“Diva XVI”

The room was dark, womblike, and comfortable with the familiar scents of her perfume, cigarette smoke, and sex. Ellie lay on her back, staring toward a ceiling she couldn’t actually see, and one word slurred into the next as she spoke to no one in particular.

“I was almost married, once.”

He answered drowsily from the sheets next to her. “You mean to someone else?”

“His name was Alfred.”

“I’ve never heard you mention him before.”

“Couldn’t talk about it.”

“Do you want to talk now?”

She took a deep drag on her cigarette and let the smoke out through her nose. “I’d rather have another Scotch.”

“We’re out.”

“Shit,” she said before she took another drag.

Movement on her left suggested that he’d propped himself on an elbow to peer in her direction, though the dark was as impenetrable from his side of the bed as it was from hers. “Tell me what happened,” he coaxed. “Did you dump him?”

“He died,” she said.

“Jesus, Ellie ... I’m sorry. That was stupid.”

“It sure was,” she replied, though she wasn’t referring to his ill-timed joke. She took another puff and started to ramble, lapsing without realizing into her childhood drawl. “We were both really young and my aunt wasn’t crazy about me marryin’ a cowboy, so Alfred enlisted to give her some time. He reckoned joinin’ the army would make him respectable to my folks, and I’d be old enough to wed when he got back from his postin’. I was scared to death they’d send him straight into the war, but when they sent him to Hawaii instead, I thought my prayers had been answered. I prayed a lot back then; I sorta had to under the circumstances, but I really meant it when I prayed for God to keep Alfred safe. When he told me where he was goin’, I thought, Lord Almighty, you’re the best! You know? Hawaii was on the other side of the world from where the action was; it seemed a sure thing he’d come back and we’d be married soon as he stepped off the train. But two months after he left, the Japs bombed Pearl Harbour ... an’ that was that.”

Silence from the other side of the bed. She wondered if he had fallen asleep, until she felt his lips form a soft kiss on her shoulder. “Jesus, Ellie,” he repeated in a low voice, “I’m so sorry.”

She shrugged, grateful for the numbing amount of booze in her bloodstream. “I wasn’t good enough for him, I guess.”

“Not good enough? Who told you that?”

Immediately, Auntie’s voice echoed in Ellie’s head though she chose not to answer the question. “It’s as well,” she said instead. “If I’d a-married Alfred then, I wouldn’t be a movie star now.”

“That’s probably true, but did you want to be a movie star?”

“Hell, yeah. Doesn’t every girl?”

“I thought every girl wants to be married.”

Laughter mingled with the smoke she blew from her nose. “Now that’s stupid. Why be married when I can do whoever I want?”

“Is that why you’re not marrying Seward?”

She said nothing, just lay and smoked until ash scorched her fingers.

“Bond? Does he have any idea where you are?”

Ellie rolled away to grind her cigarette into the bedside ashtray, then rolled back again, into his arms. “Shut up, Swain,” she drawled, coiling one leg around his hip. “Shut up and fuck me again.”

Creativity Defined

According to my blog log, I’ve waxed poetic about the subject nineteen times since I began CR – this is the twentieth post and it comes from a journal entry wherein I was tasked with defining creativity. Since it still felt relevant when I stumbled over it last week, I thought I’d share my perception of one of the most important ideals in my repertoire.

Creativity is the production of something from nothing, the extension of an idea, the hard copy result of a dream or a blueprint.

Creativity is remodelling: the production of something inspired by someone else’s creativity, the refurbishing or development of one’s own style based on the example of another’s.

Creativity is spirit: the sense of connection to something larger than oneself, to the cosmic energy that binds us to the earth and to each other.

Creativity is action in the service of spirit. There is nothing creative about “destroyed in seconds”; there is nothing creative in trash talk or gossip, in bullying or harassment. 

Creativity is love and sharing and encouragement. It’s more than art or writing or music. It’s something inexplicable that results in beauty, emotion, evolution, kindness, awareness and, occasionally, fame and fortune. It is always, however, successful. By its nature, creativity cannot lose.

Create something.

Create a smile.

Create a picture or a poem.

Create a bright spot in someone’s day.

Creativity is life.

With love,

A Face in the Crowd

It was recently pointed out to me that while I am the protagonist in my own story, I also play various roles in the stories of others: a supporting role with Ter, a lesser yet still supporting role with family and the workplace, the occasional walk-on in someone else’s story, and an extra in the crowd scenes.

One day I was waiting for Ter in the mall. We had agreed to meet near Starbucks after our shopping was done, so I found a spot at a counter overlooking the food court and proceeded to consider my options. Should I plug into my phone? Think about a snack? Ponder what sort of novel to get at the bookstore? Hmmmm … As I was thinking, my gaze wandered aimlessly over the scene before me and something weird occurred: a face jumped out at me.

Not a familiar face. Not a face I knew. Not an extraordinary face. Just a face, the face of a random stranger in a communal space. And as I contemplated this unknown face, other faces started popping into focus. The guy wolfing a Teen Burger by himself. The salesclerk on a break with her iPhone in hand. The elderly couple splitting a doughnut with their coffees. The gaggle of similarly clad teens trying not to stand out while preserving their individuality. The little boy trailing after his parents and older sister, looking somewhat bewildered by the hectic bustle of everyone around him.

I love to write crowd scenes and here I was, observing one. Yet I was acutely aware that within the current moment a hundred separate dramas were being enacted, each one weightier and relevant to its central character, who, like me, also happened to be a bit player in the bigger picture. And each person was powered by the same divine spark that powers me, everyone on a separate path that, by necessity, will crisscross others as it proceeds.

It was like an out-of-body experience, sitting on the sidelines yet sensing the combined energy of all those strangers. In fact, I was contributing to that combined energy through my connection to the rest of the cast! I had no idea who any of them were, but I sensed the thread that linked us. It was at once bizarre and cool—and a little disarming. I was quite relieved when Ter appeared in the tableau. Her familiarity gave me a comforting focus that shrank my expansive musing to something more manageable. All those individual faces melted back into anonymity and I became the lead in my own story once more.

The feeling has stayed with me, though I admit I rarely pay conscious attention to people on the street. But sometimes, when I least expect it, on the bus or in a lineup or even on a street corner, waiting for the light to change, I’ll meet a stranger’s eyes and feel the snap! of our shared divinity. Yup, it’s disconcerting—but it’s also a reminder that we are all connected, one and the same, no matter where our stories take us.

Sunrise, Sunset II

Do you remember the old riddle about how to eat an elephant? “One bite at a time.”

The big picture—a movie, for instance—is made up of a bunch of little pictures, run at speed in a sequence to create a larger whole. That’s kind of what life is: a series of little pictures, or one bite of an elephant at a time.

You have everything you need to manage a twenty-four hour period. Skills and resources are at hand to get you through every day. If you can restrain the urge to dwell on days past or worry too much about tomorrow, you can make the most of that day. And, yes, much of how the day is handled depends on where you’re at, but you must also remember that all you can do at any moment is your best, even if that best is not what it would be on another day. Forget about what may or may not be; it doesn’t matter. Just focus on the now.

It’s good to have a plan for the future, but not at the expense of the present moment. Besides, the future is made up of present moments, so you may want to consider this before you beam into an imagining that may never happen. As Master Yoda says in The Empire Strikes Back (my still-favourite Star Wars film), “The future is always in motion.” This makes it difficult to predict, so why waste now anticipating what isn’t assured tomorrow?

By the same token, looking back with guilt and/or regret only hinders your progress. It can even stop you from being better than your current best when it involves berating yourself for things said or unsaid, done or undone. It’s past; let it go. Forgive everyone—including yourself—involved in whatever incident still bugs you and free yourself from the video replay of what cannot be changed. If you can’t do that, and I know, it’s easier said than done, then use the past as a starting point: “From now on, I will (insert more positive perspective here).” Or, better yet, narrow it to the present moment: “Right now, I am (insert more positive perspective here).”

And if you can’t conjure a positive perspective on your own, a good default is simply “I am loved.” This is true in the past, present and future.

Some days will seem longer and others far too short. Some will go well and some will be disasters—through no fault of your own, I might add. You’re not the only one whose best is different from day to day; the kindest thing you can do is accept others as they are in any given instant, understanding that where they are may not be as obvious.

Sunrise signals a fresh start to something I hope will be wonderful. Sunset is my time to reflect on how it went before I put it (and myself) to bed. This is Ru 2018, dedicated to releasing the past, living the present moment as best I can, and trusting the future to unfold as a result.

Try it for a day. Just for today ... and watch the elephant disappear, one bite at a time.

With love,

Traditions 2.0

Before Christmas, one of our local radio curmudgeons did a bit about the importance of tradition. During the holidays in particular, we treasure the rituals that make us feel safe and secure in a world getting nuttier with every headline. Many of our rituals come with us from childhood, and new ones develop as we establish our own homes and families. For me, it’s alcohol and TV shows. I don’t drink so much at any other time of year, and it’s not Christmas until we’ve watched Charlie Brown.

Even at the office, we have seasonal traditions. On the day the fireplace went up, one of my colleagues paused when she saw it, broke into a grin, and announced, “It’s official! Christmas is here!”

It seems Ter and I have ton of them. The house gets decorated first. I get the cards done and gone by mid-month. The big tree goes up on the first Saturday in December (or the last one in November). We watch Jim Carrey’s Grinch on that night, and every other holiday movie/TV show we have between then and the 23^rd, when A Christmas Story kicks of the holiday hat trick that includes Alistair Sim on the 24^th and Jimmy Stewart on the 25^th. We stock the kitchen with Imperial cheese and garlic sausage, mincemeat tarts and eggnog (and my annual bottle of Prosecco). We visit my folks, friends, and a sibling or two ahead of Christmas Day, not to mention getting presents bought and wrapped for distribution at those visits. Our holiday CDs go on heavy rotation in the house and in the car.

You get the picture.

Well, this year something happened. A bunch of things, actually, that interfered with our nicely organized, pre-scheduled, comfortably familiar holiday hoopla. Some switchups were deliberate, like Ter deciding to bake fruitcake for the first time in a few years, but others were, er, forced upon us. We were too bushed after wrestling with the tree to watch Jim Carrey, so the Grinch got put off for a week. My parents were unavailable when we hoped to visit them, and we were unavailable when my older sister invited us to tea. (Happily, those visits happened after the 25^th, though it felt weird having to reschedule them.) We got hung up on some other oddball things that escape me now, but despite some of our traditions being waylaid by circumstance, other things happened to make holiday magic.

It snowed on Christmas Eve. It started within seconds of my return from dropping Treena home after her ritual holiday visit, and it didn’t stop until the street was thick with frosting and our view of Oak Bay had disappeared. Ter put on the cheeseball Christmas tunes channel, and we sat in a candlelit Ocean Room with wine and popcorn, watching the snow and revelling in the unexpected hygge.

We spent the next morning in the same room, opening our presents in the glow of the penguin tree when our habit is to spend Christmas morning with the big tree. Neighbour noise caused that one, but it worked out in the end. In fact, all the adjustments worked. The OR is my favourite room in the house; why not open our presents there? Visiting parents and siblings after Christmas Day was more relaxed than if we’d crammed it in ahead of the 25th. I survived without my jar of clotted cream and discovered the joy of vanilla and cinnamon Bailey’s. Limited rotation of Christmas music didn’t kill us, though it’s too bad we missed running Blackadder’s Christmas Carol and Nation Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Maybe new traditions were born of the pre-empted old ones; I won’t know until next Christmas. I do know however, that despite the hiccups and with the gift of snow on Christmas Eve, ours in 2017 turned out to be quite festive. Traditions are important, indeed they are, but when conditions are right—though they may seem wrong at the time—traditions can also be improved!