Casual Naïveté

When my childhood best friend and I were still in elementary school, we would frequent a small park. We greatly enjoyed making up stories about our fictional selves, Speed and Spice. Two huge tractor tires were stationed upright, imbedded into the earth, near the playground. We climbed daily onto those tires, who became our faithful horses, although I have traitorously forgotten their names. We went so far as to attach masking tape saddles and reins. One day, in the midst of a storyline, we noticed a man had entered our playground. He stood watching us. We looked at each other and then at him. We dismounted. He waved to us. He said something innocuous, trying to engage us in conversation. I said something back to him (perhaps it was about the time?) when Speed said loudly that it was time to go. Because our bond was almost psychic, I sensed her urgency and so, although I felt she was being a bit hasty and impolite, I left with her. She asked me later: had I not seen his penis hanging out of his pants? That was a crushing moment for me. I felt the weight of what could have been my own demise and a profound revulsion at my own innocence. Of course, we knew not to take candy nor to go anywhere with strangers, but as far as I can recollect, he merely inquired about the time. I did not look down to see if he was flashing us. I just don't look at people that way. When they speak to me, I hold their gaze. Confidence and proper etiquette could so easily have been my downfall. I had seen NOTHING. To this day, at random moments, I am filled with that same dreaded sense of creepy disgust. I have only recently realised that it is my own naïveté. Is this perhaps my instincts telling me that something is amiss? Certain aquaintances will leave me with this feeling and I find myself urgently needing to disassociate. Or am I entirely incapable of protecting myself and will I forever need a good friend and a trusty steed? There have been many, many instances like the park of my youth. Not necessarily all flashers or would-be pedophiles but other incidents where I have trusted, innocently, in the face of what others have had to explain to me. How the hell can this be? I am intelligent and generally socially adept. I am an actor, for goodness' sakes. I can read character. So why do I have such a blind spot for potentially disastrous situations? I do think it comes back to a kind of naïveté--an honesty, an openness. A sort of optimism perhaps and an inability to accept real human cruelty. It's not that I haven't suffered in my life (indeed I have--my school principal used to get me to counsel other kids on how to cope with trauma because I was so well-adjusted after facing issues of my own) but that my suffering has perhaps been somehow elite. I can't seem to grasp the real, gritty, down-in-the dirt fabric of some peoples' tragic lives. My husband occasionally rails at me that I don't notice what is going on because of my academic focus. I get so immersed into what I am doing that all else is irrelevant. The capacity for concentration despite distraction is a skill I have used to my advantage many, many times. But I sense that it--both a gift and a curse--will my ultimate downfall. I have just finished reading J.K. Rowling's novel "Casual Vacancy". The cruelty and malicious intent of the characters is indeed casual and heartbreaking. It reminded me that I am both oh-so privileged and so very at risk.

The Gross-Out II

After being reminded the other day of the Rhodesian Ridgeback, whose the cultivated gourmet palate preferred only the finest found feces of homeless Vancouverites, I must concede the 'my-dogs-are-grosser-than-yours' title. I am okay with this. Kudos to the new title holder whose disgusting deed (and ensuing regurgitation) I shall recount for many a day. It seems as though obscured in the dog's consumption and rejection of street person poo there was a veiled commentary on society's underprivileged. In other news, I recently heard that British teenagers have begun a fad of communication via message in a bottle. It seems they are placing personal ads into bottles in the hopes of finding a romantic match--offline dating sites, so to speak. The current generation of adolescents has grown up with a level of technological sophistication incomprehensible to anyone who remembers Commodore 64 or getting the neighbourhood's first microwave/VCR/CD player. The peculiar parallel between the British teens and our Ridgeback, is that in their subversive acts, both are unknowingly enacting a hegemonic defiance.

Why my heart belongs to Severus Snape

What it is, more than anything, I think, is that moment when we see him craddling her lifeless body, while not simply sobbing but actually wailing. Because it is a voice-over scene, his lament is soundless and, therefore, infinitely more powerful and tragic.

The master of a disciplined mind and of concealment reveals himself in his truest instant to be utterly devasted with grief.

In the past, his calculated frigidity has only once let slip some base level of rage, tempered with shame, at a recollection of school yard bullying, and some infrequent minor fears due to the burdensome demands of his headmaster.

When, as a theatre student in university, I had to explore the four major emotions of joy, fear, rage, and grief, I always felt my resources for the joy corner of the room were rather limited. Yet, I was full of information for grief. I, too, have often felt that I live my life behind a veil--forcing myself to be strong and to appear flawless--while concealing a fundamentally wounded core.

To live with, despite, or perhaps for a true love once glimpsed and then lost is a dank, musty, breathless tunnel. From the chasm, to live based on love seems somehow naïvely pure. Deceivingly simple in its complexity. And profoundly courageous in its honesty.

That is why my heart belongs to Severus Snape.

Life is an Onion

As a child of four years old, I was aware of what occurred around me. Not simply did I understand the words but their ulterior intentions. I could perceive irritation, manipulation, subtle messaging. Yet, I was locked within my small frame and spoken to as one unawares. Often, I wondered how long I would have to feign ignorance--until I grew up and realised that the pretense was to endure my entire life.

In my preadolescence, I tested my powers of manipulation. I laid a great trap for a friend of mine and merely observed as she ensnared herself in lies. I did not reveal myself but simply noted that all people will lie and cheat if they deem it feasible and profitable.

Existence is the multitude of rings within an onion. I am on the outermost peel, cynically observing the mid machinations. At times, I have sought to live blindly inside the onion but am always rejected by my perception of falseness. I have tried to numb myself--to overcome the sting of the onion--and to live simply, blindly. It is always in vain.

A few times, I have mastered my own consciousness and internalised my practice so profoundly that I have reached the innermost sanctum of the onion. Those points have been true sweetness: onion divinity. At those moments of nirvana, I have attained what it is for which I have striven with the least effort. It has been as though the circling has momentarily ceased and the rings have aligned into a cosmic pathway. Choices were obvious, delicious. Results were evident and glorious.

But, as with all other occasions, ultimately I have been redeposited at the external trajectory.

Today as I consider the death of Hitch, someone whose body of work speaks to me, I feel more and certain that the onion hardens and bitters. I am rejected by all but the exterior.

Rebuttal from the Other dog

I know I'm low on the family totem pole.

It's okay, though, because I'm a dog and am comfortable with hierarchy. I'm somewhere after the first dog and people but maybe before the turtles and fish. I guess in the film world, my position would be described as 'below the line'. Not a producer or director but still talent.

There's something to be said for not having a very strong brain. I can't make up my mind on things so I listen to my peoples' guidance. I adhere to every instruction given to me. My people tell me I just got too much beauty and not so much of the other stuff.

Sure, the first dog is beloved but I am obediant.

My people stuck by me when I did all kinds of stuff I wasn't supposed to do, even when I was BAD DOG. I know I'm still sometimes stinky, sloppy, and silly but my people take care of me and tell me I am GOOD DOG. Those are my happiest days.

I had a rocky start to life. I was physically unwell, mentally unstable, and instinctually-delayed. It's not fun having the canine equivalent of ADHD. The Prozac helps a lot. Now, I can concentrate and listen. I promise my people that I'll be the very best dog I can be.

And that's good enough for one dog's life.

Dog Love

I had a strange thought just now: perhaps I love this creature more than anything on earth. How can that be when I have a cherished child and a reciprocally devoted husband? Someone with a psychological background would surely advise me that I am merely projecting onto the dog. And indeed, I am.

I was born in the Year of the Dog. I have always identified with the notion of dog. I consider myself dog-like. I have even, at times, wondered longingly what it might be like to have a tail. I relate more closely to dogdom than to the realm of any other animal, except perhaps that of the elephant.

Interestingly, the elephant strikes me as very similar to the dog in its emotional makeup. Magnificently, they invest physical locations with their grief for the deceased. The don't have a fantastically functional tail but they do have an awesome trunk. The elephant maintains such a wisdom and a gentleness of spirit despite its size.

And so I truly love this dog, as if she is part of me--an extension who is independent, willful, cheeky, playful and infinitely compassionate.

A Healthy Point of View

It's funny how simply making a decision can sometimes lead to a change of mindset.

I spent most of the summer in graduate work, looking at myself as an artist and a linguist, and in deconstructing messaging in popular culture. I had promised myself that when my coursework had finished for the term, that I would spend at least a few days of my short vacation pushing my exercise book for postpartum mothers towards publication. I didn't realise, however, that my perception of normative standards of weight would so drastically have been altered.
Sure, I was always aware of media messages objectifying and distorting the female body. But it wasn't until I really took a look at my own insecurities that I discovered how greatly I too, had been indoctrinated. Not only did I rework a section in my manuscript on weight loss, but I made a rather huge decision.

If, as a junior high teacher, I hope to model healthy behaviour through my active participation in physical fitness pursuits and through my clean diet, then I must relinquish my own body image insecurities. Self-acceptance seems so obvious--how could I have missed it? Yet until I made the momentous vow to bare my legs (despite varicose veins) and to wear shorts when running (instead of roasting alive in track pants), I myself was somehow inauthentic.

I ran today, in the local park. Cellulite was visible for all who cared to see. But either no one saw or no one cared. I was comfortable. When I looked in the mirror later, the lumps and bumps that have always taunted me despite my slender frame seemed somehow less visible. How is that possible? By the fact that I simply no longer care. I actually feel good: strong, healthy, vibrant, beautiful, intelligent, successful...

It's taken me forty years to get this. I hope I can persuade some of my teenagers that body confidence really does come from within--perhaps through leading by example.