A Load of Selfish and Honest Bollocks

 I sometimes find myself wishing (forgive me)
that I could be really, truly ill, for just a little while.
Sometimes, sickness of the body can be a blessing,
designed to take us out of our own actions for a little while,
as a child given a nap.
A good old fashioned bout of fever or flu
or even a really awful, lingering, bronchial sort of thing 
before the reign of penicillan, tylenol, and thwarting fate.

A few weeks spent pale and half unconscious
to let the soup come to boil properly
when it's been lukewarm too long.
It not only bolsters a healthy sense of humility-
not necessarily to any deities, though that is acceptable,
but even the simple wary respect that we are creatures
susceptible to weakness, pain, and possibly death
outside of our own whim.

 It also allows reason for wallowing in self awareness
and ranking emotional priorities.
To be able to gauge exactly how, (or how not),
ones heartstring plucks has its blessings and curses.
Keen appreciation lies with shrewd calculation,
and true gratitude next to casual granted.

I wish this because I want an excuse
 to lapse into nothing more
 than thought and feeling for a little while,
 taking the respite from engagement
 and offering the payment of time and comfort.

Between medicine and artificial neural stimulation,
I wouldn't be ill more than a few days
unless I had something truly heinous,
which would be unwelcome,
but do the job with a heavier hand than I'm hoping for.



The above happened in Africa. I was in the midst of full blown mental dehydration, scraped thin to the nerve and barely holding together but for adrenaline and skype calls, and for the first time in several years I suddenly came down with Strep Throat- in the middle of summer, at that.

I was down for the count for nearly five days, doing nothing but sleep, eat, drink tea, read, and think. I couldn't do anything else. I was too weak, my throat hurt, and I was exhausted to the root. It was just the thing for jet lag, emotional fragility, and mental filing. While I ranted at the Gods, mentally, I was a little bit grateful, too. I had every excuse in the world, perfectly and completely and even publicly justified, to do nothing but recuperate, and it was as much for my mind and soul as my body, which, fittingly enough, embodied the necessary healing.

I feel I am still mentally recuperating, but I feel as though I don't have a "reason". Emotionally speaking, I have many, many reasons. My past summer, and their attendant changes, are at least equivalent to a mental bout of cholera, or at least an emotional broken leg. While at the time I know I enjoyed the cushion of new experience and distraction, I'm still recuperating. I will have days of blissful honeymooning, followed by a week of apathy, guilt, and wanting nothing more than to lay my head down, or hide it in some past favorite book or game or movie, and then feeling further shame for not bearing it more gracefully.

 Depression isn't always mental cancer. It may be a mental cold, or even a mental hangover. Is my depression of the body, with chemicals out of whack? Or is it perhaps depression of the heart, an emotional ailment which will heal with time and comfort? Depression of the nerves, to due with changes and adjustments, and added financial squeezing? Or is is a darker depression of the soul or character, which will never be put right? I want to find out, and I know there are some things I'm nervous of. Enough to wish for that bout of illness that may put my head on straight, and remind me of what I am, all with allowing me some length of reflection and a good, solid reason to lie in bed and feel what I need to feel.

Recipe for a Bath

One Tub
Hot Water
Two enthusiastic squeezes of some wholly unnecessary and scented foaming soap
One gentler semi-squeeze of jojoba or similar luxurious skin and hair oil
One casually tossed fizzing bath bomb
One well-thumbed paperback of questionable taste
Minimum one glass wine and/or similar intoxicant which can be rationalized as healthful      indulgence
Minimum one hour of time better spent elsewhere, but not.



There is no point in presuming that, in this age of showers, a bath can be made any way efficient or sensible. It can't, and it oughtn't be. It is one hundred percent pure luxury, and has no pretensions otherwise. I advocate a full all or nothing approach. Bubbles, oils, scents, music, candles, whatever your preferred items of a pampering nature are, bring them out and assemble them whimsically, close to hand. I recommend a robe of some sort- terry for the cozies, and silk or similar for pure decadence.

Whilst in robe, prepare bath, intoxicant, and enjoy the pleasantness of your own reflection in the bathroom mirror as you bring your hair up in a Helen-esque twist held back with a fetching band. You will be softly lit and lovely, anticipating warmth.

When the bath is prepared, assemble any necessities for the bathing process. Loofah or cloth, pumice stone, razors, et al ought to be ready to use and assembled in order of preferred progression. Any ghastly black-lagoon face cream may be applied now, so that any intrigued lovers who contrive to catch you unawares will see a mysterious, painted creature; flushed to the bosom but made decent by a fig-leaf like blanket of wafting bubbles. Luxurious bathing is now a thing of mystique and quaint history, and this a wonderful thing. Don't make it commonplace.

Do what needs be done in the bath- that is to say, bathe, and while doing so reflect upon your person and place in life. For much of human history, baths have been deeply connected with ritual, and the act of cleansing. This is a spiritual act made tangible. Your very soul is warmed and scented, and your rational self should likewise be up to snuff in an attitude of ponderous thought and self-improvement.

When you have finished the necessaries, use your remaining time before lukewarmness sets in to skip to the dog-earred passages of your well-thumbed paperback, finish any remaining intoxicant, and, once finished, to float your hair under the water, feeling it stream around, mermaid like. This last bit isn't necessary, but it is delightful, and I highly endorse it as a means to inexplicable self satisfaction.

A minute long quick rinse should follow, followed by a thorough patting down with a soft towel. The robe may now be reapplied, and the moisturizing of the face may follow at your leisure.

With the ability to do so many things at once all the time, activities that are are time consuming and independent have fallen largely out of public favour. Taking time purely for oneself is indulgent, unnecessary, and splendid. Not only the physical pleasure of the act, but the time and space for uninterrupted thought and feeling, to soothe what is constantly overstimulated by continuous mental intake.

Take one hour, and enjoy it.

Any of the main ingredients can be substituted. Yes, even the bath. It might be a chair, with tea, a journal, and slippers. It might be a mirror, with clothes and music and lights and a closed door. It may be a garage, with a car leaking suspicious fluid, waiting to be stripped down and made up again, possibly with no change in the suspicious fluid.

 Just one hour, to be alone, and not watching anything, or talking to anyone, or focusing on a thousand different processes. Just for your body, mind, and soul.

Other Halves

I argue with myself

Like a quarrel with a spouse.

Sometimes bickers and snarks,

And other times it seems reconciliation is so implausible

As to prevent my sanity altogether.

I want to live with myself comfortably,

Companionably.

To be bored or tired with myself

Is heavy with shame.

I am pressing out

The cracks and bubbles

In myself,

The ropes and fabrics

That patchily hold me and grow into a new mold.

But I want some wild,

Some harlequin rag and bone shop of my heart

To be there still, expressed, known to me.

Is that pride?

Wanting every aspect of ourselves known, or shown?

Reconciliation of what I am, and what I may be,

And how to use myself in this world I’m in.

I want my root to feed my crown,

And feeling unfit to wear myself is a bitter, sickening

Tripey sort of sauce to put on life.

To refine and express the best of ourselves

Is a dance with steps

Which shy me further.

Are they known, or learnt?

I believe in both, and don’t know

How to make them sisters.

Confidence

I feel a little bigger than myself tonight.

Not so curled up, eternal, internal,

Wanting everyone else to come and warm me

Rather than stepping forward to touch them.

I want to know a place

(mine, preferably)

What is it to myself, and others?

All I have ever been is what I am.

I feel like an apprentice without any masters.

I want to meet them.

Do I find them, create them, or

-damn it-

Be Patient.

To find and express my own truths

Is nervous making.

Do I become jaded, unhappy, unpleasant, and worst-

Dull.

To be uncurious and complacent and simple

With a mask of pleasantries and shallow thrill

Is the emotional equivalent  of working at McDonalds.

The Scarlet Sleeve: Coffee, Shame, and Singledom

I am in Vancouver for a long weekend!

Of course, my sister Hayley ferried over to spend a few days. We did the usual activities- Namely, ate our weight in sushi, drank our weight in sake, beer, and bubbly, and weaved our way down the waterfront and pilfered like thieving sots from every bar we went to. Hayley accumulated a nearly full set of Hoegaarden glasses, while my purse was filled to bursting with assorted  pub-specific cardboard coasters, to be later tiled and epoxied in a creative burst of utilitarian domesticity.

Aside from exploits in sashimi and binge petty larceny, we did a perfectly tourist acceptable side-adventure to the Aquarium (Corey had never seen Belugas!) and saw the heart-burstingly adorable sight of an adult sea otter napping with a wee blanket on his back in the water.

Post-drinking day was comprised of sleeping and powerade to soothe the cranial purgatory I'd landed myself in. Corey likened the experience of towing me back to the hotel as 'herding a drunken cat', and apparently I caused all sorts of ruckus on the sky train, giving him a persistent if unpersuasive litany of woe regarding my desire to remove my boots. He forbade my doing so.

Hayley arrived for dinner, which was pizza and pop and movies ("Like we're 12!") and more recovery. She spent the night, and as Corey was required to be at work today, she and I trotted off to a late brunch at the The White Spot followed by Blendz, which brings us to the current heading which so caught your attention.

Blendz now offers the "Blendz Red Band" where, having acquired your drink, you can select this bright red cup sleeve instead of the usual nondescript Blendz sleeve, thusly signalling to the world at large your availability for romantic flirtation and possibly marriage and babies to fellow Blendz aficionados. The "Blendz Red Band" poster warns you that intense flirtation and attraction may occur. It turns out, upon investigating the website, that this is an annual pre-valentines campaign which aims to give single people the chance to meet and flirt over coffee. Discretion is advised. Yes, a scarlet coffee sleeve to announce your perceived inability to find a partner certainly is discreet. Not to say people are unable to find partners- but that's the kind of vibe the advertisement gave. The bright red band was a bit reminiscent of the bright red 'A'. A few hundred years ago, being an adulterer was reprehensible. Now, being without a significant other is.

Hayley and I discussed our mutual annoyance at the continually pervasive insistence that people who are single must naturally be desperate to meet someone, and can't possibly be happy and fulfilled with themselves, and are therefore eager to put on a red coffee sleeve inviting the attention of others. Being a fan of Blendz, I don't necessarily think that's the impression they want to give people, and the idea on the whole is, like most hook-up platforms, a well intentioned bit of fun. But it does buy in to the everyone-needs-a-partner mentality that is so completely stirred up in our pop culture, and a good deal of the negative associations and made-and-broken relationships that supposedly litter everyone's lives might be a bit lessened if we maybe spent all the time we spend assuming we need someone to putting out the idea that, you know what? You're kind of ok alone, and if you meet someone, awesome! But if you're happy and not too fussed about coupling then that's cool too.

Disclaimer: Of course, Blendz is not insisting single people use a red sleeve- its a cheesy advertisement, and I can't imagine a lot of people would anyway, yet... it's the buying into the culture that says "Oh, single? Here! Let's fix that right away, because you must be dying inside, amirite?" that sticks.

Either way, if you are single and happy, swell! Please, please, continue to ignore the nigh-on continual propaganda against singleness, and be a living demonstration to the contrary.

If you are single and don't wish to be? Also swell. Go about your business or onto a dating site and see if you'd like to participate. You can go to Blendz and snag a red coffee sleeve on the way- perhaps the warnings will prove correct, and a cute red-banded coffee-swiller (a mating strategy a la Baboon, colour-wise) will mark you as their future.