Friday, October 24, 2008

10 Reasons Why my (83) Year Old Ma ROCKS

I'm visting my ma in Montreal and every time I'm here, I realize how awesome she is ...

1) I was supposed to come last week with my son - but she was still wandering SOMEWHERE in Europe- yeah, none of us knew WHERE - she was supposed to be home on the 2nd or 3rd October and NO idea where she was ... my sisters and I calling each other from country to country... her and her best friend were LOST - her best friend's kids calling from Ireland, us calling from Canada and the States - our mums RAN AWAY!! I want to run away when I am 83 too! Incidentally, they snuck off to the Canary Islands ...

2) She can (and does) drink me under the table - in fact considers me VERY boring as I really don't drink or smoke (and everything else is damn questionable these days too) - I love the fact she's beaten the odds and belts back G&Ts and Scotch and lights up a cigarette, each time assuring me is "going to quit" for sure.

3) Two days ago she forgot her key to get in the house (see No. 1- wandering Europe) - so she found a box, climbed over the fence into the backyard, then pushed the bike up to her bedroom window and climbed in her window - and she doesn't even have a twinge!

4) She spends half her time seeing her "old" ladies - bringing them groceries, bringing them First Communion etc - ALL of them are at least 5 years younger than her ...

5) She was born and bred Irish Catholic and fights with the priest all the time as she thinks women should be able to be priests and priests should be allowed to marry.

6) She talks to Mary (as in Mother of God) as if she is her best friend - and earnestly assures us that if we want somehting, don't ask God or Jesus but "talk to His mother - He can't resist anything she wants".

7) She bribes St. Francis when she loses stuff and calls him a "fecking thief" when he ups the ante ...

8) She still drives around the neighbourhood like a maniac although she is blind in one eye and is NOT a menace ..

9) She decided to grow her hair long at 75 and now it is down to her waist and BEAUTIFUL - she only has a streak of gray in sideburns and one in her bangs... with her hair down, from the back she looks 16.

10) She has been best friends with my "auntie" Carmel since Carmel was 3 and she was 4 and they were sent away to school and they STILL argue about who has the best figure ....

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Fet Life

seems to be the place to be these days.

I sorta feel like the girl on the outside LOL, the one people forgot to invite to the party (deliberately).

Which is silly as I joined originally, loved the place for about two weeks, then went into a frenzy at some of the riduculous carryings on that occurred as the membership exploded ....

And left as I tend to get caught up in arguments, get all mixed up and angry at things which then carries over into real life and gets D. pissed at me because I get all all hot and bothered.... so I quit.

So should I join or tehnically, rejoin? I keep getting snippits of stuff from blogs I follow and god, although FAR from a party girl, hate not knowing what is going on...especially as everyone I go people are talking about it.

Does that make me shallow (YES)...



Just love this poem by finbar ...

You soar the sharp
crisp Halloween air,
tied and tethered,
gliding with the lightness of the
unfettered breeze in this
sharp October.
Grasping the wind,
you slip, tugging and
pulling in space.
Your bondage is the freedom
that unravels your core,
unfettering you to
stretch and expand,
safe and held by
rope and ownership.

Embracing sky and restraints,
you drift in the curls
and ringlets of air,
threatening to tug
too hard, to snap
the shackles of gravity
and yank the taut line from
the Master’s hand.

Now the
terror of wind and
endless sky
recedes with the length
upon length of string
that holds you
moored beyond the
lure of the world,
knowing that the hand
that guides you is Master
of rope and wind and sky.

So, unburdened, fearless,
you sail the air
and conquer the blue,
in the tug and pull of
this Thanksgiving sky,
in the promise that you
are tied and bound
by a Master’s hand that
will hold you tethered
so you can fly.

Monday, October 20, 2008


I am female. With my sex, come certain irrefutable actualities, some of which I don’t like but accept as the reality of being female.

One of those is the knowledge that you are vulnerable.

That to many individuals in the world, you are prey.

I do not allow this reality to stop me or prevent me from doing things I wish to do. I do not allow my experience – and I would bet the experience of every woman out there – of past harassments, past unwelcome advances, past assaults, to impede me from doing what I feel, as a human being, I have a right to do and to do in safety and without worry.

However, I am not stupid either and precautions, necessary, regretfully taken but crucial, are simply a part of my existence.

I learned the lesson first when I was attacked at 17 by a businessman in a big fancy car when hitchhiking.

I had that lesson hammered into me on those many nights when walking alone, I was considered fair game – as if my insistence on my right to walk the streets of my city was a challenge to the predators who prowled them.

But I chose to regardless.

I have always refused and continue to refuse to allow the predators to dictate the parameters of my existence.

For many, many years, as a night worker, I would walk from my job at a big law firm down the almost deserted streets of Toronto at night to my parking– anytime between midnight and 3 a.m., keys protruding from between the fingers of a clenched fist, keeping to well-lit streets with the most traffic, keeping a hyper (but NOT paranoid) awareness of my surroundings and who was in my space. And yes, there were many times I was harassed – verbally, with rude comments, sexual innuendos and intimidation – but only a few times where these threats turned physical and those I was able to handle. For I walked – as I had learned, with confidence (no matter how assumed), with intent and with a firm, no nonsense step.

It was with great reluctance that I gave up my 4 a.m. cycling to work, wheels flashing on cool pavement, night air licking awareness into sleepy eyes, the delicious sense of moving through time and space, the glimpses into warm windows and the waking of the world around me, sunrise still an hour or more away but D’s increasing fretfulness at my vulnerability as the disenchanted prowled the still dark streets made it an increasing bone of contention between us, until, reluctantly, I acceded and cycled instead only on those days where daylight shed its light before I mounted my bike.

I remember nights even as a student in a small university town, being flashed… being accosted and propositioned … but I was lucky and with caution and determination, went where and when I chose to go.

But then as now – not without some trepidation. Not without the awareness that I was vulnerable. Not without the underlying- much despised but real – fear that this time, my bluff would be called. This time I would join the ranks of those who gambled on retaining independence and freedom and lost …

For most women, like me, this understanding of our vulnerability, this insidious acceptance of our role as prey, is reluctantly but realistically internalized.

Just last week, as I drove up to a 24 hour grocery store, hoping to pick up a few items before work, the reality of my vulnerability flared to life. At 4:30 a.m. on an October early morn, dark rules still and outside the lighted doors were a group of males, bearded, rough, smoking and without conscious volition, I turned the wheel and drove away ….not because those boys had threatened me, not because they had in any way, form or manner suggested harm to me, but because as female, you learn to hedge your bets, you learn to make careful choices …

But last night the October moon glowed palely in a crisp October sky and from the window, cracked to let the clear autumn air in, I felt the pull of the wild night and deep within the need stirred and flared to life and I needed to be out.

Leashing the dogs, I bundled into my sweater and stepped out onto the porch. The night flared around me, velvet dark and the crisp air seared my lungs into life and I breathed deep while the dogs moaned with anticipated pleasure of a walk.

I strolled down moonlit streets and relished the feel of the autumn air against my cheeks, stinging colour into pale skin, rustling the mane of hair around my face and the dogs gambolled in delight and sniffed and acted silly and made me grin. We came to the park up the street, a small neighbourhood park, ringed by beautiful oaks and towering maples and dark velvet shadows wrapped it in a Halloween delight of gloom and pooled dark rivers of mystery in the periphery of vision and turning, I entered, loosening the leashes, allowing the dogs to run and jump and stretch their canine minds and enter for a moment their ancestors world of night and prey and I realized, as I strolled in the dark of the night, in the middle of a park, I did not feel vulnerable … I did not feel prey … and as I watched my dogs as they ran and played and came back again and again to check on their alpha that what I was NOT feeling was trepidation. What I was NOT feeling was nervous. What I was NOT feeling was cautious …

For the dogs were my pack, they were there protecting me and it was only in the absence of fear that I recognized how fear can insinuate itself into the very fibres of your mind and heart without you even realizing it.

And even as I strolled the dark embrace of a deserted park, I felt both a little sad and a little thrilled … sad because the absence of fear was so intoxicating … I felt as if I could scream out my delight in NOT fearing … and sad because I knew it was only the two powerful creatures beside me now that gave me that absence, whose powerful bodies provided that sense of peace and invulnerability … and in the end, I walked the dark streets and revelled in the momentary absence of emotions which life itself imposed on me and relished the momentary escape from being female and prey …

Sunday, October 19, 2008


Marching to a different drummer.

At least if you're marching to another beat, another rhythm, another wave of sound and need and desire, at least you’re matching steps with the beat of reality, the wave of balance the universe demands. You’re at least hearing the rhythm, the ebb and flow and the tempo of life washing through the veins of an improbable need.

I always seem to be out of step.

Out of step of with the marching feet of an oblivious mass of humanity.

Out of step with even the stragglers who strain their ears and turn enraptured eyes to the roiling sky of another realm but whose bodies sway and dance to the same melody, creating their own achingly beautiful song.

Out of step even with the cadre of those with whom I’m supposed to be marching.

Disjointed, disaffected, my step is a jerking, dissonant abomination. While I strain desperately to envelop the rhythm of the stars, to reach out and pull into heart and soul the cadence of a universe which demands balance, the tempo and syntax of the dance flee and I stumble and trip and earn impatient fleeting glances of impatience at my St. Vitas flailing.

Though I struggle too hear the drumming, rhythmic demand of the universal song, my ears are shuttered and deaf and pathetic, I scrabble, always out of sync, to follow the intricate steps of a dance I never learned.

The wrong step.

The wrong word.

The wrong sense of timing.

At the end of days, arms jerking and thrashing, legs stiff, uncooperative, the cacophony of self consciousness disrupting innate melody, I stumble to a stop, sensing the pointlessness in even trying to keep up.

On the peripheral vibrating nerve endings I sense the rhythm I cannot embrace and watch as the rest of the world passes me by.

No one notices.

Because I don’t hear the drummers.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Women bashing women

what is it? Open season on other females?

I've been to three blogs in the past 24 hours where the writer basically talks about how she gets along way better with men ... and then proceeds to vomit out every stereotype about females that exist.

They're "catty", they're two-faced, they're too emotional, not emotional enough, they're not supportive, they don't just "get on with it".

Damn, what is WRONG with these women?

First, please spare me the stereotypes - women are as varied and different, as complicated and straightforward, as individual as men - pushing them all into one homogeneous mass of insecurities and emotional angst and perpetuating the myths that they are unstable, unreliable and simply too much effort to befriend drives me into a FRENZY.

to me it is simply a pathetic attempt to ingratiate themselves with the the sex with the penis - that by denigrating their own sex, they will somehow garner brownie points with men.

I see the stereotypes proliferating ... suggestions that women talk only about clothes and shoes and "emotions" - that their opinions vacillate and are based on premises suspect because somehow human being with vaginas are unable to form worthy opinions.

It makes me BOIL.

It's bad enough that women are still struggling for some sense of equality -for god's sake, the presidential race in the States is a prime example - I think Palin is a self-righteous, narrow-minded and dangerous individual - do I think she is that way because she is FEMALE - no - it is her viewpoints and as much as she pisses me off and even frightens me, it drives me crazy to see her reduced merely to big hair and a cunt. She gets called on being a bad mother - but does anyone ask McCain or Obama whether they can govern and be good fathers?

I have spent a good part of my life fighting sexism and stereotyping and it is so discouraging to see the same old crap perpetuated and proliferating despite supposed gains and new understandings.

Saying, carte blanche, that you get along with an entire SEX is patently short-sighted and ridiculous - inasmuch as you are asserting that human beings are so intrinsically limited to the characteristics bestowed by their sexual orientation that their individuality is completely dependent on their sexual organs ...

If the women you know are so limited in their understanding, so constrained by societally-imposed roles that they all can be grouped into one large stereotype ... then perhaps one needs to study WHY these are the individuals you seem to befriend .. and look at yourselves.

I personally have some amazingly wonderful female friends - friends that have provided unstinting support, shoulders to cry on, arms to hold, wonderful people to laugh with, support and create mayhem with ... and they are that way becuase they are good PEOPLE....

If you have issues with women, then you need to look at the women you hang with ... and realize that like men, women are INDIVIDUALS, and as such, not to be shoved into little boxes where one size fits all ...

just like men.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Spirituality and Sexuality - Part the Third

Clutching purse, recyclable bag and keys in hand, I stumble down the steps to the car, feeling sluggish and clumsy, bound to the earth with manacles of need and demand. The night catches me suddenly as I raise my eyes to the deep navy of the early morning sky. I let my head fall back, hair tumbling down in copper curls to the small of my back and drink in the vast night sky, stars twinkling and breathing hot interstellar breath in the pause between time. My eyes widen and drink in the vastness of a universe which wheels by with no thought or plan but simply is.

Sometimes when you stand in the vastness of the night sky with the cosmos wheeling about you and the dying light of stars spilling silver into eyes blinded by ritual and monotony, for a moment your soul opens and reaches into the collective gasp of life and drinks deep, quenching the need you had forgotten was there.

I have been living an inner world for some time now, entrenched, hidden, buttressed against the buffeting of want and need and demand. I crouch, pulled tight against the cacophony of life and watch with wary eyes the ebb and flow of damaged psyches.

My musings on spirituality and sexuality have in many ways provided some fodder for thought these past several months as I have retrenched and reassessed a number of rather damaged segments of a psyche which has been buffeted and damaged (and in some cases, destroyed) by the inevitable erosion of trust and its subsequent effect on desire.

To get back to the original question which provoked this drivel, What (if any) is the higher purpose of my specific set of sexual desires at this point in my life?, I would first have to clarify that in some cases, ‘sexual desires’ could mean “lack thereof’ – or to be more accurate, a deliberate withholding and suppression of same. I have only recently come to the conclusion that a deliberate suppression of sexual desire can provide a rich opportunity to concentrate on other aspects of the mind/body experience, as an intense sexual drive can often confuse and complicate the emotional equilibrium, and obfuscate the true nature of other needs and wants.

One of the positive aspects I have surprisingly and unexpectedly discovered is that control can mean strength, it can metamorphose from a negativity (i.e. suppression in reaction to an untenable situation) to positivity (suppression as a conscious choice, a position of inner fortitude).

I cannot discuss sexual desire without some discussion of my relationship – not intimate details because I can only speak from my own perspective and feel passionately that no one has the right to reveal or betray another’s confidences – but so inevitably is the history of my sexual desire entwined with his, I cannot untangle the skeins of need, want, desire and love, without SOME glimpse into the intricacy of a 35 year relationship.

I keep returning to Elizavetta’s and find in her erudite words more insight each time. What resonated today as I mused on her words, was her comment “And the whole idea of men and their life-long life-giving sperm actually being valuable and desired in the process of a woman’s re-creation! Wow, this is certainly not a very currently hot topic. And how amazingly validating for men!” … made me think.

As amusing as it sounds, sperm- his in particular – has been a thread of validity in my life – a defining, conscious, physical manifestation of need and want and desire. As I travel into the past, I remember those passionate discussions with girlfriends about swallowing or not swallowing …. amusing now in hindsight but a huge issue for discussion at 16 – and I was in almost every way a virgin – in body, in mind, in experience and in terms of anticipation.

I remember those early days and the feel and taste of him, the throbbing need of him in my mouth, stretched wide, hair tumbling around his groin, the sound of his breath, harsh and fast and the thrilling, frightening skittering of my mind, removed at this point from the wet need of my own body, caught in the knowledge of the now and it was going to happen and wanting it… calming as my inexperienced lips salved and suckled and wanted and needed and then the hot jetting reality of his libation as my throat convulsively swallowed and I remember the hot thrilling rightness of it, the salty tang, not horrible as imagined and anticipated, not terrible as dreaded and agonized over, but sweet, hot, delicious as it overflowed and dribbled down the corners of my lips and the absolute joy I felt as the hot throbbing muscle emptied his want into my grateful throat ….

And until the past several months that worship at his groin has been a defining fulcrum of our lives together – a way that we reaffirmed our spiritual connection, a path to intimacy even when the fractured reality of our complicated relationship seemed tenuous and fragile.

Truly, it was as Elizavetta said Of course, a woman, at any stage in her life is responsible for her own actions and choices to make her life into what she wants it to be, as in every person. But this idea that two people are actually co-creators of each other as they age is just so beautiful to me!

Because truly he and I are “co-creators” of each other. More than that, in some ways it is as if the years of ingestion of the essence of his need has somehow created in my very skin the reality of his want, as if, like Cronus, our union has yielded newborns, yet to avoid the consequences of those newborns’ own will and desires challenging our own, we have swallowed them whole, not to kill but preserved alive in the warmth of our bellies… out of sight and mind but very much there.

And now, our newborns have escaped and over the past several years have conspired to exert their revenge against our refusal to face the reality of their individual freedoms and thoughts.

more to come