d r e a m

Dare I do what I've always dreamed to do; dare I admit that I'm afraid to try for fear of failure? One side suggests that I stay silent and the other urges me to stop being silly and just go go go. 

2 0 1 4

I've never been a giant fan of New Years; I habitually experience a juxtaposition of anxiety and anti-climactic ennui around the end of every December and it lingers through the end of the year and into the start of the next. This year, I upped the ante by blanketing all that old jazz with the hectic haze of moving stress and a new job with erratic hours. For the first time, I had the experience of working on both New Years eve and New Years Day;  I hate to admit how bitter and left out of life I've been feeling lately, knowing that everyone else is out having fun while I'm at the office. 

On the last day of 2013, I made my way to meet my friends and Josh at a quiet house party; I arrived just after 11:30, sober, cold and with a headache. We chatted, ate excellent snacks and had several dance parties in the kitchen. We missed the the official countdown to midnight by about six minutes; Josh and I kissed and there were party-poppers and mimosas. Our friend shared her little black hat with us and it lead to some fantastic photos (there I am, attempting to wink).

j u s t . d a n c e

Crowds have become a crazy source of stress for me lately; I mainly blame the TTC for this and the daily hours which I now spend navigating stations in rush hour, getting trapped in turnstiles and shoved by strangers. It used to be that I'd shrug while someone else expressed their distress at visiting crowded locales — now I feel disoriented and slightly panicked when I'm faced with them.

It's not the being trapped that I fear; I think instead, it's the watchful eyes of people that I don't know and accidental collisions which make me nervous. I don't want to be the cause of displeasure; I don't want to be out of place or a nuisance.

Ironically, the crowd at a night club calms me; there in the darkness, I can lose myself amongst the bodies and pulsating noise. The semi-hedonistic ritual of dancing with reckless abandon is utterly freeing for me; albeit not foolproof, more often than not the mixture of obscurity and deafening music relieves me of every worry, every doubt and all of my unnecessarily self-imposed rules for polite behavior . In those anonymous moments, I can stop being the girl who ruins everyone's fun with her anxiety and simply be fun-girl.

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I was a late bloomer in terms of youthful things like alcohol and partying. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I allowed my cousin to convince me to join her for a night out of drinking and dancing. I still remember the feeling of my awkward self-consciousness slowly abating as I stood at the edge of a room lit by red lights, watching as the crowd meandered in; there was a girl, dressed in schoolgirl blouse and kilt, dancing alone on the empty floor. She had her eyes closed and she moved with confidence and complete nonchalance; at the time I laughed, but now I am that girl.

d r e a m

I recently had someone refer to my sketchbook as a 'book of dreams', after having left it face open on my desk after work. Whatcha got there in your book of dreams, they said; the page was rife with the swirling lines and happy face variations that I'd produced for a tattoo design request.

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Lately, I've been experiencing episodes of exhausted disconnectedness; I'll get off the streetcar after a day at the office and wander aimlessly, looking into shops and at passing people in a daze. Last week I meandered up a street I'd never spent much time on for an hour or so, halfheartedly determined to buy something: a snack, some dinner, a book, a trinket. After passing plenty of interesting locations, I doubled back, entered a juice bar and realized that I had neither cash nor plastic; I shuffled awkwardly outside once more, balanced my purse on my knee and rifled around for a while. Eventually, I migrated to a bench, continued to dig around in the depths of my bag (cluttered with nail polish, pens, mints, receipts, pins, screws...) and found a handful of change.

I continued back down the sidewalk, coins in the palm of my hand. After some debate, I bought two dollars worth of strawberries from a fruit market (which was swarming with bees who kept swooping erratically past my head and colliding with their own reflections in the store's mirrored wall — so much anxiety). The sun had set by then, the street was bustling and cool.

Life is arbitrary — where we go, what we do. It's strangely pleasurable to disassociate from the structure of habitual life, to wander and let go of routine. 

d i s t r a c t e d

w o r d s

w o r d s

When I was young, I wasn't exactly a fan of the outdoors.

When Alia Shawkat's character in Whip It said, "I didn't have a Barbie-roller-skates phase; I had a fat-kid-sits-inside-and-reads-a-book phase", she was speaking about me. Surprising, I know.

In grade-school, my brother and I would trek up north to the Bruce Peninsula and spend weeks of our summer vacations living with our cousins on their farm. It was the kind of place where children were encouraged/expected to play outside for most of the day, which would have been fine if I hadn't been so afraid of nature. Their tall, white farmhouse stands out in my mind like a beautiful, cozy beacon, the sole refuge in a vast expanse of windy forest, field, mud and angry chickens.

They also had a cottage on the lake where we would swim, catch frogs and crayfish, explore islands. I always had this vague feeling of not belonging there; I was the awkward, round girl who just wanted to be quiet and inconspicuous, constantly homesick in a dull way. I wasn't outgoing or fun; I felt like someone who had to be tolerated and taken care of. I wanted to escape from that idea of myself, to hide away from the uncomfortable reality that I was facing...so I begged my aunt for books to read.

She gave me A Spell for Chameleon, Piers Anthony's first Xanth novel; I remember looking at the paperback's golden-brown cover and not expecting much. Over the next few days, I sat sideways in an old armchair and read, read, read and (again) fell in love with a book-world full of magic, bravery and puns. It was there that I was introduced to words like scintillating and I readily latched onto the concept of elegant synonyms that evoked more vivid meaning that their commonly used counterparts.

Over the ensuing years, I devoured that series and have since reread many of its volumes. They became a part of me, a piece of the collection of items and ideas and experiences that have shaped me; it's interesting for me to think back, as if I'm still that insecure little girl, longing for an escape and finding one there in the pages of someone else's book, someone else's home. That discomfort and anxiety that I felt as a child has translated into a cherished part of my psyche.

Remember: positivity can grow from negativity.

f l a s h . b a n g

Thunderstorms: in my childhood, I dreaded them.

The heralding humidity made my skin prickle and my habitually nervous stomach churn into overtime. I remember the summer sight of heavy pastel evening, the sky a low canopy of clouds, cotton soaked in ink. Once the storm started, the rumble and abrupt BANGs were always cataclysmic to me; I felt as if I was the only one on earth who realized that this event was the apocalypse.

My mother loved them, and would celebrate their coming by opening the house's windows to listen to the rain and the low BOOMs. Once, when I was about ten years old, the anxiety that this caused me was so terrible that she had a friend on the phone tell me that he was a meterologist and that no, thunderstorms wouldn't kill me, and that yes, it was alright to open the windows during them.

When I was a few years older, I devised a sort of coping ritual; in the muggy heat of summer vacation, I decided that thunderstorm time would be art time. Along with my younger brother, I spent those nightmare evenings in my bedroom, watching cartoons on my tiny tv and drawing. I created a comic character named Mr. Olive Head; he was a news reporter who was basically an olive with a hat and a microphone.

By the time I was in my 20s, I should have been able to fully cope; this wasn't the case. Once upon a May sunset, I was caught out near Spadina Ave. underneath ominous clouds. The date whom I was with was completely nonchalant; every CRACK of thunder or bright flash made me flinch involuntarily and his comments made me feel ashamed of my reaction. I walked towards shelter as quickly as possible, wondering why I wasn't allowed to be afraid and beginning to question the lack of validity that others gave to my feelings.

h e l l o

Well, it's been a while!

My instinct right now is to sheepishly apologize for my absence and say something lame and self-deprecating in order to save face. A year or so ago I would have done it, but today I'm fighting it.

This is because, basically, I've finally given myself permission to be myself.

This sounds silly, but let me explain; when I was a little girl I was strong-willed, sure of myself, and vocal. If I wanted something (or didn't!) I would let it be known without hesitation. I knew what made me happy (reading quietly, drawing, cats, etc.) and what didn't (pickles! bugs! thunderstorms!) and I'd always let the people around me know. I don't think that I was rude or mean (at least not any more than everyone is at that age) but I was decisive and confident and polite, which I think is excellent.

"I'm a Terrible Person," Became My Mantra

As I grew up though, somehow the confident and decisive parts fell away and I was left quiet and polite; I became the girl who always followed the rules and did what she was supposed to do. I evolved into thinking that my own wants and needs were secondary to those of others. I focused on making people happy in a toxic way, believing that speaking up was rude, that my opinions didn't matter, that I wasn't as good or important as everyone else was(and that I didn't deserve to be). "I'm a terrible person," became my mantra and I constantly felt anxious and downtrodden; the more worry piled onto my heart, the more silence seemed like a refuge, and the more I felt trapped in my own psyche. I was stifled, nervous and unsure, regardless of how many people told me that I was sweet, lovely, thoughtful etc.

As an artist, this was devastating; I compared my work and my presence to my peers and felt that I came up far too short. Progress and practice seemed pointless; self-promotion felt obnoxious and hollow.

And while all this negativity went on inside, I remained that quiet, submissive girl who was convinced that speaking up about her anxiety and expressing herself would cause her to drive the world (and job opportunities) away. My truth was shameful and my real self seemed worthless. I was torn between who I was, who I wanted to be and who other people said that I should be.

I Have Something to Say

I'm not entirely sure what the breaking point was, but this past year (my lowest lows and some pretty excellent highs) has inspired massive amounts of personal growth and change. I've rediscovered the powerful little girl that I used to be and her brightness drives me on. I see now that my own happiness should be the top priority in my life; I'm speaking up more often and find that simply expressing my opinions (big and small) is an immense relief of pressure. My new mantra is "I have something to say," and it makes me feel strong, in control and excellent again. Instead of agonizing over what people think about me, I realize that the only person I need to satisfy is myself. I do what I want to again, and it's exhilarating. I can still be quiet (sometimes) and polite, but now because I want to be, not because I have to be.

And so, here I am, ready for action! 

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