Seeing What Happens · Jun 18, 07:23 AM
The surrounding landscape has been altered. Leaving Alberta, I exchanged prairies and open skies, for this east country. Limitless forests, and Lake Huron is my back yard.
Northern Ontario, the Trans-Canada running like a vein through Sault Ste Marie and then onto Sudsbury. I chart the course with my finger, here I am, Neil Young sang about this place (his sister still lives here) a dot between the two cities – Blind River.
Time is sprinting. It’s already been two weeks since Marie and I narrowly escaped Toronto, the skyscrapers, traffic and noise. Two small town girls on roads, which are better explored on public transit. We braved journey in her car, an old Saturn from the 90s.
In March, my musician-friend Marie electronically mailed me to inquire if I’d consider joining her band. An Offhand Rebellion, started from the ground up by her and two fellow cohorts (Naomi the bassist, and drummer Trevor who are married to each other). I replied with an enthusiastic “maybe”, which quickly progressed to “yes!”, and then a one-way plane ticket.
Marie and I are living in a two-story house owned by the drummer’s parents. The father is a retired pastor, who is currently in Brazil with his wife. Marie and I have this place to ourselves until July at least. There is an impending move of the entire band in the fall. Perhaps to a nearby big city, perhaps farther… we’ll see what happens. (A daily theme to be sure.)
Most evenings are spent with late night guitar sessions, or Marie immersing me in her favourite flavour of sound – British Punk. I love it.
I’ve practiced with the whole band once so far, and we’re going at it again tonight. They are a easy going and welcoming crew. Trevor gave me a cool, vintage suitcase to setup my FX pedals in. We ate pizza together, and played video games.
Committing to play in this band will cause a big life change for me, but one that I know I’m needing. I will need to make a solidified decision soon, but for now I’m simply enjoying being here.
— Amber
Your Words [3]
Shift · May 28, 12:59 AM
The woman in drive-thru insisted I be the one to pass the milk bone to her large dog in the back seat. The timid creature hesitated briefly, before gingerly accepting the treat between her teeth.
“She’s never taken food from anyone before. She’s been abused.” The woman said sincerely, clearly moved that her experiment had been successful.
“What’s her name?” I inquired.
“Dixie.”
“Bye Dixie!” I waved as they drove away.
I will miss that. Conversations with customers, handing milk-bones to dogs, suckers to children, sometimes vice-versa. (I’m kidding.)
My last shift at the coffee job this past Monday was emotionally difficult. I have been employed there nearly ten months, and have met some amazing people. It really didn’t seem like the finale, but as the day went on a sense of acceptance began to settle in. Other co-workers who came into the store to check upcoming schedules, gave me sad looks and hugs. I felt loved, yet melancholy. Sweet, little Laura kept staring affectionately at my face, and petting my bangs. “I love you, I want you to come back.” She softly stated, exchanging her usual highschool swagger, for a small, pouting tone. I was certain I had the perspective of a beloved house cat about to be put to sleep.
The coffee job has been my most consistent source of community and main connection with humanity since September 2007. In many ways, the past few years and months especially have been my most difficult segment of life thus far. I’ve experienced a huge shift in many of my relationships.
Broken family interactions have taken the biggest tole. I know they’ve caused me to grow immensely in areas, but simultaneously have given me such stress and grief, that I’ve noticed how it has affected my short term memory, anxiety levels, and I find I’m blinking… a lot. Gone are my naive, idealistic views of people (left overs of childhood, fifteen years ago I was only ten) – where everyone is one-sided and innocent.
Friends get married, go to college, have full time jobs – natural phases of life. As a single individual it’s easy to feel “behind” and become incredibly lonely. Thankfully I’ve developed some new, healthy friendships as well this year, which has been good.
I also sadly recognize, my virtuosic skills of holing up and keeping others at arm’s length. The price of gas, and the convenience of e-mail… it’s easier and actually quite necessary to know people more indirectly these days. I’m grateful for being able to stay in touch with people I otherwise wouldn’t be able to, but in some ways it can be a false sense of connection. I think I’ve been following this pattern for years, though now I’m seeing it more clearly. It takes me copious amounts of time to trust people. I can relate to Dixie.
The coffee job gave me a place to go that was ‘mine’, and not my family fiascos and not my home town (which is increasingly discouraging to be living in). It was a safe environment, with supportive employers and co-workers. Some days were busy and stressful (working with the public can be very stressful), but generally they were casual and fun. I needed fun!
I still had two hours left to go when Julie was finished her shift. She had repeatedly told me throughout the day she was so happy for me to move onto better things, but was sad I was leaving. We exchanged a giant hug, and she began sobbing. I didn’t have tears, but I told her I loved her. I do. She’s french-Canadian, and began working a month after I had started. She has a wonderful sense of humour and also four, unbelievably cute, brown-eyed, Francophone children who she sees every other week. Her family (plus current boyfriend) moved out west for work in Alberta’s economy. She could barely speak any english when she began working, and since has improved tenfold. We have had many memorable english / french lessons on shift. (For example, the french words for ‘garbage’ and ‘beautiful’ sound very similar to one another.) Julie learned most of her english by reading labels off of cereal boxes, and food labels. Despite (and perhaps because of the language barrier) – we became friends.
Precisely the time my shift was over (8 o’clock), a single customer came in and ordered twelve, specialty coffees of all sizes and modifications. All the girls on shift at that point were relatively new, and I definitely didn’t have the heart to abandon them, so I swiftly put my well-honed barrista moves to work for one final round. Arms flailing, steaming milk and pulling espresso shots like a mad woman. More customers streamed into the store. I ended up working until 8:30. We must have made over 30 drinks. It was a little crazy, but also nice that I was able to linger and go out with a bang. After the chaos had subsided, and the store was once again quiet, I proclaimed it was finally time for the grand exit.
New girl Sapphira (we became immediate friends with after her first shift last week), readied her digital camera as all of us exchanged final hugs, and hi-fives (one girl had been working for less than an hour, so I’m sure this whole situation was rather bizarre) heaved my bag over the ledge onto the pavement below, and dramatically vaulted out of the drive-thru window.
For the drive home, I thought I was for sure going to lose it and start bawling while alone in my car. The sun was out, the music was cranked. A bittersweet ending for sure – now glowing like a warm ember in my chest. I couldn’t cry. I could only grin until both sides of my face hurt, allowing myself to feel some hope for the coming days. A gift to be sure.
— Amber
Your Words [2]
Politics · May 21, 10:16 PM
Today my father is as Burma. Ruled by chemical imbalances and a distorted perception – the warped junta, refusing aid even under the most desperate of circumstances. He’s been struck by a cyclone, and I stand by, helpless to help him. I tried.
Have you ever hurt so deeply, you begin to lose feeling?
Are you waiting for a miracle?
Are you waiting for a lightning bolt?
Are you waiting like a paranoid little boy?
Are you ever gonna come back home?
Do you really think the sky is falling?
How you ever gonna pick up the pieces?
Do you really think that anybody will listen?
Do you really think that anybody will notice?
I used to dream about saving the world
Now i just dream about the holidays
I used to write so many songs for my girl
Now i just dream about floating away
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
Out of this place
- Search Party, Wintersleep
— Amber
3pm · May 20, 10:05 PM
(Written May 13,2008)
I don’t know what to say out loud anymore.
My dad called today to say that at 3pm he would be killed. Killed by four black men who he had borrowed money from. “I need four hundred dollars before 3pm. It’s my life.”
He then ranted on about the underbelly of the city. How the pawn shop owners may look like decent upstanding business owners, but are all crooks under the surface. He seemed to have violent paranoia, and connected them to actual, recent news stories. An unidentified body in the ditch had been an acquaintance – a musician he had known. A man by Raven had his hand chopped off – Islamic terrorists. These were the same sort of men coming after him. Calling the police would be useless. “They can’t do anything to help.” A tall black man had allegedly threatened him earlier. In the hallway of his apartment perhaps. “He nearly poked his finger through my eye.” said Dad frantically.
He spoke so fast I only remember bits and pieces of what he was saying. He was tired of life, not suicidal but tired. He thought maybe he just needed to say goodbye. “I’m intelligent. I’ve been nice to black people. I’m nice to everyone. I should have a weapon. I had a hand gun once.”
“What if I came and took you away from there? Picked you up and you could come have something to eat.” I asked.
“No, no that won’t do.”
“So only four hundred dollars will save your life? By 3pm.”
“Well, yeah… and some cigarettes and some food wouldn’t hurt either. I haven’t eaten for days. I haven’t slept in a week.”
More incoherent ranting ensued. He went on about extended relatives, South Africa, murders, how he had no friends in the world. He supposedly lost his job and is getting evicted in two weeks. Something about sleeping in the bath tub because he’d taken in a couple of down and outs. (Who likely ate all his food as well.)
“Sounds like they’re using you.” I said bluntly.
“I don’t think this is the time to be analyzing the situation.” He replied defensively.
Mom called the psychiatrist. Told them what was going on. The psychiatrist told us to call the cops. It was nearly 2pm when I called the cops.
“Uh, I have an emergency. My dad says that four black men are coming to his apartment to murder him, unless he pays them money he owes them… by 3pm. He has a psychiatric history. So I don’t know if this is real or not.”
They took down my phone number, and said they’d see what they could do.
Mom and I decided we should be there when it all went down, so we got in my car and drove to the city. I was concerned how we were late in getting away, Mom said she wasn’t because she’d rather not be caught in a crossfire.
We got into the city at 3:07pm, and we decided that since the assassination hour had already passed, we may as well pick up a bag of groceries in case Dad was still alive, and well enough to consume food.
I walked listlessly down the aisles picking out his favourite flavour of Gatorade, and some sub sandwiches. It took me ages to find the pre-made sandwiches. I knew he’d like the kind with the Italian meat.
I thought how nice it would be nice to go grocery shopping under normal circumstances. Just shopping leisurely and getting food for someone who was at home watching sports, or sick with a cold. Not picking out a sandwiches for someone who may or may not already be dead. I even considered the practicality of buying food I also enjoyed, in the event he was in fact dead – then I could have later on (these are the sorts of illogical thoughts that you never think you would have in emergency situations.)
At a particular height of anxiety during the course of this insanity (before we’d left for the city), I’d stuck a knife in the pocket of my hoody. I originally thought I would go to the city alone, and leave Mom to man the phones in case the police called back while I was on the highway. At that point I didn’t know if any of this was real or completely fictional. (If this was a mind game, Mom threatened to murder Dad herself.)
In the case this was real, the knife would be a last resort I mentally lectured myself. Moments after my decision, I threw the hoody (with the knife), in the closet and grabbed a different, older hoody. If there was to be a blood bath, I didn’t want my favourite sweater to be ruined. Of course, Mom didn’t let me drive to the city by myself anyhow… unintentionally unarmed or otherwise.
Anyway, after the grocery-pick up, we drove to Dad’s and parked in a turnaround across the street from his apartment building. Mom and I debated our next course of action. Dad lives on the bottom level, with sliding glass and screen doors. The glass portion of both doors were open, as were all the blinds. No bullet holes or blood were visible.
“Hmmm that’s unusual that he’d have the blinds open if he was expecting somebody to come kill him at 3pm.” Remarked Mom dryly.
“Maybe he’s already dead.” I think I remember saying. (I at least thought it.)
I did the only logical action that came to mind, and called Dad on my cell phone. It was 3:12pm.
“Dave here.” He said, strangely upbeat.
“So… how’s it going?” I asked casually.
Dad said his friend Chris “with the stripes if you know what I mean” had come to see him earlier. “Yeah someone phoned the police, I don’t know who. It’s nice they came to check in.” Dad went on to say the cop had agreed that the best thing to do would be to pay the black men their money. He said the cop was scared of the same criminals. The hand choppers, Islam. Then he asked if we were coming to the city, or on our way with the previously requested supplies.
“Actually, I’m right across the street.” I said mysteriously.
(I figured I may as well allow myself one Jason Bourne type line within the course of this shit, crazy day.)
Dad said it was smart to call him like that – from across the street (in case anyone was watching). He asked if I bought cigarettes, and mentioned the money again.
“Uh, well we brought some groceries.”
He seemed grateful for at least that, and was quickly seen out the door, fearlessly hobbling across the street to collect them.
“So, nobody came at 3pm?” I asked Dad when he was at the car.
“Well it could be 3pm, it could be later. You never know with these guys.”
Dad was now standing beside my passenger door, holding the groceries I’d handed out to him. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. He looked like a stranger – with his twisted stance, only occasionally looking at our faces with darting, wild eyes. Gaunt and very pale, I wondered if he weighed less than Mom or I.
“David, I called your doctor.” Mom called from the driver’s seat. (I was too upset to drive.)
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with, this has nothing to do with my doctor. I don’t mean to be rude but you can be a bit of a dumb blonde.”
He ranted on for a while longer about the underbelly of society being after him, before made a brief zealous speech about smoking cigarettes until the day he dies. Then he brought up the issue of having a lack of said merchandise.
“What kind do you want?” I asked.
“Just anything, except no menthol… and maybe King Size.” Was Dad’s strange, last supper, sort of-death row request.
(Even though 3pm had long since past).
We drove to the gas station to buy cigarettes. That’s the first time I’d purchased cigarettes. I threw my ID on the counter, nervously rattling on to the East Indian clerk about not knowing what brand to buy. “Whatever is cheapest, and uh not menthol.” She smiled at me kindly, and slid the package across the counter.
The cop called me at around 3:30pm on my cell phone (after we’d given the groceries to Dad and discussed where to buy cigarettes), saying Dad couldn’t give him any descriptions of the four black men who were allegedly threatening his life. No vehicle description, no names, zippo. The cop sounded confused (as would anybody), and mostly summarized the situation “He seemed concerned with other things. But I’ll keep an eye out on his apartment when I can.” I thanked the officer for his time, and that was the end of our conversation.
Mom and I anti-climatically headed out of the city and back towards home. We tiredly discussed how Dad probably should go into a treatment center.
I stopped in at work to get some shoes I’d forgotten on my last shift. “K” at work said hi asked me how I was feeling (I was sick last time I talked to her). I think I just gave her a weird look and shook my head. I didn’t know how to respond. I pretended like the shoes were my only problem.
Later on I had a meeting about wedding photography with a friend. Because of the day’s fiasco, I’d delayed our plans by 2 hours, but was glad I still had time to get together with her. I decided I wanted to change into different clothes. I found my favourite hoody in the closet, packed my camera into my car and drove down the highway. It wasn’t until an hour or so later (when I was with my friend and trying to forget about the afternoon), that I felt the knife in my pocket. I silently felt embarrassed, even though my friend had no idea what had happened to me that day.
— Amber
Your Words [3]
The Truth According To Women's Health Mag · May 3, 11:37 PM
I read in a women’s magazine at the gym, that our ancestors had panic attacks when encountering lions, bears or various ‘immediate’ threats in our natural environments. Now we don’t have such raw, wildlife-related dangers to ward off, but we still have panic attacks for more ambiguous reasons. Life changes, financial, relational etc.
I don’t all that information is entirely true.
I faced a bear once – in the wilderness. There was a good amount of land between us… but when it came down to it. Really… it was me, some open space, and a tiny shovel between the animal and I. I didn’t have a panic attack.
But generally, life (even without bears) does seem harder.
— Amber
Your Words [1]