Lets get things roling

So it's been like six months or more since I wrote, or something ridiculous like that, so I thought I try and get things roling with a joke.

On a group of beautiful deserted islands in the middle of
nowhere, the following people are suddenly stranded by, as you might expect, a shipwreck:

2 Italian men and 1 Italian woman
2 French men and 1 French woman
2 German men and 1 German woman
2 Greek men and 1 Greek woman
2 English men and 1 English woman
2 Bulgarian men and 1 Bulgarian woman
2 Japanese men and 1 Japanese woman
2 Chinese men and 1 Chinese woman
2 American men and 1 American woman
2 Irish men and 1 Irish woman

One month later on these same absolutely stunning
deserted islands in the middle of nowhere, the following
things have occurred:

One Italian man killed the other Italian man for the
Italian woman.

The two French men and the French woman are living
happily together in a menage-a-trois.

The two German men have a strict weekly schedule of
alternating visits with the German woman.

The two Greek men are sleeping with each other and
the Greek woman is cleaning and cooking for them.

The two English men are waiting for someone to
introduce them to the English woman.

The two Bulgarian men took one long look at the
endless ocean, and another long look at the Bulgarian
woman, and started swimming.

The two Japanese men have faxed Tokyoand are
awaiting instructions.

The two Chinese men have set up a pharmacy, a liquor
store, a restaurant and a laundry, and have got the woman
pregnant in order to supply employees for their stores.

The two American men are contemplating the virtues of
suicide because the American woman keeps endlessly
complaining about her body; the true nature of feminism;
how she can do everything they can do; the necessity of
fulfillment; the equal division of household chores; how
sand and palm trees make her look fat; how her last
boyfriend respected her opinion and treated her nicer than
they do; how her relationship with her mother is improving
and how at least the taxes are low and it isn't raining.

The two Irish men have divided the island into North and
South and set up a distillery. They do not remember if sex
is in the picture because it gets sort of foggy after the first
few litres of coconut whisky. But they're satisfied because
at least the English aren't having any fun.

Now, I've been trying to decide...is this joke racist?

Planet Earth, Milky Way, Universe...etc.etc....

Today I started my new job. I am now officially an employee in the garden centre at Canadian Tire, Wilson Creek, Sechelt, British Columbia, Canada, North America, Northern Hemisphere, Planet Earth, Milky Way, The Universe...and whatever else goes beyond that, because that can't really be it can it?

This is my first step to saving money to go to another part of this 'one and only' Planet Earth, Milky Way, Universe...etcetera, etcetera... Although with my wage starting at only $8.10/hr and them 'never hiring full time' I'm not sure how realistic my goal is for September of this year.

I got to Wilson Creek early due to the fact that the local buses do not cater to my needs and found myself sitting in the plaza of the Inernational Grocers Association (more commonly known as IGA) outside the local coffee shop. I sat there, non fat, grande latte in hand, listening to John Butler sing about...I don't remember what he was singing about, and let my mind wander, as I often do. I was thinking about...I don't remember what I was thinking about, when I noticed the bees. Or Bee, singular, rather.

Next to my right foot sat a pot of flowers. I should probably be able to tell you what kind of flowers they were see as I work in the garden center and should now be an expert, but, my mind was not geared the same way that it is now, 10 hours later. I watched this bee frantically going from flower to flower, transferring pollen as if it's life depended on it. Did it know that my life depended on it, I wondered?

Do bees know that the whole world depends on them? Do they know that they are serving a purpose? Do they know that if they did not pollinate then there would be no world as we know it? Ultimately everything comes down to this little fuzzy, yellow and black insect (is it an insect?), with sticky legs. Or are they only doing it for one purpose, to make honey? Which, ultimately seems to be for us anyway. Do they actually eat the honey? Or is it for the bears? Do these little creatures do anything for themselves? Or are they completely selfless?

Does everything serve a greater purpose other than living for themselves? Even humans? Maybe everything we do, the fact that I just put my coffee mug down, the way I just shuffled to the right to make myself more comfortable, serves some greater purpose in the universe. Maybe everything we do is driven by something other than instinct and intuition, some greater power and I don't mean God, because if we didn't take that extra step to the right, the world would end. The survival of the Universe and the etcetera etcetera depends on this little planet and me, and the bees, and the honey.

The thought that the survival of the Universe and what lies beyond depends on me, is kind of scary. What if I do something wrong? But maybe I'm supposed to make a mistake. Maybe I'm supposed to fuck up because if I did everything perfectly, then maybe we wouldn't exist. So, maybe what I do wrong, I'm actually doing right?

I looked at the book that I had in my hand in mock-peruse, How To Be Good by Nick Hornby and thought, "Do I really need to learn how to be good, or is it already in me. Natural instinct?". I placed it down on the cold metal table and looked around. People brushed passed me like worker bees, doing their job, because something other than their brains were telling them to. Then I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, crossed them again, because it felt natural. Then I picked up my coffee, turned up my discman to Ani Difranco, and drank like the survival of the universe and what lay beyond depended on it, because who knows, maybe it does.


Little Plastic Castle
by Ani Difranco

In a coffee Shop,
In a city,
Which is every coffee Shop,
In every City,
On a Day,
Which is every day.

I picked up a magasine,
Which is Every Magasine,
And I read a story,
Then I forgot it,
Right away.

They say Goldfish,
Have no memory,
I guess their lives are much like mine,
And the little, Plastic Castle,
Is a suprise everytime,
And it's hard to say,
If they're happy,
But they don't seem much to mind.

From the shape,
Of your shaved head,
I recognised your silouette,
As you walked out,
Of the sun,
And sat down.

And the side of your sleepy smile,
Eclipsed off the other people,
As they paused to sneer at the two girls from out of town.

I said "look at,
you this morning,
You are by far the cutest,
But be careful,
Getting coffee,
I think these people wanna shoot us.
Or maybe there's some kinda local competition,
Here, to see, who can be the rudest..."

People talk about my image,
Like I come into dimensions,
Like lipstick, is a sign of my declining mind.
Like what I happen, to be wearing,
The day that someone takes a picture,
Is my new statement,
For all of Woman kind.

And I wish, they could see us now,
In leather bras and rubber shorts,
Like some ridiculous team uniform,
For some ridiculous new sport,
Quick,
Someone, call the girl police,
And, file a report.

In a coffee shop,
In a city,
Which is every coffee shop,
In every city,
On a day,
Which is every day.

It's the inside that counts

I remember when I was 12, I noticed that in the corner of the shower, where the glass tiles met ceramic, there was a mushroom. It had bunkered down in the grout on the side of the tub and began to grow. I showed it to my mum and she responded with the same "Oh" as when I noticed the Maple seedling beginning to grow through the vent on the hood of our Volvo station wagon.

Maybe it was the hippy in my mum rearing up, not wanting to take the life away from something that was so alive, or maybe it was her just being lazy, but it, like the maple tree, stayed there. I don't remember the day it went away, I don't think I even noticed. I don't know if my mum finally got around to cleaning the spot in the tiles that it had come to call home, or if it finally drowned in the water from the excessive showers I had come accustomed to taking, but after time, it deffinately dissapeared. Like the seedling. Gone.

I had a shower this morning, as I do every morning. I always have my best moments in the shower. I write poetry. I come up with stories. Always when there isn't a pen and paper. Just like when I first wake up. Always my best moments. I have now come to keeping a journal right by my pillow, so when I wake up, I can jot down my thoughts before they escape. I can't do that in the shower. As soon as I step out, they go down the drain with the bath water. To the sewer for the rats to enjoy.

I stood under the water, watching as it fell over my body, creating streams down my breasts and stomach. Letting it fall over my head. Cupping my hands in the classic commerical shower pose, and splashing my face.
This was when I remembered the mushroom, and I looked into the corner, now empty.

I began my usual habit of counting the tiles. I used to as a kid, and sometimes still do, group them into clusters of five in my head, then six. But mostly fives. I've always liked five. It seems such a happy number.
I was doing this when I realised that in the time I have been away from home, somebody had cleaned the grout.
The grout has been bleached and is now so white that no mushroom would reside in this shower.
Somebody has scrubbed even down into the tightest corner.
Probably with a toothbrush. Probably my mother.

And that got me to thinking about the other things that have changed since I left home. The little things. The new coat of paint in my parents room and the bathroom. The new pictures hanging on the walls. The new spatula in the kitchen. The new toilet seat.

Then that got me thinking, if this house, this solid building that does not grow or shrink with age can change so much in such a short period of time, have I changed? Am I a different person than the one my parents said goodbye to at the Vancouver International Airport last May? I don't look different on the outside minus the new peircings and tattoo. But then neither does the house, minus a new tree out front. So maybe I've changed on the inside. Like this house.
I can't pinpoint it but I think I have.
Gotten older and I like to think a little wiser...and maybe lost some weight?
But the physical stuff doesn't matter anymore.
I've almost grown out of that.
Matured a bit...maybe...nah...
But, like I've always been told...
It's what's on the inside that counts.

I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore....

I'm home.
Safe and sound.
I booked my ticket last Thursday and flew home on Sunday.
I didn't tell anyone.
I just showed up.
My mum cried, my brother jumped, and my dad laughed. I think they knew it was coming.
I haven't decided yet whether it's a good thing. Don't think I believe that I'm home yet. Sleeping in my own bed feels weird but normal. I think my cat remembers me which is good.

I caught a bus from the ferry terminal on Monday morning after spending the night at Frogirls. I couldn't stop grinning from ear to ear. The sun poured through the trees as the bus sped along the highway. I had forgotten how beautiful it is here. So gorgeous.
Because of work going on on my street, the bus dropped me off right at the bottom of my driveway. Such service.
The men working on my dad's shop must have wondered what was going on when I asked them if there was anyone home and replied 'good' to the negative answer. Must have thought they were witnessing a burglary. But then must have second guessed it when they looked at the ammount of baggage. What burglar carries a backpack, duffle bag, shoulder bag and day pack?

I sat in the living room taking things in. The new wall hanging, Grandma's clock which now sits in the living room, her barometre. Photos of me on my last day in the country before my journey. My cat sniffed my toes as if to check if it really was me.

I called my best friend up the coast who was surprised to find that I was home.
Then I stood at the top of the stairs watching the men errecting the building that will have my new bedroom in it through the hall window and waited for my mum to come home from work.

A warm feeling flooded me. Maybe it was me realising where I was, or maybe I was still tingly from my last night in Edinburgh. Maybe it was both.
But I do know one thing:
Dorothy was right.
There's no place like home.

Take a ride on the crazy horse

You swore you'd never smoke. You thought drugs were for wash-outs and losers. The first time you smoked a joint, you and your best friend made a vow not to inhale. This didn't last long. It soon became a weekly ritual. Then semi-weekly/sometimes daily. But you swore you would never touch anything else. Weed was safe.

Then, BANG! 7 years later, you're snorting speed off a mirror table at a party and you wonder where the good girl that was once you, went.

I have a 'friend'. She is 20. Just turned 20 to be exact. She is in the UK on a two year working holiday visa and lately has found herself questioning the route her life is taking (any similarities to me are purely coincidental).

She spent her 20th birthday at a party where she didn't know anyone except those with which she arrived. It was almost like a home party except with more drugs.
She mingled.
She drank.
She danced.
She spilled a can of beer on the mirror table, dissolving two lines of base.
She later did her own line for the first time.
It was a rad party.

Last night, she went to a local pub with the boys.
They met some chavs around the pool table.
She hung-out.
She had a few drinks.
She played a game of doubles with the hot-Scotsman.
She sucked-big time.
But she knew she would.
The boys invited the chavs back to theirs where they all took turns going into the bathroom to do various drugs.
When it came to her turn, she was offered Coke for the first time.
She thought about it long and hard.
She declined and decided to stick to her white wine and weed.
This horse was getting a little too crazy for her liking.

After the chavs left, they put on Ice Age.
Gayge put a pizza in the oven and forgot.
He passed out on the lounge floor. A picture of a jumped-up Jesus.

This has become her routine.
She is up until 4am high as a kite, sleeps until 3pm, then jumps on it again.
She feels dirty.
No matter how much she showers, she feels like she smells.
The scent of cigarette's emits from her every pore.
She doesn't smoke.
She looks in the mirror and sees someone she doesn't want to become.

She comes to me for advice regularly.
I don't know what to say to her.

What would you tell that friend if she felt her life was going down the drain?

life improvement skills

Maybe it's the fact that it's a new year and it's only January. Not too late to start again. Maybe it's because I'm 20 and realising I need to start getting serious. Maybe it's just because I'm fed-up. In any case, I've decided I need a change.
I'm sick of it. I'm bored. I hate what I'm turning into.
I'm 20. It's time to grow up.
I'm sick of going to a new town every couple months just to start over again. And for what? I have nothing to show for it. I haven't seen any of europe except France. Haven't seen any of England except London, Brighton, York and Edinburgh. I haven't save d a penny (I literally have £2.50 to my name at the moment...but should be getting paid today). I'm supposed to be travelling. I'm supposed to see the world. I'm supposed to be having fun. Well, I am having fun. I'm having too much fun which has become part of the problem. I hate the patterns I've began falling into.
This is a day in the life of Mix as she is in Edinburgh: Wake up around 2-3pm. sit in lounge at jif's (where I'm currently staying until I get paid). Smoke a few joints. Maybe a cigarette *(if there's drinking involved). Spend the night either in the lounge (again smoking j's) or getting drunk/experimenting with various other drugs. Stay awake until 3-4am and then pass out on teh couch in the lounge. Wake up at 3 the next arvoandstart over again.
There's too many smokers. If you came close enough to smell me, you'd think I'd been a pack-a-day for years. The truth is, I don't smoke. Well...now that I'm here, I'm falling into the "smoke with a beer habit"...not good. Luckily, I'm not an addictive personality otherwise, I'm sure I would be a habitual smoker by now.
I feel unhealthy. I'm sick of eating ready meals because I can't be bothered to cook. Running to the shop when I'm hungry instead of a kitchen.
Sick of city life.
Missin the home life.
So, this weekend, I will make my decision. Although, I think I've already made it.
I've made a list.

Ways Mix will change and improve her life and hopefully mature:
1. Head home to Roberts Creek, British Comlumbia, Canada
2. Get a job
3. work work work work work
4. Make some money money money
5. Join a gym
6. Get my drivers licence
7. Buy a digital camera
8. buy a ticket to Australia
9. GET MY FUCKING LIFE TOGETHER

So in conclusion, I think I'm heading home.
I'll come back to Europe on a later date when I have money and don't have to work.

Looking forward to seeing my mum. Is that weird?

Aging train

Yesterday was a day for lasts and today a day for firsts.

Yesterday was my last day of work at Free Spirit. Yesterday was my last day in York where I have been living and working for the past two months. Last night I packed my bags and hopped on a trainin York when I was 19. I disembarked that train in Edinburgh when I was 20. Today is my birthday.
Today is my New Years day.
Today is when I consider my slate wiped clean. Today I can officially account anything stupid done previously, to the fact that I was 19. That is, until I do something else.
Today, I woke-up feeling great to be alive because today is my day. Then I shaved my legs.

While sitting on the train, watching myself age before my eyes, I realised how much that night represented my life. We're always getting older. I am now ten seconds older than I was when I wrote that. And now that. And so on.
I will always be older when I step off the train than I was when I embarked. But we only have one day a year to mark this. One day a year when we realise "Shit, I'm getting old." We act as if it happened with a bang. While really it's been happening it all along.

But despite all this, January 22nd is, and always will be my day (quirky fact: January 22nd is also National Popcorn day...don't ask me how I know this) and I love it.

Today is wonderful.
Today is beautiful.
Today will be great.
It better be, or let me tell you, there will be hell to pay.
Because, today is my day, and nobody is going to take that away from me.