Musings on Life: He was a multiple Oscar winner; I was a dog walker...

To tell you the truth, he was one of my favourite celebrities. But I was still emotionally distraught, having attempted suicide on a bridge not a day before. I just stared at him. What was he doing here?

 I know about Hollywood North and that a lot of actors come here to become low on the radar. But in a psyche ward? I had dated an actor who knew his older brother. My ex had told me that he had suffered from bipolar and had multiple run-ins with publicity, photographers, and being famous in general. He didn't medicate his bipolar, like I did. I was told that it added an extra edge to his acting and the characters he was sinking into.

 Truth be told, he was one of the greatest actors Hollywood had ever seen. I had a lot of respect for him, but I could not understand how we were in this together. It still mystifies me. He didn't talk much; he watched tv day and night. I took in visitors and they held me up while I had nothing to give. I was extremely fragile.

 For months I had been bipolar high and living without taking some of my pills. I had bouts of non stop talking, sleepless nights and I thought everything was a sign for me to notice and add huge spiritual meaning to.  I had also obsessed about several celebrities.

 He's Irish in origin. I recognized one of the patients that I had met before. I struck up a conversation. I remembered that he had met Bono at an Oscar party for the Irish. The actor's ears perked up and he listened intently though he did not say a word. I bet he had been at that party...

 I put one of the actor's movies on the table, to see if he would react. The next day it was gone. The movie had been missing anyways, but his picture was on the other side.  He also had the old tattoo on his arm. It was him, guaranteed. I talked about a poet friend of his, Charles Bukowski, to my friends. The actor had been close friends with him and went to his funeral. I saw his reaction at the mention of Bukowski's name. I didn't need any more proof. But I kept his bluff. Everyone needs their privacy in a place like that.

 As the week went on I improved with daily visits from family and friends. I was very lucky. When I was leaving the ward for another one, I talked to him a bit, finally. I told him who I thought he was and he just bluffed. He was actually using a voice from one of his shows he had done. A little higher than usual. I didn't care. I knew in my heart of hearts it was him.

In hindsight, I have the hugest respect for you, though I may not have appreciated your bluff at the time. I was suffering from the dishonesty in my life and I wanted someone to tell me the truth...What I found out was, the people I had idolized for years were vulnerable, like me. And my family and friends filled that hospital room with comforting words. They were the real rock stars.

The actor is now doing selfless work in Haiti for those who are homeless and living in refugee camps. This guy is pretty, damn, special. And I thank you, Sean...

I've met Prince Harry, or was it 'Rory'?

I've got a lot of questions. For many years I just accepted life as, well, just life. But these last 10 years have been the most fascinating, to date. Confusing, exciting, overwhelming, but fascinating.

Like a lot of people, I wanted to be famous and known for being cool. Or something like that. Maybe it's insecurity, maybe it's a need to be loved, I'm not sure. I've never really gone along with the crowd. You wear black, I'll wear white. You listen to rock, I'll put on my country. You listen to country, I'll put on my rock. Just don't ask me to fit in. If I do, it's by fluke. I'm not sure if I've ever fit in anywhere. Probably a case of Groucho Marx, I would never belong to a club that would let me in. Deep down, I don't think I deserve to be....I think that is what it comes down to. You can go into my psyche and look at the representation of death, loss, self esteem or not enough lollipops or whatever. But I"ve never really felt worthy. To this day, I'm not sure if it's saved me or kept me away from life's good side... A lot of good has come my way, that I seem to banish from my life.

After my fiance and I broke up, I moved into a place with my best friend, Diane. And I thought, well, time to build my life again. A very curious thing happened...I began to write poetry after years and I decided on a whim to show up at an open mike. It was about April/May 2004. T. Paul Saint Marie was the host at Cafe Montmart, Vancouver each Sunday and he welcomed me into Thundering Word Heard. That first time was like a high I had never experienced before. Hours later, my heart was still pounding as I went over the night again and again in my head. And I was hooked.

I believe on my second visit, I did a poem I had written years ago about Princess Diana, after she had died. I couldn't tell you why. Perhaps because I had lost my own mother at a young age, or because I saw her headlines in the store I worked at every day. I never read about her, but she was on every cover each week, looking stunning and graceful. A real princess, indeed. So, when she died, I felt compelled to write a poem about her and walk down to the embassy and add it to the stack of flowers and notes there. That was it. I didn't even watch the funeral. I hate funerals. I didn't want to support the media frenzy that had contributed to her death.

So, I decided to look at my past poems and do this one about Diana. I kind of talked to her on stage as though she was there-- mumbled something and looked up. That's kind of all I remember, and thought nothing of it.

Not too long afterwards, I was in a bike accident with a car. I had been feeling more adventurous lately, and had just bought a book about biking in the Fraser Valley. The accident stopped that as I grew to fear biking like never before. I felt that I was targeted for reason's explained in my last blog. The driver made me feel uncomfortable. But he begged me not to go to ICBC. I relented and said, to just re-imburse me the cash. I spent a day or two in a lot of pain, but it wasn't too bad.

I decided to turn this wrong into a right. I would plant a garden with most of the money he had given me. And so I did. I called up a guy in the neighborhood who I had talked to while dog walking. He had his own landscaping business and I thought it would be neat to give him some work and make my lovely garden. He agreed and I gave him free reign. But a funny thing occurred the day of the garden work.

I woke up to a commotion in the back yard. Suddenly, my landlords were there all happy and flustered, at about 8am. The yard seemed to be full of a few people. I was tired and went back to bed, not sure what all the fuss was about. I got up later and checked the computer as I always did when I got up. For some reason, I saw a story about Prince Harry being in Africa on some sort of work/sabbatical. I believe he was then establishing Forget=me=not, his charity for orphaned children in Lesotho.

I looked closely at the picture, and thought of the poem that I had just done about his mother. I didn't think much more of it. I noticed the guy working in my garden, all by himself, kind of pushing dirt around. I think I changed, and then came out to talk to him. But...this guy looked exactly like, the picture I'd just seen on the computer, that being, the one and only, Prince Harry! What??????

I was depressed, groggy, and insecure. And here was this cute guy, spitting image of the Prince of England in my garden, wanting to talk to me. What???? I think I stammered a few words, Would you like a drink? Would you like some lunch? He seemed to be just as awkward as I was. It probably didn't help matters, I was wearing my PEACE THE FUCK OUT shirt from Travis, the band I had watched and met the lead singer of. I thought, 'well, whoever you are, I will be back later and then we can really chat. I've got to walk dogs now.' And that was it. I left the house and there seemed to be a lot of traffic. And the day carried on as normal, though some strangers asked me what my shirt said.

When I came home, he was gone. I was surprised as the garden still needed to be planted and stuff. I never saw him afterwards, but I was questioned about him by a client who knew the landscape owner. It was all pretty strange. I didn't tell her my thoughts or anything. I would just sound crazy. Afterwards, I kept seeing pics of the Princes of England and tried to ignore it, feeling a little weird feeling each time. It has always perplexed me...

Last year, on a camping trip, a friend revealed to me that the Prince's of England knew who I was and that they cared....I thought, holly crap, so that was him? I am humbled and a little perplexed. I don't get it. I"ve never really gotten it. But on a bad day, when I am feeling not so hot, sometimes, I think of 'Rory', and I get a thoughtful feeling. Was that him, and if so, why? And if so, holy crap, if only I had my shit together back then, and been a little friendlier.

You be the judge. Everyone else seems to know more about my life than I do...but that is another blog...Sweet dreams...

I thought I could take on crime and win. I was wrong.

I'm having one of those nights tonight. I just went on Youtube and listened to old 90's rock at full blast. The kind you wear black clothes, Dr. Martens and red lips to. Supernaut, Black Hole Sun, Been Caught Stealing, Pixies, Lou Reed, etc. It felt good to listen to Rage Against the Machine and feel the defiance in Zach's voice. The big 'Fuck You, man'. I feel that and I've never out grown it, like most adults have. Perhaps a lack of maturity and responsibility on my part. I don't deny it; I'm well aware of my faults. Clarity is a double edged sword. So is hindsight.

About a month ago, I was in dire straights again. It was painful, scary and humbling. Explaining to the boyfriend the years of harassement from running for mayor. I threatened the drug dealers in my neighborhood, watched the grow-ops, vowed to try and save every vulnerable person in the city, namely the homeless getting beat up by cops, save kids from abusive situations, etc. I showed up at strip joints and took notes, talked to the sketchiest people out there, I was a moron. I thought I could save the city. I helped start a block watch in our block. Watched cars and drop offs, tried to stop the robberies in the hood, whatever I could to try and stop crime. I was hell bent on it. There had to be some way to save at least one more child from getting hurt out there. And in my eyes, it started and ended with crime. Get to the source and only then will you save the young ones from getting hurt. I had heard enough and done enough around the city to make a prostitute blush.

Over the years, I'd had sex with a big drug dealer's son, went to another drug dealer's wedding, called up Hell's Angel's clubs, whatever I could think of to get under their skin. I noticed traffic patterns, and started to see cycles repeated each day. And the stories people told me were straight out of a hollywood novel. I even wrote to a guy down in Mexico to try and connect him with someone up here that I thought I could sting him with. Fucking crazy woman I am, in so many ways.

I was drawn to it in the end. It consumed me day and night. Every person was a potential criminal waiting to hurt the city. I began to get followed. People passed by me, threatening me to watch out and not get hurt now. But I did not relent. I figured my life wasn't worth living anyways, being bipolar, I would sacrifice myself. It was kind of crazy. I dog walked in the neighborhood and couldn't help myself from scanning everyone and everything.

Then, of course I ran for Mayor of Vancouver. I wanted to save the homeless and legalize pot. Take the power away from the drug dealers. Treat it like cigarettes. Smoked in certain areas, taxed, etc. Pot is currency in this provice. It is used to buy guns, girls, coke, and just about everything you can imagine or not want to imagine. So when you say, pot is harmless, I say, perhaps, but the way it is used now, it is a very, very dangerous tool and fuels all levels of crime in this province.

Somehow, I got a whole lot of attention on a scale that I wasn't expecting. I also became manic high and crashed, hard. I still remember a cop who shall remain nameless, snickering at my bedside while I was in my skivies in the hospital. It's hard. I still see him around the hood sneering at me, sometimes. It's creepy.

But to be honest, it has never really ended for me. For ten years, I have been harrassed in so many ways that I have lost count; crank called, bike vandalized for years wherever I parked it, even hit by a car by a guy I was not comfortable with. The police didn't believe his story. I no longer want to be miss police woman, but that is what I am tagged with. I've had people tell me they were paid to follow me, I have come home to my door unlocked more times than I can remember. And I've got three locks. I've had people try my door when I am even home; someone break in through the roommate's window in the middle of the night and leave the door open at 1am. I"ve had people walk by me and tell me I deserve it all. I've been called every name in the book by perfect strangers. In stores, on a bus, in the street. Everywhere. And when people say that crime is organized, I say yes, it is very, very organized. And I no longer concieve of stopping any of it. It is big, large and everywhere. From the very bottom of society, to the very richest living in the top of the Hyatt watching the ships come into the harbour with their drug supplies and human trafficking. It is so very organized. And we don't have a chance.

So what is my point? Choose your battles very wisely. Ask yourself if you have the reserve to ever win, or to ever feel completely safe again. If I could do it over again, I would not have run for mayor. I would not have made ripples. I would not have the fame. I would not have the people know who I am wherever I go. Because some days, it turns me into a basket case. And I just don't know how to cope sometimes. Or who to trust. Tonight is one of those nights. I blast the music and reflect on the mess I have created, raging in my room, in the corners of my own mind. And hope for a better day tomorrow.

Anyways, just a little food for thought.

Poetry to consider - What nature does for me...

It's that moment where words fail
Because all you are doing is feeling, receiving
Being the trees, the sun, the wind
Listening, as leaves rustle, sweeping the ground
Blue sky glorifies like the swipe of an artist's brush
And each second seems like a lesson in tranquility

There's a rapture to it
An ecstacy that words do not do justice to
Only the experience is genuine
I capture glimpses of this Nirvana
From time to time
The bonds that align all senses together
How one word, one thought, really does have
An energetic impact on the planet

And I read sometimes
That all is as it should be
And all will be revealed
During heightened states of awareness
And still I search
Always coming back to nature
There is no forced state of thinking in a tree
It just is

He was a multiple Oscar winner; I was a dog walker

To tell you the truth, he was one of my favorite celebrities. But I was still emotionally distraught, having attempted suicide on a bridge not a day before. I just stared at him. What was he doing here?

 I know about Hollywood North and that a lot of actors come here to become low on the radar. But in a psych ward? I had dated an actor who knew his older brother. My ex had told me that he had suffered from bipolar and had multiple run-ins with publicity, photographers and being famous in general. He didn't medicate his bipolar, like I did. I was told that it added an extra edge to his acting and the characters he was sinking into.

 Truth be told, he was won of the greatest actors Hollywood had ever seen. I had a lot of respect for him, but I could not understand how we were in this together. It still mystifies me. He didn't talk much; he watched tv day and night. I took in visitors and they held me up while I had nothing to give. I was extremely fragile.

 For months I had been bipolar high and living without taking some of my pills. I had bouts of non stop talking, sleepless nights and I thought everything was a sign for me to notice and add huge spiritual meaning to.  I had also obsessed about several celebrities.

 He's Irish in origin. With one of the patients I recognized from meeting at my mental health team, I struck up a conversation. I remembered that he had met Bono at an Oscar party for the Irish. The actor's ears perked up and he listened intently though he did not say a word. I bet he had been there...

 I put one of his movie's on the table, to see if he would give a reaction. The next day it was gone. The movie had been missing anyways, but his picture was on the other side. It was him. Unless he had an identical twin. He also had the old tattoo on his arm. It was him, guaranteed. I talked about a poet friend of his, Charles Bukowski, to my friends. The actor had been friends with him and even went to his funeral. I saw his reaction at the mention of his name. I didn't need anymore proof. But I kept his bluff. Everyone needs their privacy in a place like that.

 As the week went on I improved with daily visits from family and friends. I was very lucky. When I was leaving the ward for another one, I talked to him a bit, finally. I told him who I thought he was and he just bluffed. He was actually using a voice from one of his shows he had done. A little higher than usual. I didn't care. I knew in my heart of hearts it was him.

In hindsight, I have the hugest respect for you, though I may not have appreciated your bluff at the time. I was suffering from the dishonesty in my life and I wanted someone to tell me the truth...What I found out was, the people I had idolized for years were vulnerable, like me. And my family and friends filled that hospital room with comforting words. They were the real rock stars.

The actor is now doing selfless work in Haiti for those who are homeless and living in refugee camps. This guy is pretty, damn, special. And I thank you, Sean...

The devil's face and other hauntings....Not for the faint of heart

I will make a confession right here and now. I'm schizo-affective bipolar. I know, I already wrote that on my dashboard. But really, I am. You see, for most of my life I have denied this. Bipolar, yes, the other, no way. That's other people. Not me. I'm just depressed once in a while.

But I have to confess, it really has haunted me all my life. Those of you from Campbell River probably remember the 'devil woman' tag I had. I saw an image on the wall of a pencilled in devil face, on a band trip in Kamloops. The truth is, I hadn't eaten in two days. I was also manic. I didn't know what was happening. I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. It was pretty wierd.

I arrived home to find the whole town making a mockery of me and my family. It was pretty horrible. Pretty fucking horrible, actually. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I just knew that I was different from everyone else and I wanted to die quite frequently. I would become really high and unfathomably low. It was a brutal way to live.

The next year I felt side-swiped. I was failing a class, my best friend moved away, I found out my older brother was gay, my dad was an alcoholic and somehow I was supposed to fix it. (These are not judgements. I loved them both dearly but felt unrelenting stress from the circumstances) I also was re-living some sexual abuse in my mind. You just didn't talk about this stuff back then. Oprah had just begun and Donahue was something that occured to 'those people on tv'. This was shocking news for a 15 year old in a small town. Plus, I was devil woman! My moods continued to slide dangerously low. I was losing touch. I thought the whole school was talking about me. It was terrifying. I came across the word paranoid in the dictionary, and realized I was. Then I became paranoid someone had seen me looking up paranoid...funny that.

(I still remember) it was a gorgeous sunny blue day out, with maple leaves blowing in the wind and I skipped school. It was the day. I was going to finally do it.

I grabbed a knife from the butcher's block and made my way to the upstairs bathroom. I began to slice open my own flesh. I just didn't have the guts to press too hard, so instead I got the razor blade out of the sewing room. And I began.

The flesh gave way, and I went deeper. At one point I used nail clippers, if you can imagine. That is what probably hurt the most...I was so distraught I barely felt the rest of it. I started getting pretty dizzy...my vision was going from the stress of it...I knew I would pass out soon, but where was the blood? There was nothing to be seen...when I finally found a tendon that could truly screw up my hand I decided not to go all the way through.

Standing up, I realized I couldn't go through with it. I kept my eyes wide open, so as not to pass out. Now what....how to reverse the irreversable...

There is no going back. Some decisions are final. To this day, I wear these scars on my wrist, so blaringly obvious to me. Constant reminders of my vulnerability. For most of my life, I would rather show any stranger my naked body than show you my upturned wrists. That utter fragility that still haunts me.

The other night I was outside, enjoying the setting sun, listening to the kids play in the alley and absorbing my little garden. And I looked...as I have looked so many times before. And I just thought, 'why, why must you always walk with me, for the rest of my life? I was only 15...'

Only this time, an answer came to me...To remind others that we all have our breaking point. To show deep seated compassion for others even if they are a little grouchy. To be just a little more patient with the cashier, even if she is slow. That if I have to be that wierd chick that is made an example of what not to do, so be it.

So, if you have been considering such overwhelming thoughts, do yourself a favor and talk to someone who will really listen to you. Really listen. And if nobody will listen, call a crisis line. Or go to the hospital emergency room. Or talk to me. I'll always listen to you. I know. I've been there.

Poets! Are you out there? I wanna hear you roar....

One night of vancouverpoetryslam is more inspiring than a year's worth of what a television might offer. Granted, I watch 30 Rock and The Office on thursdays when it's in season, because it makes me howl. Everything in moderation, right?

Like diet coke. I have a wierd diet coke hangover right now. I had two today and my head feels like crap. When will they put warnings on stuff with aspertame? The same ingredients are also in embalming fluid, (that is right, for dead people), and it was banned by the government for years and years though they had it around way back when. Somehow, the powers that be finally got it passed. A fellow poet, Leviathan, did a fantastic piece where he researched all the evils of aspertame. And yet, no warnings. And yet, I still drink it once in a while.

But I digress....I had such a good time at the slam tonight. There is talent in them there woods. If you are not familiar with it, poets write pieces and perform them on stage in 3 minutes. Anything is possible, though many have a bit of a rythym. You can find this all over North America and Europe. It's good stuff and some of the best in North America have come from The Vancouver Poetry Slam. It's a very supportive stage and there are many open mikes around town that will also support you. Check out Pandora's Collective, or Vancouver Poetry House, etc. to find listings of all the cool events in Vancouver. There is Story Slam, Spillious Speak and sing, Word Whips, Take 5 Cafe, Thundering Word, and lots of others that will send your mind to another land as you listen or take part in what they have to offer.

So, off I go to write my own...I"m writing a poem a day for a year and will see where it goes. I imagine once I sift through it all, I will find some gems. I'm also reading poetry each night. If you have any suggestions, I"m all ears. Or if you have a chap book, I will see what my budget looks like. Even, if it's just a copy of your two favorite poems for a couple dollars, I would love it.

Inspire me...you always do...stick your neck out and get vulnerable, you amazing poets...