At the 2006 Gemini Awards held in Vancouver, B.C : meeting Shawn in the foreground is my husband, cool dude (who Shawn mentioned was the best dressed, with the fab shades) and my daughter, with the long blonde hair, and my sister is in the middle.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Shawn Ashmore - will you marry my daughter ?
At the 2006 Gemini Awards held in Vancouver, B.C : meeting Shawn in the foreground is my husband, cool dude (who Shawn mentioned was the best dressed, with the fab shades) and my daughter, with the long blonde hair, and my sister is in the middle.
Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama
2006 December 8
Dear Military Police Fund, The CNIB (Canadian National Institute for the Blind), and Debra, my mobility teacher and friend:
My name is Sabrina and I am fourteen years old.
This past September I participated in Space Camp for visually impaired students in Huntsville, Alabama. I am writing you to thank you for donating the funds for me to attend this camp, which I enjoyed tremendously.
I made several new friends from across the world, and learned a lot at Space Academy and enjoyed the gravity machine, making a mini rocket ship to launch, and sharing my room with other visually impaired girls from Saskatchewan and the U.S.A.
I missed a week of school, but I learned a lot at Space Camp, and gained confidence simply by being away from home, far, far away, taking long plane rides, and sharing my daily experiences with kids who were also away from home for the first time.
Thank you for allowing me this opportunity to experience what it’s like to be an astronaut, an adventure that I will remember forever.
Have a Merry Christmas and a great New Year.
Kindest regards,
Sabrina
http://www.tsbvi.edu/space/
My daughter is in love with a Cartoon Character
I guess it could be worse. She could have fallen in love with an actor or a rockstar.
Shawn Ashmore at the 2006 Gemini Awards
Friday, October 06, 2006
The Romanian Bitch
The best place to start is from the middle. It was just two weeks after we moved into our new dream home when we had our first acrimonious discussion with settled neighbour. Brandon was two years old and had driven his battery operated car onto her driveway. She came running out, screaming and hollering, pitching a pointy finger within inches of his face.
I couldn't fathom what I was seeing or hearing at first, it's not possible for an adult voice to erupt in such manner of overreaction and hysterics towards a small child. I'm still flabbergasted as I steer my little boy off her property, tears of fear streaming down his face, and I'v automatically shifted into protective mother mode, bursting into a rant of obscenities.
"You fucking immigrant. You fucking communist, property-lined, territorial fuck wipe."
When I drink I get even. My language becomes vulgar, a certain finesse taking years to master, a rhythm flowing almost poetically, one word strung perfectly with the next, until there is no more breath, and my windpipes fill up once again with a new chorus of slang and rot. She has slighted this juncture in my life with stubborn malthought, her driveway meriting more regard over a little boy, and my memory of moving to my new house is now perverted by her face.
We are still unpacking our belongings while familiarizing ourselves with the new area; the salmon spawning creek aligning our properties, the homing pigeons flying circles above them, and learning neighbor's names, and their kids, which one steals, which one hits.
Our buddies, Steve and Dale helped us with the move, minimally enough to drink free beer and to relax on the front steps to ogle the new desperate housewives. Daniel and I drank, too, in honor of our awe-inspiring purchase, mentally pinching ourselves into the actuality of being here, finally, deep pride having four bathrooms instead of one, where there'd be no more disputes over who gets to poop first.
We starred at our new house, ran up and down the three level of stairs, investigated the creek nearby and laid down in surrounding field, gazing towards the bluest sky on this happiest of days, infecting all around us with absolute bliss, except for Ana. She didn't like the idea of us laying down in the tall grass behind her property, presuming we're passed out drunk, and watched intently for our next stupors from her bedroom window.
It became apparent none of the other neighbors drank, not even casually, nor did they sit on their front stoops, and it also became apparent who they allied with. No one came to welcome us or introduce themselves, keeping an assiduous distance between us, enough to peruse our stuff being loaded off the truck.
It flustered them having ordinary, middle-class folks move into their exclusive neighborhood without claiming to own businesses, or flying airplanes. They thought very highly of themselves, but hid behind false images of company leased vehicles, and tenant income, suites nestled far back in the garden, like a rotten apple.
Ana slurps in Jesus and Christianity and tries to force feed the rest of us with her enlightenment leftovers. Being the Christian she was, denoted a correctness in her actions, whatever acts they were, blessed they are by the Lord, and she will be saved from the likes of me. She doesn't fool us, though, hiding behind the robes of faith, allowing herself exceptions and interpreting her injustices as loving reverence. She's a methodical worshipper, a robotic demeanor with the good Book in hand, and memorized psalms ready for the plucking, as her mouth wags up and down,biblical proverbs fart out in cold stench of disbelief and betrayal.
Daniel and I are not ostentatious and don't need to impress anyone with our circumstance; some of our experiences are not pleasant, some are so fantastic that, to the layman's eye, may appear as a fantasy of our imagination. It truly is the good with the bad that keeps us committed to each other, despite growing bellies and expending youth, we keep each other in check, or in opposition, as necessary. We love our children beyond infinity and it will be a cold day in Hell before I ever allow this woman to onrush them again, even so, Daniel urges I cut her some
slack and let tensions ease.
I have achieved pure hate, an absolute repugnance towards this woman, and I yearned to hire a hit man to blow her fucking head off. I daydreamed about it, laid in my bed at night formulating the kill; the meeting of a junkie on the streets of Vancouver, the shotgun blast exploding her skull wide open, brain matter rocketing feet away from her body, a final gurgling breath, then silence. Sin swelled in my soul every time I saw her, heard her voice, a Hitler-hatred of Jews being marched to the the gas chambers disdain. He was requited, somewhat, as the ash floated in the air, transiently coloring the skies to obscurity, restitution for whatever drove him to his demented design, nonetheless, ensuing his personal gratification.
I erupted my hatred for this cunt every time I saw her in her yard, or in the street, I would shout "fucking immigrant, go home", then continue glutting profanity about Romania being a chicken-shit, communist country full of chicken-shit people, which was the worst calumny imaginable and usually she'd storm off unable to take anymore defamation, gratifying my own indulgence.
Their inferred superiority to us, to all non-Romanian nationals, which was more irritating when a bunch of them showed up, laying cardboard underneath their cars in case of oil leaks. They bragged how their yard is so much bigger than ours, how their daughters can speak English so eloquently, how they are better Canadians than Canadians. They required affirmation to owning the most astonishing house, full of beauteous things, with the most fragrant flowers ever to perfume and behold, dotted within a superlatively manicured lawn.
They actually kept cars in their garage, unlike ours, which was full of kid toys and bikes and camp gear. Ana complained about our vehicles being parked in our driveway and insisted we park in the garage, that is what they are for. She liked the emptiness of the street, with no kids, no vehicles, no noise and found something to complain about when her sense of order was broken.
Every item, small or large, had a proper place and she followed the instruction manuals exactly as written, as if she had grown up watching "Leave it to Beaver" stolen off Sputnik satellite feed. She spoke in manner which was demanding and onerous, and when she attempted to swear at me, she would say "fuck-on-you", which only spurned more loathing towards her iron curtain dialect.
The feud grew as she began blocking my kid's school bus from turning in the cul-de-sac, as she watched for the bus from her garage, then gunning it to the street as it approached my house. She threw cat poop in our swimming pool and one day, upon my return from work, there was a neat pile of cat shit in the middle of my yard. Ana had previously complained about my cat and the poop in her dirt, but we reassured her there were many cats in the area, and besides, we live near a creek full of coyotes and raccoons and strays. Daniel appeased her once by telling her he'd have a talk with our cat and she walked away content with that solution.
We also learned to charm her by remaining in her vaunt conversations, praising all their accomplishments to date, with nary a word in edgewise, again mollifying her for a few more days.
The shit continued to monument itself in my yard, along with dead rats in various stages of decay. A dead rat appeared in front of our curb one day, which we promptly hosed down to slide in front of her house. Ana hosed it back up to us. And so on. After awhile there wasn't much left of the rat, as it was shredded and mangled to unrecognizable bits and pieces on each watery journey.
The poop itself came in all shapes and sizes; big round lumps, long cylinders like popsicle sticks, harden gray pellets, soft and pliable, animal or non-animal, which I seriously deliberated.
She began speeding into the street, from the beginning of the cul-de-sac, straight through to her driveway, laying into her horn the entire time. She understood the standard speed limit on the streets of Surrey was 50km, and in like, drove this fast on our tiny road, confident she wouldn't be fined for speeding. Honking the horn was fair warning to all the children riding their bikes or playing hop-scotch, and she would not brake, easily plowing into them without perceiving an wrongdoing or remorse, after all, the streets are for cars, not for noisy kids. She prodded the children to the backyards, which were still full of rocks and debris from the home builders, certainly not appropriate for bike rides or play.
Still, when we finished landscaping and installing a swimming pool in the back, the kids would splash and laugh out "Marco Polo", Ana would traipse down to the pool deck and tyrannize the children to silence. They were not to be seen or heard, anywhere, anytime, in spite of being within the confines of their own backyard. She held no regard for other's property and went where she pleased, though if you put one foot on hers, she became defensive by such animosity and threatened to call the cops.
On this particular day, the warmth of the sun rejuvenating me, I felt like hero, like Superman, and I unflappably stepped into my family room, pulled out a music CD, and turned the volume up full blast. For the balance of the afternoon, me, the kids in the pool, Ana and her tea party guests dressed in their finery on the deck nearby, were entertained with KISS Destroyer.
Her strict behavior and manner is evident from a communist upbringing, a guarded life, thanksto decades-long rule of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, who took power in 1965, and his police state, becoming increasingly oppressive and draconian through the 1980s. Though Ceausescu was overthrown and executed in late 1989, former Communists dominated the government until 1996, when they were swept from power by an unruly coalition of centrist parties. Rampant corruption and lagging economic and democratic reforms chased her and husband to Canada, and though she came for freedom and opportunities to become a vital individual, Ana is unaware she has instinctively become what she has left behind.
She claimed the portion of the street in front of her house as their own personal property and would come knocking at our door if one of our visitors parked there. She argued and demanded they move, so we did to avoid further embarrassment, and Daniel and I found ourselves capitulating on many occasions for this very reason. Ana controlled us. She controlled the street like a military tank, ready to aim and take fire on anyone who tried to negotiate a fair democratic resolution.
On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, while Daniel and I mused in our garden and the neighborhood deliberately ignored us, the little boy next door was almost hit by her car, and witnessed by his parents. Ana had gone too far and was now being chastised by her one and only friend on the street, the mother of the little boy.
I enjoyed this immensely, the pay back, the moment when someone else recognized what was under the facade of fake laughter and fake gestures of community. I embellished the cries Ana made as she was berated by them, soaked up every last whimper and made certain everyone in the street saw my face of redemption.
It wasn't soon after the mutiny of Ana when the neighborhood initiated discussions with Daniel and myself, idle chit-chat about grass seed, driveway sealers, ordinary crap of little significance, yet in their own way, apologizing.
I couldn't fathom what I was seeing or hearing at first, it's not possible for an adult voice to erupt in such manner of overreaction and hysterics towards a small child. I'm still flabbergasted as I steer my little boy off her property, tears of fear streaming down his face, and I'v automatically shifted into protective mother mode, bursting into a rant of obscenities.
"You fucking immigrant. You fucking communist, property-lined, territorial fuck wipe."
When I drink I get even. My language becomes vulgar, a certain finesse taking years to master, a rhythm flowing almost poetically, one word strung perfectly with the next, until there is no more breath, and my windpipes fill up once again with a new chorus of slang and rot. She has slighted this juncture in my life with stubborn malthought, her driveway meriting more regard over a little boy, and my memory of moving to my new house is now perverted by her face.
We are still unpacking our belongings while familiarizing ourselves with the new area; the salmon spawning creek aligning our properties, the homing pigeons flying circles above them, and learning neighbor's names, and their kids, which one steals, which one hits.
Our buddies, Steve and Dale helped us with the move, minimally enough to drink free beer and to relax on the front steps to ogle the new desperate housewives. Daniel and I drank, too, in honor of our awe-inspiring purchase, mentally pinching ourselves into the actuality of being here, finally, deep pride having four bathrooms instead of one, where there'd be no more disputes over who gets to poop first.
We starred at our new house, ran up and down the three level of stairs, investigated the creek nearby and laid down in surrounding field, gazing towards the bluest sky on this happiest of days, infecting all around us with absolute bliss, except for Ana. She didn't like the idea of us laying down in the tall grass behind her property, presuming we're passed out drunk, and watched intently for our next stupors from her bedroom window.
It became apparent none of the other neighbors drank, not even casually, nor did they sit on their front stoops, and it also became apparent who they allied with. No one came to welcome us or introduce themselves, keeping an assiduous distance between us, enough to peruse our stuff being loaded off the truck.
It flustered them having ordinary, middle-class folks move into their exclusive neighborhood without claiming to own businesses, or flying airplanes. They thought very highly of themselves, but hid behind false images of company leased vehicles, and tenant income, suites nestled far back in the garden, like a rotten apple.
Ana slurps in Jesus and Christianity and tries to force feed the rest of us with her enlightenment leftovers. Being the Christian she was, denoted a correctness in her actions, whatever acts they were, blessed they are by the Lord, and she will be saved from the likes of me. She doesn't fool us, though, hiding behind the robes of faith, allowing herself exceptions and interpreting her injustices as loving reverence. She's a methodical worshipper, a robotic demeanor with the good Book in hand, and memorized psalms ready for the plucking, as her mouth wags up and down,biblical proverbs fart out in cold stench of disbelief and betrayal.
Daniel and I are not ostentatious and don't need to impress anyone with our circumstance; some of our experiences are not pleasant, some are so fantastic that, to the layman's eye, may appear as a fantasy of our imagination. It truly is the good with the bad that keeps us committed to each other, despite growing bellies and expending youth, we keep each other in check, or in opposition, as necessary. We love our children beyond infinity and it will be a cold day in Hell before I ever allow this woman to onrush them again, even so, Daniel urges I cut her some
slack and let tensions ease.
I have achieved pure hate, an absolute repugnance towards this woman, and I yearned to hire a hit man to blow her fucking head off. I daydreamed about it, laid in my bed at night formulating the kill; the meeting of a junkie on the streets of Vancouver, the shotgun blast exploding her skull wide open, brain matter rocketing feet away from her body, a final gurgling breath, then silence. Sin swelled in my soul every time I saw her, heard her voice, a Hitler-hatred of Jews being marched to the the gas chambers disdain. He was requited, somewhat, as the ash floated in the air, transiently coloring the skies to obscurity, restitution for whatever drove him to his demented design, nonetheless, ensuing his personal gratification.
I erupted my hatred for this cunt every time I saw her in her yard, or in the street, I would shout "fucking immigrant, go home", then continue glutting profanity about Romania being a chicken-shit, communist country full of chicken-shit people, which was the worst calumny imaginable and usually she'd storm off unable to take anymore defamation, gratifying my own indulgence.
Their inferred superiority to us, to all non-Romanian nationals, which was more irritating when a bunch of them showed up, laying cardboard underneath their cars in case of oil leaks. They bragged how their yard is so much bigger than ours, how their daughters can speak English so eloquently, how they are better Canadians than Canadians. They required affirmation to owning the most astonishing house, full of beauteous things, with the most fragrant flowers ever to perfume and behold, dotted within a superlatively manicured lawn.
They actually kept cars in their garage, unlike ours, which was full of kid toys and bikes and camp gear. Ana complained about our vehicles being parked in our driveway and insisted we park in the garage, that is what they are for. She liked the emptiness of the street, with no kids, no vehicles, no noise and found something to complain about when her sense of order was broken.
Every item, small or large, had a proper place and she followed the instruction manuals exactly as written, as if she had grown up watching "Leave it to Beaver" stolen off Sputnik satellite feed. She spoke in manner which was demanding and onerous, and when she attempted to swear at me, she would say "fuck-on-you", which only spurned more loathing towards her iron curtain dialect.
The feud grew as she began blocking my kid's school bus from turning in the cul-de-sac, as she watched for the bus from her garage, then gunning it to the street as it approached my house. She threw cat poop in our swimming pool and one day, upon my return from work, there was a neat pile of cat shit in the middle of my yard. Ana had previously complained about my cat and the poop in her dirt, but we reassured her there were many cats in the area, and besides, we live near a creek full of coyotes and raccoons and strays. Daniel appeased her once by telling her he'd have a talk with our cat and she walked away content with that solution.
We also learned to charm her by remaining in her vaunt conversations, praising all their accomplishments to date, with nary a word in edgewise, again mollifying her for a few more days.
The shit continued to monument itself in my yard, along with dead rats in various stages of decay. A dead rat appeared in front of our curb one day, which we promptly hosed down to slide in front of her house. Ana hosed it back up to us. And so on. After awhile there wasn't much left of the rat, as it was shredded and mangled to unrecognizable bits and pieces on each watery journey.
The poop itself came in all shapes and sizes; big round lumps, long cylinders like popsicle sticks, harden gray pellets, soft and pliable, animal or non-animal, which I seriously deliberated.
She began speeding into the street, from the beginning of the cul-de-sac, straight through to her driveway, laying into her horn the entire time. She understood the standard speed limit on the streets of Surrey was 50km, and in like, drove this fast on our tiny road, confident she wouldn't be fined for speeding. Honking the horn was fair warning to all the children riding their bikes or playing hop-scotch, and she would not brake, easily plowing into them without perceiving an wrongdoing or remorse, after all, the streets are for cars, not for noisy kids. She prodded the children to the backyards, which were still full of rocks and debris from the home builders, certainly not appropriate for bike rides or play.
Still, when we finished landscaping and installing a swimming pool in the back, the kids would splash and laugh out "Marco Polo", Ana would traipse down to the pool deck and tyrannize the children to silence. They were not to be seen or heard, anywhere, anytime, in spite of being within the confines of their own backyard. She held no regard for other's property and went where she pleased, though if you put one foot on hers, she became defensive by such animosity and threatened to call the cops.
On this particular day, the warmth of the sun rejuvenating me, I felt like hero, like Superman, and I unflappably stepped into my family room, pulled out a music CD, and turned the volume up full blast. For the balance of the afternoon, me, the kids in the pool, Ana and her tea party guests dressed in their finery on the deck nearby, were entertained with KISS Destroyer.
Her strict behavior and manner is evident from a communist upbringing, a guarded life, thanksto decades-long rule of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, who took power in 1965, and his police state, becoming increasingly oppressive and draconian through the 1980s. Though Ceausescu was overthrown and executed in late 1989, former Communists dominated the government until 1996, when they were swept from power by an unruly coalition of centrist parties. Rampant corruption and lagging economic and democratic reforms chased her and husband to Canada, and though she came for freedom and opportunities to become a vital individual, Ana is unaware she has instinctively become what she has left behind.
She claimed the portion of the street in front of her house as their own personal property and would come knocking at our door if one of our visitors parked there. She argued and demanded they move, so we did to avoid further embarrassment, and Daniel and I found ourselves capitulating on many occasions for this very reason. Ana controlled us. She controlled the street like a military tank, ready to aim and take fire on anyone who tried to negotiate a fair democratic resolution.
On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, while Daniel and I mused in our garden and the neighborhood deliberately ignored us, the little boy next door was almost hit by her car, and witnessed by his parents. Ana had gone too far and was now being chastised by her one and only friend on the street, the mother of the little boy.
I enjoyed this immensely, the pay back, the moment when someone else recognized what was under the facade of fake laughter and fake gestures of community. I embellished the cries Ana made as she was berated by them, soaked up every last whimper and made certain everyone in the street saw my face of redemption.
It wasn't soon after the mutiny of Ana when the neighborhood initiated discussions with Daniel and myself, idle chit-chat about grass seed, driveway sealers, ordinary crap of little significance, yet in their own way, apologizing.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Camp Dead Whale
Their eyes roll back into deep crevasses, white marbles float behind fluttering lashes and fluttering sound within the lobby at the Institute. Their necks stretch for recognition, for guidance and instructions, as they dance their heads for reassurances of control. They sit in chairs or stand against walls, white canes appended alongside these children who have been inflicted with disease or abnormalities at birth, are waiting in muted choir.
They are going on a trip and will take ferry across the inlet to an Island paradise, to mulct nature and consequences, to pilfer things meant only for the sighted and, until then, reserved only by divinity and for not one less perfect. Sabrina waits amongst them and her daddy smears away the wetness that has uncontrollably escaped his throat and providence. He wants to leave immediately and tell them there's been a big mistake, but Sabrina has already found a chair to sit in, a familiar comfort has chastened her within fluttering lashes and fluttering sounds within the lobby at the Institute for the Blind, a deviation assented by no one.
Some arrest in complete darkness, while Sabrina nervously shudders her head, monitoring her surroundings and the other teens registered for camp. She is wondering which girl will be her roomate, since the rooms are maintained for two guests each. Her daddy wonders, too, and if Sabrina will need to chaperone a white caned kid with white marbled eyes. He wants to flee and desperately questions Sabrina, "are you sure you want to go?" But she is too excited to take trip to the lodge, where she will dwell by the water and float and kayate down streams that snake into the salty taste of the ocean. She is so bloody brave his heart aches.
This damned conflict restrains him from utter sorrow, yet he knows deep down inside his fear this is where she belongs. He lets go and waves one last wave, as the bus pulls out into the busy streets of Vancouver, winding down romantic traffic toward the ferry docks, until Sabrina can no longer see him. She could never see him.
She telephones us the instant they land on the beach and are escorted to their quarters. Our cell phone we gave her is fully charged and we anticipate it's ring, but not as quickly as this, to the exact minute of the itinerary of events. She already sounds different. She sounds older, like confidence. Sabrina says she is safe and that we are not to worry about her, it's a beautiful place and she has friends just like her, "eyes just like me, mom", and there's a hot tub and my friends are Kayla and Duck Boy.
In the background I hear faint sounds "quack, quack" and am convinced she is amongst retards. Blind retards. I whisper one last time, "do you want to come home?" Nod once for yes, two for no. God damned no good for nothing telephones. I accept her silence as an embarrassing conversation she must let go, and "mom, don't be afraid".
Wake up call is 7:00am, to ready the day for adventure and new beginnings. They blast the stereo system into each room, boom-boom-boom, announcers with military overtones, and military threats. Or so she thinks. She doesn't want to wake this early, but reluctantly drags herself out of bed towards the smell of breakfast and toast and jam. It's almost like blind kids can smell the skin of bacon a mile away, even under the cover of wild flowers and drift wood and dead whales.
Sabrina will stuff her belly with enough sustenance to last the entire day, enduring ocean cold waters, and computer-aid labs, and roomate switches and glitches, until she is ready to telephone her parents good-night. Today was a good day and she is tired. Her eyes are tired.
The next phone call is more frantic, as she annoyingly reports that someone has stolen her pyjama bottoms. She's almost blaming me, angered about this turn of event and what should I do now and make things right and it's all my fault. I'm beginning to feel pissed off. She says the girl who switched rooms could have taken them, the girl who is completely blind. I'm calming Sabrina down by telling her it's possible the girl didn't know, after all, she's deaf. Sabrina is momentarily silenced, formulating my comment and how harebrained that seems, eventually concluding how foolish she is being. She is searching her room while we speak, while the new roommate listens in on our conversation, and I immediately understand the Freudian aspect of this phone call.
The fact Sabrina can call her parents, furthermore, the action of searching, is far more revealing and enviable driven to someone who cannot seek out a garment at all, notwithstanding dial a tiny cell phone. Sabrina is spreading her wings, demonstrating how much of a peacock she really is, and finally reports , "Oh, there they are". The fact that she's a slob didn't even figure into the equation, but I had my suspicions.
I'm feeling a bit sorry for the girl who moved out, since Sabrina ransacked through her luggage, shovelling out her belongings in search of pyjama bottoms. I now envision some teenaged girl tapping her cane along corridors, wearing missmatched apparelle, items previously neatly packed to aid in her daily wardrobe selection. But Sabrina is not familiar with these sort of protocols, having some sight has excluded her from a level of correctness only the visually impaired can dispute or repute. Sabrina has never considered herself visually impaired, she has never learned the ordinance of the blind.
She is almost thirteen years old and her lodge-mates are sixteen, seventeen, older and wiser. But Sabrina has better vision than most, better advantage than most. Not everything is brailled and she knows it, now. She has never been amongst her fellowship, has always been lesser than the sighted kids at her school, being teased having to use special soccer balls, or basketballs adapted with bells within them, to rely on other sensory perceptions to play the game, to enable her to be in the game at all. She realizes now she has many bells in her eyes which have, hands down, appointed her a leader, a luminary despite her youth and immaturity, Sabrina is someone to be reckoned with.
And she will use this time well because the week will soon be over and she will eventually return to the life she truly resides, the life of preconceptions. This week she will savour in all her taste and smells and touch, she will soak in every moment of being what it is like to be the sighted one, the bully, the moderator, the wounded, the weak. She will become Sabrina at twelve years old.
In the morning the staff will bang pots and pans and yell for the teens to awaken, the dawn of a new day is approaching, and in the confronting likeliness of her mommy, Sabrina yells from within the warmth of her blankets, "We're blind, not deaf!". I know she will be well in any circumstance, any situation, any darkness.
This kid is my kid and I'm not afraid anymore.
They are going on a trip and will take ferry across the inlet to an Island paradise, to mulct nature and consequences, to pilfer things meant only for the sighted and, until then, reserved only by divinity and for not one less perfect. Sabrina waits amongst them and her daddy smears away the wetness that has uncontrollably escaped his throat and providence. He wants to leave immediately and tell them there's been a big mistake, but Sabrina has already found a chair to sit in, a familiar comfort has chastened her within fluttering lashes and fluttering sounds within the lobby at the Institute for the Blind, a deviation assented by no one.
Some arrest in complete darkness, while Sabrina nervously shudders her head, monitoring her surroundings and the other teens registered for camp. She is wondering which girl will be her roomate, since the rooms are maintained for two guests each. Her daddy wonders, too, and if Sabrina will need to chaperone a white caned kid with white marbled eyes. He wants to flee and desperately questions Sabrina, "are you sure you want to go?" But she is too excited to take trip to the lodge, where she will dwell by the water and float and kayate down streams that snake into the salty taste of the ocean. She is so bloody brave his heart aches.
This damned conflict restrains him from utter sorrow, yet he knows deep down inside his fear this is where she belongs. He lets go and waves one last wave, as the bus pulls out into the busy streets of Vancouver, winding down romantic traffic toward the ferry docks, until Sabrina can no longer see him. She could never see him.
She telephones us the instant they land on the beach and are escorted to their quarters. Our cell phone we gave her is fully charged and we anticipate it's ring, but not as quickly as this, to the exact minute of the itinerary of events. She already sounds different. She sounds older, like confidence. Sabrina says she is safe and that we are not to worry about her, it's a beautiful place and she has friends just like her, "eyes just like me, mom", and there's a hot tub and my friends are Kayla and Duck Boy.
In the background I hear faint sounds "quack, quack" and am convinced she is amongst retards. Blind retards. I whisper one last time, "do you want to come home?" Nod once for yes, two for no. God damned no good for nothing telephones. I accept her silence as an embarrassing conversation she must let go, and "mom, don't be afraid".
Wake up call is 7:00am, to ready the day for adventure and new beginnings. They blast the stereo system into each room, boom-boom-boom, announcers with military overtones, and military threats. Or so she thinks. She doesn't want to wake this early, but reluctantly drags herself out of bed towards the smell of breakfast and toast and jam. It's almost like blind kids can smell the skin of bacon a mile away, even under the cover of wild flowers and drift wood and dead whales.
Sabrina will stuff her belly with enough sustenance to last the entire day, enduring ocean cold waters, and computer-aid labs, and roomate switches and glitches, until she is ready to telephone her parents good-night. Today was a good day and she is tired. Her eyes are tired.
The next phone call is more frantic, as she annoyingly reports that someone has stolen her pyjama bottoms. She's almost blaming me, angered about this turn of event and what should I do now and make things right and it's all my fault. I'm beginning to feel pissed off. She says the girl who switched rooms could have taken them, the girl who is completely blind. I'm calming Sabrina down by telling her it's possible the girl didn't know, after all, she's deaf. Sabrina is momentarily silenced, formulating my comment and how harebrained that seems, eventually concluding how foolish she is being. She is searching her room while we speak, while the new roommate listens in on our conversation, and I immediately understand the Freudian aspect of this phone call.
The fact Sabrina can call her parents, furthermore, the action of searching, is far more revealing and enviable driven to someone who cannot seek out a garment at all, notwithstanding dial a tiny cell phone. Sabrina is spreading her wings, demonstrating how much of a peacock she really is, and finally reports , "Oh, there they are". The fact that she's a slob didn't even figure into the equation, but I had my suspicions.
I'm feeling a bit sorry for the girl who moved out, since Sabrina ransacked through her luggage, shovelling out her belongings in search of pyjama bottoms. I now envision some teenaged girl tapping her cane along corridors, wearing missmatched apparelle, items previously neatly packed to aid in her daily wardrobe selection. But Sabrina is not familiar with these sort of protocols, having some sight has excluded her from a level of correctness only the visually impaired can dispute or repute. Sabrina has never considered herself visually impaired, she has never learned the ordinance of the blind.
She is almost thirteen years old and her lodge-mates are sixteen, seventeen, older and wiser. But Sabrina has better vision than most, better advantage than most. Not everything is brailled and she knows it, now. She has never been amongst her fellowship, has always been lesser than the sighted kids at her school, being teased having to use special soccer balls, or basketballs adapted with bells within them, to rely on other sensory perceptions to play the game, to enable her to be in the game at all. She realizes now she has many bells in her eyes which have, hands down, appointed her a leader, a luminary despite her youth and immaturity, Sabrina is someone to be reckoned with.
And she will use this time well because the week will soon be over and she will eventually return to the life she truly resides, the life of preconceptions. This week she will savour in all her taste and smells and touch, she will soak in every moment of being what it is like to be the sighted one, the bully, the moderator, the wounded, the weak. She will become Sabrina at twelve years old.
In the morning the staff will bang pots and pans and yell for the teens to awaken, the dawn of a new day is approaching, and in the confronting likeliness of her mommy, Sabrina yells from within the warmth of her blankets, "We're blind, not deaf!". I know she will be well in any circumstance, any situation, any darkness.
This kid is my kid and I'm not afraid anymore.
Once Upon a Panic
Once upon a panic I worked in a one girl office, caged up like a lion at a second rate zoo, melancholy wearied by breathing time away and answering telephones for copier machines and calculator orders, equally as tiresome. The view outside my window was the parking lot and I formed phrases and words from acronyms on license plates; DHE 691 became "dirty, horny, easy, 69 once", amusing myself to drain the hours away in niggardly wages and unsolicited boredom.
I'm in my early twenties have decided to become an actress, or a screenplay writer, or a director, anything that will keep me from playing scrabble in my head, and I've signed up for an acting class from a man claiming to have directed many episodes of Danger Bay, or some other dull Canadian show produced with government tax credits for the National Film Board of Canada.
He conducts his class in his high rise apartment situated on the north shore of Vancouver, close to the ski hills and the constellations, and he plays up his connection to Hollywood so that we're all feeling tingly inside, anxious to become the next it factor. Vancouver has become a boomtown in the film industry, with many Hollywood productions coming north for the range of scenery, doubling as many U.S. cities or international landscapes, all in the comforts of a cheap Canadian dollar and flavourful beer.
Our acting teacher informs us of a production currently in need of extras and how this would be an ideal experience to witness a big movie production first hand. I attend the casting call and wait in the long lineup to meet with the casting agents, and soon learn the movie headlines Daryl Hannah, who is well known in the industry by now, especially after her role in "Splash" with Tom Hanks.
The movie is "Clan of The Cave Bear", a story of a young cro-magnon woman raised by neanderthals, and it's adapted from Jean M. Auel's novel, which I would read many years later on the sky train to work. Daryl plays the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Ayla, who is adopted by a bunch of dark, pudgy, short homo sapiens, and I fit the clan perfectly, except for my eyes which are eerily blue against the painted body tan I receive each morning before film rolls.
I am allocated to the Desert Clan, amongst many clans who gather at a ritual meeting, where others will meet the character, Ayla, who herself meets the only other person with blue eyes. It's not me, of course, as I am sent to the backdrop by the director himself, a notoriety I proudly pomp having been told, "you, get out of my shot", and I saunter off to stand with the likes of Creb, Broud, Droug and Zoug.
I wanted to stand up close to Daryl Hannah, James Remar and Thomas Waites, having grown up with celebrity fascination and adoration, to watch them perform, to watch them be real. I am familiar with James Remar and Thomas Waites, both were in one of my favorite movies, "The Warriors". James had a leading role, Thomas' appearance was momentary and unaccredited, but he previously starred with one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino, in "And Justice for All", little tidbits of information that somehow managed to trickle down to the peons.
Of course, I really couldn't recognize them at first because we're all dressed up like cavemen, but in time we'd ascertain the ones wearing the really nice fur skins were the big movies stars, and the ones wearing the thin cow leather, weren't. We film for three days on Bowen Island, a forested retreat just 20 minutes away by ferry from Horseshoe Bay, which is a perfect secluded location, without the bloopers of modern man mistakenly showing up on reel by poor editing.
It's cold when we film, we stand around most of the time waiting for the camera 'B" yell, and eat marvelous meals dispensed by the caterers on site, steak and baked potatoes, fruit salad, anything we wanted appearing out of the blue from the puny confines of a metallic trailer, like Houdini from a chained up trunk.
On one of the breaks I become aware I am standing near Thomas Waites and strike up conversation, asking him what it was like to meet Al Pacino. He is with a couple of other actors, and I will never understand why he did this, as he drops his hand down to grope at his crouch from beneath his fur skin and asks me "how would I like to meet this?"
There's a time and place for vulgarity and I'm not expecting it in the remake of the caveman epoch, nor am I expecting it from a movie star, as I glare at him disdainly. I believe he felt awful the second he blurted his words out at me, pausing in disbelief, wishing he could take the words back and chat up a storm about Al Pacino tomfoolery instead. But it's too late, I'm disenchanted by him and I've already turned away, blaming the cold for my gritting teeth. I have found a fire to stand by, to allow the rising smoke to flog me and cleanse the dirtiness off.
The next days would be the same, repetition of scenes and direction, watching all the little people scurry here and there, production staff rushing with purpose, then the bear comes out and we watch the trainer make him stand up and act grizzly. Upon the third day I am feeling weak and tired, having to wake up at five in the morning, racing to catch a ferry, having hair and makeup applied, only to wait around for hours skimpily dressed, soaked in morning dew.
I immediately recognize it, the hesitation of breathing, the heaviness in my chest as I gasp for air, untutored breath. I am having a panic attack and I'm feeling paranoid, trapped on a tiny Island without a doctor, without a hospital or a defibrillator nearby, which worsens my panic. People beside me have brought my predicament to notice and I am quickly escorted off to a dressing area, which is a large tent hoarding the street clothes of all the extras. I have decided to leave, now, because panic creates an urgency, no matter how mentally absurd it is, I am dying.
I have reached my car and have laid myself on it's hood, just to stop for a minute, to arrest my heart from imploding, when I am unexpectedly approached by a man wearing a huge fur coat, a coat of bear skin. I hold my head up and he cups my face, checking me over for injury, and agrees it has been a long day. It's James Remar and I will never forget his kindness, the embarrassment and awkwardness of myself, not knowing which pair of eyes to look into, his or the ones on the bear hood crowned on his head.
Today, when I see him in a television show, I am reminded of Bowen Island, the grunting dialogue, the hands rendering words and gestures, and how "Ajax" restored my adoration to actors and the movie productions.
I stand by the ferry dock, watching for it in the distant waters, a solitary figment swelling into a hull and superstructure as it sails closer, then the main deck encased in storm rails become visible, and finally the crew who will take me home, safe.
I stand on the banks of Bowen Island for one last time, and she comes to shake my hand and conveys it was nice working with me, though we never met on set. It may have been in my eyes, the fear, the isolation, the regret, the happy ending, as the panic disolves away into the horizon.
Daryl Hannah is going home, too. She walks away, so tall, so skinny and beautiful, like a Mermaid.
I'm in my early twenties have decided to become an actress, or a screenplay writer, or a director, anything that will keep me from playing scrabble in my head, and I've signed up for an acting class from a man claiming to have directed many episodes of Danger Bay, or some other dull Canadian show produced with government tax credits for the National Film Board of Canada.
He conducts his class in his high rise apartment situated on the north shore of Vancouver, close to the ski hills and the constellations, and he plays up his connection to Hollywood so that we're all feeling tingly inside, anxious to become the next it factor. Vancouver has become a boomtown in the film industry, with many Hollywood productions coming north for the range of scenery, doubling as many U.S. cities or international landscapes, all in the comforts of a cheap Canadian dollar and flavourful beer.
Our acting teacher informs us of a production currently in need of extras and how this would be an ideal experience to witness a big movie production first hand. I attend the casting call and wait in the long lineup to meet with the casting agents, and soon learn the movie headlines Daryl Hannah, who is well known in the industry by now, especially after her role in "Splash" with Tom Hanks.
The movie is "Clan of The Cave Bear", a story of a young cro-magnon woman raised by neanderthals, and it's adapted from Jean M. Auel's novel, which I would read many years later on the sky train to work. Daryl plays the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Ayla, who is adopted by a bunch of dark, pudgy, short homo sapiens, and I fit the clan perfectly, except for my eyes which are eerily blue against the painted body tan I receive each morning before film rolls.
I am allocated to the Desert Clan, amongst many clans who gather at a ritual meeting, where others will meet the character, Ayla, who herself meets the only other person with blue eyes. It's not me, of course, as I am sent to the backdrop by the director himself, a notoriety I proudly pomp having been told, "you, get out of my shot", and I saunter off to stand with the likes of Creb, Broud, Droug and Zoug.
I wanted to stand up close to Daryl Hannah, James Remar and Thomas Waites, having grown up with celebrity fascination and adoration, to watch them perform, to watch them be real. I am familiar with James Remar and Thomas Waites, both were in one of my favorite movies, "The Warriors". James had a leading role, Thomas' appearance was momentary and unaccredited, but he previously starred with one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino, in "And Justice for All", little tidbits of information that somehow managed to trickle down to the peons.
Of course, I really couldn't recognize them at first because we're all dressed up like cavemen, but in time we'd ascertain the ones wearing the really nice fur skins were the big movies stars, and the ones wearing the thin cow leather, weren't. We film for three days on Bowen Island, a forested retreat just 20 minutes away by ferry from Horseshoe Bay, which is a perfect secluded location, without the bloopers of modern man mistakenly showing up on reel by poor editing.
It's cold when we film, we stand around most of the time waiting for the camera 'B" yell, and eat marvelous meals dispensed by the caterers on site, steak and baked potatoes, fruit salad, anything we wanted appearing out of the blue from the puny confines of a metallic trailer, like Houdini from a chained up trunk.
On one of the breaks I become aware I am standing near Thomas Waites and strike up conversation, asking him what it was like to meet Al Pacino. He is with a couple of other actors, and I will never understand why he did this, as he drops his hand down to grope at his crouch from beneath his fur skin and asks me "how would I like to meet this?"
There's a time and place for vulgarity and I'm not expecting it in the remake of the caveman epoch, nor am I expecting it from a movie star, as I glare at him disdainly. I believe he felt awful the second he blurted his words out at me, pausing in disbelief, wishing he could take the words back and chat up a storm about Al Pacino tomfoolery instead. But it's too late, I'm disenchanted by him and I've already turned away, blaming the cold for my gritting teeth. I have found a fire to stand by, to allow the rising smoke to flog me and cleanse the dirtiness off.
The next days would be the same, repetition of scenes and direction, watching all the little people scurry here and there, production staff rushing with purpose, then the bear comes out and we watch the trainer make him stand up and act grizzly. Upon the third day I am feeling weak and tired, having to wake up at five in the morning, racing to catch a ferry, having hair and makeup applied, only to wait around for hours skimpily dressed, soaked in morning dew.
I immediately recognize it, the hesitation of breathing, the heaviness in my chest as I gasp for air, untutored breath. I am having a panic attack and I'm feeling paranoid, trapped on a tiny Island without a doctor, without a hospital or a defibrillator nearby, which worsens my panic. People beside me have brought my predicament to notice and I am quickly escorted off to a dressing area, which is a large tent hoarding the street clothes of all the extras. I have decided to leave, now, because panic creates an urgency, no matter how mentally absurd it is, I am dying.
I have reached my car and have laid myself on it's hood, just to stop for a minute, to arrest my heart from imploding, when I am unexpectedly approached by a man wearing a huge fur coat, a coat of bear skin. I hold my head up and he cups my face, checking me over for injury, and agrees it has been a long day. It's James Remar and I will never forget his kindness, the embarrassment and awkwardness of myself, not knowing which pair of eyes to look into, his or the ones on the bear hood crowned on his head.
Today, when I see him in a television show, I am reminded of Bowen Island, the grunting dialogue, the hands rendering words and gestures, and how "Ajax" restored my adoration to actors and the movie productions.
I stand by the ferry dock, watching for it in the distant waters, a solitary figment swelling into a hull and superstructure as it sails closer, then the main deck encased in storm rails become visible, and finally the crew who will take me home, safe.
I stand on the banks of Bowen Island for one last time, and she comes to shake my hand and conveys it was nice working with me, though we never met on set. It may have been in my eyes, the fear, the isolation, the regret, the happy ending, as the panic disolves away into the horizon.
Daryl Hannah is going home, too. She walks away, so tall, so skinny and beautiful, like a Mermaid.
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