The Cheese Stands Alone

Some people consider me a cynic. Some consider me a pessimist. Is there even a difference? Certainly people close to me laugh at the idea of me ever getting married or otherwise "settling down" into any sort of long-term cohabitation. My sister laughs the hardest of them all, probably because she's witnessed me go through four (or is it five, or maybe only three - I really can't keep track) "engagements". But let's not get tangled up in a mess here. Marriage and love are two different things. Yes, sometimes they coexist, but one is not guaranteed with the other. It's not some kind of two-for-one deal.

Anyhow, people think I'm "cynical" about love. On the contrary, I've always considered myself realistic about the matter. I'm not denying the existence of love, nor am I denouncing it. In fact, love is amazing. And at the risk of sounding like a tree-hugging hippie, I would even go so far as to say that love makes the world go round (believe it or not, science actually doesn't have a better answer).

What leaves a bad taste in my mouth is the idea of falling in love. I mean, the very idea of "falling" should stop any sane person in their tracks. I liken it to the feeling of "falling" for the craving to light up a cigarette (which thankfully I gave up a few years back) or "falling" for the excitement of buying something you know you can't afford. Yes, there is a certain pleasure - a release - in surrendering to your "feelings" (I'll apologize now for my overuse of quotation marks. I can see it's going to be impossible to write about this subject without using them... profusely). But at the end of that fall is a hard floor (if you're lucky). Sometimes it doesn't end there. Sometimes you fall into a dark and sticky abyss coated in black tar, with very little hope of ever crawling out, and certainly no hope of crawling out clean.

I remember being sixteen, riding in a car with a friend, when we stopped at a crosswalk. A couple holding hands crossed the street, and I remember looking at them, baffled, like an alien visiting earth for the first time and wondering what this "hand-holding ritual" was all about (or "aboot" if you're a fellow Canadian). Immediately, it came to me: this was a symbol of possession. A sign to the rest of the world that this being belonged to that being (hmm... sounds eerily like slavery). Of course, very few people agreed with me. It seemed pretty much everyone I came into contact with had fallen for the idea of love presented in poetry, literature and, most notoriously, the silver screen (damn you, Hollywood!) Hell, even advertisements these days are trying to sell us distorted ideas of "love". So, being outnumbered (and being sixteen), I gave up my unpopular notions and slowly slid into a comfortable easy chair of complacency. After all, when society is serving up such a delicious-looking meal, why should I go out hunting and gathering my own fare?

Years later, however, after several incidents of "falling in love", I came to realize that sixteen-year-old me had been on to something. Now, I'm not saying that all hand-holders are on a leash. It's entirely possible to hold someone's hand without adding unnecessary meaning to the whole affair so long as you're holding their hand for the simple sake of holding their hand and nothing more. But beware: you may be tethering someone without even knowing it. It's a sneaky business, not unlike money laundering. Except in this case you're both the victim and the perpetrator. Who, for example, doesn't want the person they love to love them back? Seems quite natural, doesn't it? But if we really, truly loved, wouldn't it be that we would let that person be exactly as they are, with no desire for reciprocation and no desire to change them, not even the shit that's really fucking annoying, the shit that makes you roll your eyes so far back into your head that you give yourself a headache? Real love asks nothing in return.

When my last "relationship" ended (or should I say when I ended my last relationship), it hurt, yes. Why? Because I'm human. But upon contemplation, it was clear that it wasn't the end of a relationship I was mourning, but rather the death of an idea, or dare I say delusion.

I went back through time and revisited those initial moments of "falling in love" and how I had really believed them, which was actually quite funny because never before had I believed them with such blind faith. It's not that I didn't love this person. I really believe that I did. However, despite my best efforts, over the course of a year, something had happened. Strings! I had tied invisible strings! And in the end I would wind up in a tangled mess from which only a vat of acid could free me. You might think this a bit dramatic. Surely cutting the strings would be a saner option. Well, I tried that. I tried that for months. But, you see, once the strings have been knotted and entangled, it's near impossible to untangle them, and so the only "solution" becomes to hack the shit out of those strings with a machete, usually losing a few limbs in the process (or to burn them with the aforementioned acid) - quite plainly, to walk away.

The funny thing was that a few weeks after the "break-up" a friend commented how they'd never seen me so happy! And it wasn't because I had gotten out of a bad relationship - not at all. It was because in my bereavement I had found the "secret" of love, and that is this: it doesn't matter who you love, but simply that you love. Simple words, yes, but the seed had taken years to sprout. I found I could have that thrilling "in love" feeling simply by having love in my heart. You know the thing that happens when you "fall in love" - where it seems like a dam you didn't even know was there is suddenly breached and you find yourself riding on the rogue wave of a magical sterling ocean? Perhaps you find my description a little phantasmagorical. But is it really? 

Notice how when you're "in love" you're generally a nicer person, and not just to the person you love, to everybody? Life in general seems easier, smoother somehow, doesn't it? Suddenly the clerk at the grocery store smiles at you, the bus driver waits for you, and the impending thunderstorm doesn't start until after you get home from work. All those love songs you used to hate (and for good reason) suddenly make perfect sense. Any hatred that was in your heart for any being (or government institution) dissipates without further ado. It's not like the world out there magically changes. It's not like someone's notified the gods that you're in love and that hereinafter all things shall work out in your favor because you're now a proud club card holder. No, it's simply a state of mind. A wonderful state of mind. A state of mind that is at your fingertips - believe it or not - at all times.

It occurred to me that the reason I had been "in love" had nothing to do with that person. At first I considered it could have been other circumstances in my life at the time that caused this spree of glee. But in the end, the truth emerged that it wasn't that person or those circumstances. It was simply my willingness to open up my heart. Now we're getting a little hippie-dippy (at least for my tastes), but there's really no other way of saying this without candy-coated words, so please bare with me fellow stoics. Or wait, I can put it another way. Or rather, I'll let the Buddha put it another way: "By oneself is one defiled. By oneself is one purified." In other words, you're exclusively responsible for your happiness or your misery, as the case may be.

This insight was both a crushing blow and a wave of relief. It revolutionized my whole idea of love and "relationships". You see, it meant I no longer needed another person in order to "fall in love". It meant I could have that gooey feeling all the fucking time! As long as I cultivated love and practiced loving all beings everywhere. Now, I don't mean that I do love all beings everywhere, but it's a work in progress. And the more I get, the more I want. The reason "falling in love" feels so fucking amazing is not because the person loves you back (if in fact they do at all), or because the person you love is so damned wonderful (because as we all know that person's "wonderfulness" eventually expires, exploding into infinite fragments of irritation that lodge themselves like shrapnel in the shin). No, it's because you're usual self-centered, self-involved, self-absorbed self is all at once uncoiled. You don't need to wait until you've met a "worthy" recipient of your love before you open the arsenal of your heart and let the love flow freely. You can decide to unlock this arsenal at any time. Really. And where that love is directed is not important, or at best secondary.

If you don't believe me, I dare you to try it. Seriously. Prove me wrong. Practice loving - your mother, your pesky kids, the cat that just pissed on you, the boss that just reprimanded you for something you didn't do, the homeless man whose filling the tram with his eau-de-hobo smell (God bless him). I have a friend who says "It's hard to love the unlovable." Ain't that the truth. But if you practice it consistently, your entire life will change. I promise. Here's some simple tools to get you started: the Buddhist practice of loving-kindness meditation and the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi (I think you're all big enough to Google that shit yourselves). On a side note, I'm not a Buddhist, or a Catholic. Nor am I a "Buddhist in denial" as my friend Michelle claims. But back to the case at hand...

The more I cultivate love, the more love I have in my heart. The more love I have in my heart, the more I love everyone around me. The more I love everyone around me, the more love I cultivate. It's like a damned perpetual motion machine! And this is great news. Please don't misinterpret this as some kind of doe-eyed, pie-in-the-sky, turning-a-blind-eye (damn, I'm a poet!) mind trick. It's not about ignoring the "bad" things; it's about focusing on the "good" things - about life, people, situations, you name it. Love does not come for free. It's back-breaking work opening up those pearly gates (or, for some of you, iron bars) of your heart. Unless of course you "fall in love", in which case the opening is temporary and precarious, at best. The bonus of loving all beings is that when you do meet someone whose company you thoroughly enjoy, you can really enjoy it, completely free of any bullshit. Now that's love.

Indeed, the cheese stands alone. But that doesn't mean the cheese is alone. Or loveless. Capiche? After all, who doesn't love cheese?

I Will Always Be A Future Rocket Scientist

Brain and I had always been close. We weren't just family, we were friends. Or so I had assumed.

I never put Brain through school. Of course, there was "secretary school" where it learned typing and bookkeeping, but I always knew Brain could do better. Brain was better. I patiently waited while Brain hemmed and hawed over what it might want to study. After all, Brain was highly intelligent and possessed many talents. It could go to any school it wanted. It could do anything it wanted. This was a decision that had to be weighed carefully.

However, years later (fifteen years later to be exact) I discovered that Brain never had any intention of going to school. It was lying to me all these years! Maybe it was my fault. I never pushed Brain. Maybe I could have offered some more encouragement. After all, I had much faith in Brain. I believed (just as it kept assuring me) that one day it would do something great. I've certainly always believed that Brain could do something great.

I had always told Brain that it could do whatever it wanted: theoretical physics, modern philosophy, publishing, microbiology, photography, finance - you name it, Brain could do it. But it has recently come to my attention that Brain is not all that I thought it was. In fact, Brain is highly defective. One of the cunning tricks that Brain used over the years to maintain the illusion of its greatness was to avoid going to school, and, in fact, to avoid doing anything that would challenge its supremacy. Yes, Brain knew something I didn't, and that is this: if you never take a stab at being a rocket scientist, you can never fail at being a rocket scientist. This is how Brain succeeded in preserving the comfortable notion that it could be a rocket scientist, if only it wanted to. But of course, it didn't want to.

I had grossly overestimated Brain. And Brain had overestimated itself. That's what happens when you're the undefeated champion. And it's easy being the undefeated champion when you have no opponents. You see, Brain had been skipping, skirting and skimping whenever possible. A clever strategy composed entirely of procrastination and avoidance. And it worked, for a while. But in the last few years, it's become crystal clear that Brain is not as sharp as it claims.

Exhibit A: Brain cannot do simple math. I mean it can add and all, but when it has to subtract something Brain goes on a detour through addition just to avoid doing any actual subtraction. For example, it needs to subtract 45 from 100. Simple you say? Sure, maybe if you're a math whiz. Or maybe if you've never suffered brain damage. But what Brain does with this seemingly simple equation is it finds a "ballpark" figure, in this case 50, then it adds 45 (because I guess that's the only math it can do, or the only math it's willing to do) and comes up with 95. Then it says to itself, "Nope, that's not 100" (crafty, isn't it?) Okay, now the addition gets easier. It just adds 5 more to get 100. So Brain returns to its ballpark of 50, adds 5 and - tada! - we have 55! Of course, Brain is only required to suffer through this drill if there's no calculator around.

Exhibit B: Brain has the memory of an 80-year-old with dementia. When people meet Brain, they are in disbelief at it's inability to retain information. In fact, even the information that Brain does retain manages to get mashed into a hodgepodge of the senses. What this means is that Brain enters data from my life, the lives of people I know, films I've seen, and dreams I've had and puts them into one single data file. You can see where this gets to be problematic. But the problem goes even deeper, because not only is there just one file for these various entries, but the file has no chronological order. So, for example, something that happened in a dream in 1987 may get confused for something you told me last week. Somehow Brain and I have so far managed to get by in this fashion, but I don't have high hopes for the future.

I have to say I'm a little disappointed in Brain. I remember my mother warning me that Brain's cells wouldn't grow back, that once they were destroyed they were gone for good. But I didn't want to believe that Brain was, or could one day become, an imbecile. I had such confidence in Brain that I falsely assumed it would somehow survive my abuse and negligence without a scratch. Because, you know, Brain was mine. It was special. It wasn't like all those other brains that take a beating and then throw in the towel. No, Brain was a fighter. And it fought to win!

However, shortly after Brain's deficiencies started to come out, I realized that perhaps I had been too hard on it. Because Brain had been an only child, I had smothered it with attention and weighed it down with a shit-ton of expectations. I began to wonder if maybe Brain didn't need a friend, someone that would accept its shortcomings, keep it company and supervise its shenanigans. The more I thought about this idea, the more attractive it seemed.

Then one fine day I came home from the orphanage with Heart. Brain was suspicious at first. It didn't want Heart taking over. It didn't want anyone challenging its authority. After much infighting, Heart ultimately won Brain over with its kindness - something that Brain had never known. Deflated but not defeated, Brain eventually let Heart take over as caretaker. And although Brain is now partially retired, it will always be a future rocket scientist.

xxx

Pedro, Prince of Darkness

Prince of Darkness. That was how he signed the note he handed me at the psych ward. The psych ward at Vancouver General was our temporary home. I guess that made us roommates. His real name (or at least the name he gave me) was Pedro. I don't know where he was from or why he was there. In fact, I don't even remember what the note read. All I know is he thought he was the Prince of Darkness. I was a witch. And his mother was a witch. Wait, maybe that's what the note said: "I know what you are". Yes, it's all coming back to me now.

He approached me one day, with all the caution of a cat approaching its prey. Maybe because I was a witch? I don't know. But apparently his mother was also a witch, which gave him some kind of reference point, I guess. On the note he handed me, he not only signed his name Prince of Darkness, but beneath that he had scrawled a pentagram. Or at least he had tried to scrawl a pentagram. I pointed out to him that a pentagram has five points, not six. He agreed with me, "Yes, I know." He denied that he had made a six-pointed star, and when I pointed to the evidence, he simple changed the subject. Typical.

For some reason, Pedro intrigued me. Probably because I felt I had some kind of power over him. And that was entirely due to the fact that he felt I had some kind of power over him, and so he treated me with the utmost reverence and respect. I wasn't merely a witch. I was a sorceress. A dark queen of the underworld. Whatever I was to him, I played his game. And gladly. After all, I was a narcissist with delusions of grandeur. What could please me more than having my very own minion? It's every lunatic's dream. Isn't it?

One day we were having a make-out session in the common room when we were busted by a nurse. After that, we were no longer permitted to be alone together, and the nurses kept close guard. I don't see why. What's so terrible about a little touchy-feely in the psychiatric ward? I mean, Jesus, even in prison they're getting some! Maybe they just don't want crazy people procreating. And who could blame them.

Pedro often wore sunglasses. And walked at an unusually quick pace (unusual for someone in a hospital, that is). I mean, where was he going in such a rush? The bathroom? There was nowhere else to go! But he also walked very smoothly. Almost as if he was gliding across the floor, like a character from Dark City. Then again, this could have been my Loxapine kicking in. 

Once we had a haphazard encounter in the elevator. I was coming, he was going. Or was it the other way around? I don't know. We brushed up against one another, but he quickly stepped off on the ground floor once the elevator doors reopened. He was like that. Scared of my powers (or the powers he believed me to have).

Not much of a story, I know. But there's really nothing more to tell. I could have made some shit up, but that's not why I started this blog. Or perhaps I could have woven these bits and pieces into an intricate tale of Thorazine romance. But I didn't. Despite my fond memories of Pedro, Prince of Darkness, our encounters were brief and erratic. And so shall this story be.

A Tale of Pigs and Patients

On occasion, someone will ask me why I don't drink. If you know me well, you know why I don't drink (or shoot, or snort, or pop, or smoke). However, if you are one of those unlucky people who have yet to make my acquaintance, let me tell you a colorful tale from my unfortunate past which illustrates precisely why I don't (and can't) drink, or take any other mind-altering substance for that matter.

We will start this tale in the psychiatric ward. Yes, the psychiatric ward. This was not the first psych ward I had the pleasure of visiting, nor was it the last. I will spare you the details of how I got there because, well, because if I wanted to tell you my whole life story, that would be a novel, not a brief post on this here blog. 

It had been a few days since I was admitted, or maybe only one day (I can't really be sure - you can imagine my mind state). I started to feel antsy. You know, being separated from my bottle of gin and all. And this despite the copious amounts of drugs I was being dosed: Olanzapine, Loxapine, Clonazepam, Ativan, and that was just the beginning!

Suddenly, the thought (nay, the brilliant plot) entered my mind to leave the hospital and return home for a nice relaxing drink, and maybe I'd smoke a joint while I was there. After all, some gin-and-weed had always worked better to alleviate my symptoms than anything a doctor in a psych ward had thrown at me. 

Home at that point was a hotel room on Granville Street in downtown Vancouver. I was receiving welfare checks, which partly went to paying the rent for this room, and partly went to paying for "medicine". It was not a complicated accounting.

I tried using my sweet and helpless just-help-me-out-this-one-time-and-I-promise-I'll-get-my-shit-together look in order to retrieve my street clothes from the nurse. It didn't work. I guess I was starting to lose my charm. Damn it! That's okay, I would forge forth in my hospital gown. After all, it was warm outside, and an exposed backside might even feel nice in the cool summer breeze.

Next up I needed some bus fare. Again, I tried using my charm, this time with some fellow patients, to obtain the necessary change for transportation to my oasis. And again, I was dismissed like some kind of crazy person. Who did they think they were dealing with?! (I had forgotten where I was). No problem, I was ready to go to any lengths for a few moments of peace in my room on Granviille Street. So with hospital gown and hospital slippers (which would be more aptly described as paper feet covers), I put on my best I'm-not-up-to-no-good face and ventured down to the hospital parking lot.

Success! I had made it out of the building without incident. I looked around to make sure nobody was following me, then proceeded to quickly duck and dart between the parked cars until I made it around the corner and... out of sight. 

It was warm and sunny - just as I had anticipated - and the fresh air was invigorating (as much as a tranquilized schizophrenic could be invigorated I guess). Despite the sedation, I was surprisingly quick on my feet. Or maybe it just seemed I was moving quickly because everything else was moving so slowly. I can't be sure. Either way, I had made it to the Granville Street Bridge - I was almost home! While precariously crossing the bridge (nowhere to hide here), a wailing ambulance came up behind me. Yikes! "They're coming to get me!" I thought. But a few seconds later the ambulance whizzed by. Whew! It was probably on its way to St. Paul's with a near-death episode in the back and didn't have time to stop for a run-away loon. Thank God for real emergencies.

As soon as I made it over the bridge, I skirted into the alley. I always felt at home in alleys. Probably because they were dark and quiet (I favored closets as a youngster, likely for the same reason). Nobody to bother me there. Just other crazies like myself. And we all stayed the fuck out of each others' way. That was the "crazy code". Which coincidentally is also the "drug dealer code" and the all-encompassing "up-to-no-good code". Mind your own fucking business. That pretty much sums it up. 

There was an empty lot next to my building (it had been empty for years), and I sprinted across it, making the last few meters (or several feet for you confused Americans) to the front door. Relief was only moments away now! The doorman Peter, a short, dark-haired Yugoslavian alcoholic, greeted me with a confused look on his face. Maybe due to my hospital fashion, maybe just because that's what his face generally looked like. Anyhow, I turned the corner and there was my room - No. 1. That was me.

The half empty (or half full if you're an optimist) bottle of gin still sat by the window facing the empty lot. I poured it into a glass, because, you know, I'm a classy lady. Speaking of class, did I mention I used to pee in my sink? This did not seem strange in the least at the time. Let me explain. There was a toilet, but it was down the hall, all the way on the other side of the building. Not that I was lazy. Well, I was. But that's not why I couldn't (or wouldn't) make it down there. It's because I didn't want to see any people. And you never knew who you might run into in the corridors. Someone you owed money to. Someone you had fucked. Some lonely bloke who just wanted to chat. God, I hated people! In addition to this threat of confrontation, there was the more obvious problem of having to piss every twenty minutes or so. Because that's what happens when you're sucking on gin non-stop like a baby rat on its mother's teet. Speaking of rats... no, no rats, let's try to keep this story slim and trim.

So I settled into a comfortable haze. However, the comfort was short-lived. Paranoia kicked in. Or rather it resurfaced, seeing as how it had always been there. Like an old teddy bear that's old and smelly and you want to throw it away but you just can't because, you know, it's got some kind of sentimental value or something. Anyhow, I got the inkling that "they" were coming to get me. I had left the hospital with the idea that I would return home, have a drink or two, and casually walk back to the psych ward with nary a glance. Nobody would miss me. However, once I got settled, I didn't feel like going back to the hospital so soon. In fact, I didn't feel like going back at all. I had important shit to do, damn it! 

My fears, which turned out to be fully justified, caused me to pull out my pocket knife. I didn't have it with me in the hospital of course, but it was waiting for me in my room for just this occasion. In reality, I've never had to use it (to stab someone I mean) but it was a safety blanket, offering me a false sense of security. The blade was maybe five inches, nothing more. A utility knife of sorts. It could certainly do some damage though, if I had wanted it to.

I don't remember how long I sat in that room. Time did not exist. I was crouched on the floor in the corner, ready to sprint at any moment. Glass of gin in one hand, knife open and ready to strike in the other. Nothing, I mean nothing, was going to get between me and this "good time" I was having. They wouldn't take me alive!

Next thing I know, Peter is yelling at me through the open window. "Dita, you have phone call!" (He spoke without articles, as most Eastern Europeans do). There was a phone near the front desk that tenants could use to receive calls (couldn't make any though). You see, this was a time before cell phones. Well, not that they didn't exist, but they didn't exist in my world. No, my world consisted of pagers and payphones. I didn't answer. After repeated yelling, there was a subsequent knocking at my door (God, I hated people! Why couldn't they all just leave me the fuck alone?! Only the crazies left you alone. Only they knew of the hassle, the burden, the torture. God bless 'em.) I still didn't answer. Couldn't they see I was busy?!

Then four, maybe six, cops broke through my door. I couldn't make out for sure in my haze, but they appeared to be fully armed and ready for trouble. Really? "This is overkill" I thought to myself. "These guys are taking their job way too seriously". You see, in my delusion I was a damsel in distress (certainly not a dangerous criminal), and so I had assumed that an undercover officer, or two, would come to coax me out of my room, like a fox being lured out of its hole, and gently nudge me back to the hospital. After all, they wouldn't want to upset me, would they? I might frighten and make a run for it, causing them to lose their prey. Or worse, I might get all "crazy" and shit. 

But I was gravely mistaken. I was not a damsel in distress. I was no longer even a sick patient who desperately needed care. No, I had become a "subject, diagnosed schizophrenic, armed with a knife and possibly dangerous." What was happening here? They were reading the wrong script. Or maybe I was just on the wrong page.

One of them yelled at me to put the knife down. "Drop the knife!" After a few more failed attempts at convincing me through threats (not a terribly effective approach by the way - I'm talking to you VPD), they came at me in a well-organized siege. I can't even remember how many of them there were. It seemed like there were many. But I may have been seeing things. Can't exactly rule that out. Also, in the confines of my three-by-three meter room (that's about ten feet for you Yankees), four men could easily look like an entire squad. 

I didn't realize they had tasered me until it was over. Twice they tasered me (I only know this from the scars, not because I have a superb memory). I suppose the taser stunned me just long enough for them to wrestle me into handcuffs. Then they picked me up, one officer on each side, and forced me out of my foxhole and into the building corridor. I found out later they had evacuated that entire floor. Just for little old me. Now I really felt special. Finally, the world was acknowledging me! 

They sat me down in a smelly armchair next to the payphone in the common area, just past the corridor, where they proceeded to ask me questions for which I had no answers. Questions such as "How much have you had to drink?" Of course, I would never say "I don't know". That was not in my vocabulary. My usual response for this question (it wasn't the first time I'd been asked) was "A few. You know, maybe three or four". That had always sounded reasonable to me - three or four. Certainly nobody could hold that against me, having a "few" drinks? But my response was met with skepticism. 

I should state here that I never had any idea how much I actually drank. Case in point, I was at a boyfriend's apartment one day when I discovered a bottle of Canadian Club (whiskey) in the freezer. I immediately put on my "pretty-please-just-one" face and I was granted a drink. One drink. It wasn't even his whiskey - it belonged to his roommate. Of course, I didn't understand things like possession back then. If it was there and I wanted it, it was mine. End of story. Sure, I would play along and ask if I could open the bottle, but even if he had said no, I would've gotten my prize in a midnight freezer raid. I always got what I wanted, one way or another. 

My boyfriend was busy painting outside, not paying mind to what I was doing. After some time, I returned to the freezer to pour myself another. But wait, the bottle was empty! What the fuck?! Someone had stolen my (I mean, my boyfriend's roomate's) liquor! Who would do such a thing?! And why? And, most importantly, how? There was nobody around but me and my boyfriend. And he didn't drink. Well, I've come to realize (many years later), ladies and gentlemen, that I had drank that whiskey. In a blackout. Because most of my 24-hours were lived in blackouts. And when I wasn't in a blackout, I was in dense fog, where things were fuzzy at best.

Returning to my room on Granville Street, the cops continued their interrogation and - what I took to be - harassment. I didn't hesitate to tell them what I thought of their man-handling maneuvers. I wanted the whole building - no, the whole world - to know that I was innocent! In my version of events, I was just a sweet young lass sitting at home on a sunny afternoon, enjoying a cup of gin, when a band of rogues busted into my room and assaulted me (for no apparent reason), and now they had the gall to talk to me in a threatening tone! They should be apologizing, for fuck's sakes! Fucking pigs!! Of course, that was then. Today I realize they were just doing their job. And I was probably a really annoying part of their day. At best. More likely, they don't even remember me, because they deal with trash like that day in and day out. That's their thing.

At the time, though, I was pissed. The gin had reached it's peak of fury. Funny how booze adapts to the situation. Sometimes it would turn me into a sleepy puppy. And sometimes it would turn me into a raging pitbull. Today I was a pitbull. And it was their fault. Of course. Who else could be blamed? I was surrounded. They loomed over me as I sat in that smelly armchair by the payphone - four or six of them. So smug in their uniforms. A crowd of tenants had gathered in the common area to see what was happening. Everybody liked a good show. The crazier the better. Especially this crowd. The hotel was full of society's rejects, crazies of all shapes and colors. There were alcoholics, drug (mostly methamphetamine) addicts, and then the mentally disordered, which of course also included the boozers and meth heads. The whole place was basically a circus.

I had to do something. I had to let them know they haven't won! Not that easily! In one final vain attempt to prove my righteousness, I defiantly kicked over the battering ram they had leaned against the wall, not too smartly, within my leg's reach. I later found out it broke when it hit the ground. Split in two. Victory was mine! What I had won I wasn't exactly sure. But it was something, damn it. A small medal of valor. Sure, they got me, this time, but not without a fight. I'd show them not to mess with me. That's right, I'd show everybody.

We waited there together in the lobby - the cops, the crowd, and me - for a couple of plainclothes officers who were to take things over. You know, now that the "dangerous" part of the operation was over. Two guys finally showed up. I remember them as having mustaches, but that could just be the result of watching too many 1970's cop shows. One thing was clear. The plainclothes had a much friendlier disposition than the uniforms. They played along with me. They escorted me down the stairs, out the front door, and there we waited. I didn't know for what so I asked. One of them said we were waiting for an ambulance. Finally, some service! I asked for a cigarette and got one. Wow, these guys really knew how to treat a gal. Real gentlemen. I managed to grab hold of the cigarette with my right hand, despite my hands being cuffed behind my back (not because I'm super flexible, but because my diet of gin and crackers had taken me down to a slim-and-trim 45 kilos (do your own math, America). The officers laughed. And my mood lightened.

Before I had a chance to finish my smoke, an ambulance pulled up in front of the building. Two EMT's exited the vehicle and exchanged some words with the plainclothes. They then invited me to lay down on the stretcher so they could strap me in. Naturally, I protested. "No, no, I'm not laying down on that thing. I'm perfectly capable of sitting in the back. And that's what I'm going to do." But they were insistent little buggers. I don't remember how exactly they got me to lay down on that thing. Must have been some form of mind trickery. I bet they're good at that. They have to be. Dealing with riffraff like that all day long.

But I wasn't riffraff. I was different. I was just misunderstood. In fact, this whole situation had been a simple misunderstanding. When I got back to the hospital, I would explain to the doctors that I meant no harm. That I just wanted to unwind in my own space in my own time. That I had every intention of returning to the hospital after a few hours. I had just taken a "break". Nothing wrong with that, was there? Yes, I would explain everything. And all would be forgiven.

I threatened the EMTs that if they didn't let my friend Stephanie ride in the ambulance with me that I would make their job very difficult for them. "She's riding with me" I announced, "otherwise, we're going to do this the hard way." And so Stephanie rode with me in the back of the ambulance. Not sure if she wanted to, but it was too late. What could she do? I had already threatened that I would cause a scene if they didn't allow her to come along. It never occurred to me that she might not have wanted to come along. But that's what I did. I took people hostage. Much like my inability to understand possessions, I didn't understand that other people had their own lives and their own shit. That's how self-centered I was. Other people didn't even exist to me. They were all just disposable pawns on my chessboard. And I was the Queen. Naturally.

A scene broke out in the back of the ambulance when I caught sight of an EMT writing on a block of paper. "What are you writing?" I asked. No answer. "Are you writing about me?" Still nothing. "Because if you're writing about me, I have every right to know what the fuck it is you're writing!" After all, "I have rights!" I protested. Actually, at that point, my "rights" were probably quite limited. But my megalomania certainly wasn't.

When we arrived at the hospital, I insisted on being unstrapped so I could walk in. You know, with some air of dignity. But again, the EMT's disagreed. However, unlike the cops back at the hotel, they knew how to play the game. One of them said to me, "Why walk when you can be carried in?" And I added, "... like a Queen?" Of course! I'm sold! Those guys really knew what they were doing. They knew how to treat a lady.  Or rather, how to treat an inebriated schizophrenic.

Upon being wheeled into the ward, I started laughing hysterically. It had been a fine day after all. I got a little sun, finished off a bottle of gin, had a little scuffle with the cops. And now I was being returned to my rightful throne by my loyal subjects, who had gone out of their way (risked life and limb really) to get me back. Yes, I was home again...

Fuck, what was in that gin?!

Needless to say, the doctors and nurses didn't see things the way I saw them, they didn't sympathize with my plight. On the contrary, they decided it was best to lock me up and increase my drug dosage. Of course, being crazy as I was, this just fed my megalomania. You see, now I had my own room all to myself. Right next to the nurses station, so they could keep an eye on me. Yeah, I was special alright.

I lived on that psych ward for the next few months.

And this, this is why I don't drink. Well, one reason I don't drink. There are more reasons. But I'll tell you about those some other time.

Big Lesson, Little Furball

One idea for the title of this post was Dhammapussy (an homage to Octopussy), but it quickly occurred to me that, in this day and age, the term "pussy" conjures up the image of a cunt rather than a cat. And so I settled on the existing title, although less titillating.

Yeah, so... cats. I have one. No, I'm not a "cat person". I'm just a person with a cat, okay? I brought her home almost a year ago. This may not be surprising to most. But definitely a shock for anyone who knows me and knows my history with cats. For me it was (and is) a big deal. I always thought that some people are born "cat people" or "dog people" just like some people are born "baby people". For example, my sister used to have a cat. She fed it and took care of it, for many years. Now she has a rabbit. She also feeds it, changes its cage, even takes it out to play. That may sound elementary if you have a natural inclination to care for living things. But for me it was a commitment of unimaginable horror. Certainly something beyond my ability (not to mention maturity level). The truth was I was too damned selfish to take care of another living being. Not only that, but completely lacking in patience. I have lived with many cats, none of them mine, and they have repeatedly tried my patience to a breaking point.

The problem, as I see it today, was that I could never let the cat be a cat. It would meow, I would cringe. It would claw at something, I would yell at it. It would follow me around with it's meowing and clawing, I would go into a rage! I used to fantasize about throwing it off the balcony. The poor cat just wanted me to feed it, or give it some attention, perhaps a little rub behind the ears (or is that a dog's thing?) and there I was, fantasizing about murder. Or felinacide (I think I just made up a word).

So, naturally, I thought to myself one fine day "I'm gonna get me a cat!"

Now, let me cut to the chase here. I'm not going to bore you with a story of how I came to name the cat Ted (even though she has no balls), or how I brought her home, and other cute kitty-coming-of-age tales. Because that's not the point here. The simple point I wish to make is this: anything that irritates you has the potential of being a great teacher.

Of course, even the greatest teacher can teach you nothing if you're not a willing pupil. When I was wishing for the death (or sudden disappearance) of these various cats, I was not willing to learn from them. I just wanted them to shut the fuck up, go sit in a corner and lick themselves (isn't that what they're supposed to do?) If that's your attitude, do not - I repeat, do not - get a cat. Or any animal. In fact, don't even come within 50 meters of an animal. Or child for that matter. Because you are so irritable and volatile (I'm speaking from experience here) that you are a danger and a menace to living beings. That's right, a menace.

Carrying on...

From the moment I brought this little furball home, it's been one lesson after another. First there was the obvious question of litter-box training. Ted pissed on my bed one day, and that spot henceforth became the place to go. Usually at 5:00 a.m. You know, just before she would wake me up by clawing at my exposed flesh, which for some reason is especially sensitive early in the morning (cats seem to instinctively know when and where to strike in order to yield the highest return of pain and frustration).

Lesson 1: Contrary to my beliefs, the cat was not pissing on my bed on purpose. It was a kitten. It was not some passive-aggressive way of telling me she's displeased with the level of care I was offering. It was not some act of rebellion, a sort of "Fuck you, human!" No, it was simply an 8-week-old kitten trying to figure out life. And at that stage that meant trying to figure out where it was okay to piss and shit, and where it was not okay to piss and shit. A difficult lesson for both of us.

Having said that, she recently had surgery and was put into a post-op body net. Sounds kinky, I know, but it was more of a surgical mesh suit than an S&M getup. Anyhow, she obviously did not fancy her body net. It was restricting, which I guess was the idea. But you can't explain things to a cat. And even if you could, I doubt she would give a shit. I don't think she has the ability to foresee consequences (something I've only recently learned myself).

So while I was sitting in meditation, she came over to sit with me. Or so I thought. Instead, she climbed directly into my lap, and decided that this was as good a place as any to relax her urethral sphincter (a.k.a. piss muscle). That's right, she pissed on me. Maybe she thought that by putting her into a mesh body suit, I was initiating some kind of power game, that I was asking her to piss on me (I'm not into that by the way. Seriously.) Or maybe she was protesting the suit and again saying "Fuck you, human!" But I revert to Lesson 1: The cat is not out to get me. She was recovering from anaesthesia and likely confused. Or maybe that was all a ruse. Who knows. The point is my sanity benefits from believing the former.

Moving on (since we've spent enough time on cat piss at this point), there is the clawing. Yes, cats like to claw. And in addition, mine has a fetish for biting hands and feet. Just hands and feet. No other body parts. And not just hands and feet, but bare hands and feet. It's as if she knows that clothing offers a safety barrier, however minimal, between her teeth and your flesh, thereby decreasing the pain experience and the potential for drawing blood. No blood, no deal. That's her motto. This is not because she is evil incarnate. No, she is simply a cat. Cats are soft and fuzzy, but they are also sharp and pointy (an allegory - is that the right word? - for life and everything in it).

In earlier days I tried "teaching" her by biting her back. This was to no avail. It's as if she was in a dopamine high, completely numb to any outside sensations, where the pain of me biting her could in no way compare to the euphoria of her biting me. Like a crackhead. Yep, just like a crackhead. Granted I didn't bite hard enough to make her bleed. I felt that would border on animal abuse. Right? Either way, I'm not about to try it. I've just accepted the fact that I will have wounds on my hands (and sometimes feet). They don't even burn so much any more. I think I'm getting used to it! (Oh shit, it sounds like I'm developing battered wife syndrome.)

Enough of this masochism. There are other things she likes to claw besides flesh, namely curtains, carpets, clothing, towels. In short, anything she can get her claws into. She also likes to walk into burning candles and onto hot stoves (cats are surprisingly flammable by the way - just a warning). When I first moved into my new apartment, which was coincidentally because of Ted (or rather because of my then roommate's terrible allergy to Ted), I made the obligatory trip to IKEA. Not because I love IKEA (although their meatballs are something else), but because it's the only furniture I can afford. If you're one of those people with a "real job", you can probably afford "real furniture". I am not one of those people.

I naively spent CZK 3000 on a rug and CZK 800 on curtains. I say "naively" because later, when I got angered by Ted's excitement at having something new to claw in the apartment, it became painfully clear that I was not at all familiar with the ways of cats. Yes, to Ted my hard-earned cash (or the shit I bought with it) was just another toy.

Lesson 2: My stuff is just another toy. I realized at this point that my sanity was not worth CZK 3800. In fact, you cannot put a price on sanity. You just can't. I let Ted chew the carpet. I let Ted shred the curtains. Why? Because the alternative involves madness. At this point I realized the cat probably knows more than I do. I started to think "Maybe I'm taking this stuff too seriously". And I was. All my shit (everything I own) is just a toy. And if I see it as anything more than that, it's owning me. And I will suffer. In the same vein, cooking and cleaning - or any attempt to do these things - are games, not chores that must get done at any cost. Wow, this cat's starting to teach me some really heavy shit.

I have ceased getting angry with my cat. And all cats everywhere. And I'll tell you why. Because I've ceased the crazy thinking that is supported by many cat owners, and that is the thought that I am engaged in a war with my cat. That's how I used to think. And when that was my thinking, everything was a battle. Everything the cat did was a "Fuck you!" and I had to "teach her a lesson". I had to show her who was Master! (Again with the S&M references. What the hell?) This kind of thinking is ridiculous. It assumes that you and the cat are on a par with one another. It assumes that there is something being fought over. Territory? Dominance of said territory? Use of the litter box? Seriously, if it's that last one, you need to get your own litter box, okay?

Your cat does not think it's superior to you. In fact, it is entirely dependent on you for its survival. And guess what? Your cat is just being a cat. A cat is as a cat does. There is no secret plot being hatched against you. There is no battle being fought (except in your own mind), so stop projecting your own thoughts and feelings onto your pet (this goes for dog people too) and just be kind. That's all you have to do. Feed it. Give it shelter. Give it love. That's it.

As it turned out, my new cat friend was merely a metaphor (yes, I realize I'm misusing that word, but I can't for the life of me think of another one) for how I had been living life up to that point. I wasn't only in battle with Ted. I was in battle with everything and everyone! Once I ceased fighting the cat, I ceased fighting. Period. Sanity at last! Or at least some semblance of it. I let the cat be a cat, and in turn I let everyone and everything else be too. Or at least I started practicing. Holy shit, maybe I'm finally starting to grow up!

Lesson 3: Yes, cat scratches hurt. But trying to control the cat hurts more. A universal lesson. Om...

Gray Means Death

February 25, 2013

Yesterday my friend's son asked me why my hair was gray. It's actually only partly gray. So far. At the ripe old age of 34. I told him, tongue in cheek, that it was gray because I was old. Instead of protesting, he offered a solution: "Why don't you dye it?" I asked him what was wrong with gray hair. He said it made me look old. And there you have it folks. Old. I asked him what was wrong with being old. There the conversation ended. But it got me thinking.

I've had several friends ask me recently why I don't dye my hair. Both men and women, both gay and straight, both young and old. One friend even offered, with a look of pity on his face, to have his stylist boyfriend dye it for me! As if it was some kind of problem that needed to be solved - something I would fix if only I could. But now an eleven-year-old was asking the same question. Already at eleven! Why all this denial of impermanence? Wait, denial is probably the wrong word. It’s not that we don't see ourselves aging, but that we’re so ridiculously afraid of it.

I know, I know, I sound like I'm taking this too far. People will undoubtedly argue that it's not a fear of aging, but merely a preference for a different hair color, or shade, or sheen, or whatever other words they can come up with to hide their - yes, I'm going to say it again - fear of aging, which, if we want to take it even further, translates into a fear of death. The bottom line is this: these aesthetic preferences all point to youth. Our whole idea of beauty consists of youth. And there is no room for the old, the aging, the past-their-prime. Because, you know... Death! Oh, sorry, didn't mean to scare you.

Fear of death. Is that what it ultimately comes down to? Is my graying hair a reminder to everyone who comes into contact with me - or with it - that they too are mortal and will one day croak? That they are, every day, inching - or in some cases speeding - towards “the end” (whatever that means)?  

Why do we try to make time stand still? Or worse, rewind the tape? No, I’m not 16 anymore, I don’t have the perfect ass of a 16-year old; I’m not 21, I don’t have the skin elasticity of a 21-year-old; I’m not even 30, those days (years) have come and gone. And in their place under-eye circles have landed. Why am I expected to hide this, to shield the sensitive public from the truth of my aging face and body? Why can't we all handle this (life, that is) with a little more grace?

There was a time when I did dye my hair (ironically before it started graying), spent time painting my face and dressing my body. There was a time when I worshiped the body, and wanted others to worship it. I judged my quality of existence partly (maybe mostly) based on how I looked. Back then a "bad-hair day" could seriously ruin my entire day! Of course, this kind of melodrama is quite normal (or at least acceptable) for a teenager. Oh, the arrogance of youth! Or at least of my youth. Today these things seem empty. And they probably seem that way because they are that way.

I am neither young nor old. I will always be younger than my mother. I will always be older than my "little" sister. I don’t know how near death is. It could happen today on my way home from work, or it could happen fifty years from now. With or without gray hair. I'm sure blondes and redheads die just as often as gray-hairs (is that what I'm calling them now?) I don't have the stats on this, it's merely a stab in the dark, but surely there's no get-out-of-death-free card being given away with every purchase of Clairol or L'Oreal, or whoever else is selling us snake oil these days. All I know is that right here, right now, I'm alive (I think). And one thing is for sure, this body will continue aging. My hair will only get grayer, my skin's collection of lines and wrinkles will only expand, my memory will only worsen. Until finally I can't even remember my own name.

So what? What are we clinging to by clinging to youth? I certainly wouldn't trade today's heart and mind for yesterday's beauty. Maybe one day I will dye my hair again. It's not that I'm purposefully not dying it out of protest. It just never occurred to me to hide the hair on my head – that it was something to be ashamed of. At least, not until these recent comments from concerned friends wanting to “beautify” me. Thanks guys. I guess. I know you're just trying to help. But help suggests there is something not right, something that needs to be changed. Hiding my gray hair will not improve my quality of life. It will not make me happy. It will not make me beautiful. These things are much more complex and take infinitely more elbow grease (growing pains included) than simply emptying a dye bottle onto one's tresses. But hey, if it's working for you, Carry On My Wayward Son (or Daughter)!

There's a big divide between me a decade ago and me now. I used to look at "older" people and feel sorry for them. I used to think they've let themselves go. And I would tell myself defiantly "I'll never let that happen to me!" The funny thing is that it's not what I thought it was. I haven't "let myself go". Some things are simply not as important to me as they used to be. On second thought, in a way I have "let myself go", in the sense that this thing I call "self" no longer has such a hold on me (cue Beatles song – You Really Got A Hold On Me – eerily apropos lyrics).

Despite all this, I feel I should add (as a disclaimer if you will) that I am not make-up free. Nor have I abandoned deodorant. Or perfume. I am not enlightened. I'm also not a hippy. Yet. Maybe I'm on my way. Who knows. The point is that, over time, I find myself questioning these things more and more. And to me that's the whole point, not to drop everything in an ignorant attempt just to reach another ideal (the ideal of non-self), but to question our very views and deep-seated (often second-hand) beliefs about these things.

These are things I know in my heart. Nobody can rob me of them or convince me otherwise. And at the same time, I don’t wish to convince anyone of them. Only your own experience can tell you. Or not. When you truly know something, words are unnecessary. And nobody has to agree with you or approve of it or even understand it. Hell, I don’t even have to understand it myself. It just is what it is, and all I have to do is let it be just that. Is that so scary?