, Calgary. That's how desperate I am to get out of Edmonton. The truth is, I just want to go back to Britain. I miss the life I had over there. I miss my friends. I miss my oyster card. I miss having a good fry-up with my hangover. All the other viable options just look like second choices and consolation prizes.
I did the skype thing with two of my best friends still up in St Andrews this morning, and felt the familiar pull of wishing I was living with them again. So I went back to the UK visa website, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to make it work, and I discovered something that changes everything. The ancestry visa still exists. It never disappeared, they just re-did the website and hid it in the fine print of the work visa. I feel like my life has tangibly changed today. That a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm free of the shackles holding me in Edmonton. Free to go home.
For the past eight months I've felt trapped. With my life in Britain locked behind a big door of bureaucracy, I've felt stuck in Edmonton, legally obliged either to stay here, or to start over from scratch somewhere else in Canada. I've been angry at Edmonton. Angry at it for sucking me back in and holding me hostage. I've tried to blame it for my unhappiness. I've tried to forgive it and give it a chance. I've tried to make it home again. I've tried to detach myself and know that my time here is temporary. I've tried imagining a life for myself on Vancouver Island. I've even tried imagining a life for myself in Calgary. Yes, Calgary. That's how desperate I am to get out of Edmonton. The truth is, I just want to go back to Britain. I miss the life I had over there. I miss my friends. I miss my oyster card. I miss having a good fry-up with my hangover. All the other viable options just look like second choices and consolation prizes.
I did the skype thing with two of my best friends still up in St Andrews this morning, and felt the familiar pull of wishing I was living with them again. So I went back to the UK visa website, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to make it work, and I discovered something that changes everything. The ancestry visa still exists. It never disappeared, they just re-did the website and hid it in the fine print of the work visa. I feel like my life has tangibly changed today. That a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I'm free of the shackles holding me in Edmonton. Free to go home.
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