Blessed Be The Peacemakers

"All the great peacemakers die violently"
John Lennon

I was 15 years old on Dec. 8th, 1980, when I heard the news, and officially left my childhood behind. I remember falling against my bedroom wall, then to my knees, sobbing. I understood the significance and gravitas of the situation, and I cried. I cried not just for His death, but I cried because knew I was experiencing the death of my own innocence. I cried because I knew my ability to comprehend that loss meant I was no longer a child. Now, it was time to "put away childish things." It was my first genuine experience of deep, existential dread. I understood that it was the end of an era. It wasn't simply my own innocence that was lost, but that of a generation. I cried for the Hippie's naive futility. How appropriate that His death heralded the cynicism of the Punk Rock that at that very time was replacing Flower Power, even on my own turntable. I understood the complex, abstract concept of irony; how a man who epitomised peace and love could be taken down through an act of such violence. I came to understand so many harsh realities that night. It was my first official "dark night of the soul". I understood that maybe ignorance IS bliss. Most importantly, I came to understand that "love might NOT be the answer".
But it HAS to be...RIGHT?!
Please..?
Perhaps it's time to pose a different question.


 John Lennon "Mind Games"

Back From Hiatus/Tulips...

LATE APRIL:
Back from another hiatus. Since the recording session with the drummer, I've been pretty down. Not that the session didn't make me happy. Although it didn't go as planned, it went well as could be expected (I think my expectations were a little unreasonable) At least we got good and proper takes on two songs out of five-one of them being the song I want to pre-release as a single before the album comes out, (Your Room) so I'm happy as far as that goes. Piano tracks for the other 3 songs have to be redone. The meter was off-ever so slightly. That, as well as a barely perceptible click-track, made for a few frustrating and disappointing hours, but I MUST be happy with what I got. More sessions to come in early June.
I waited for months to hear back from Helie (the film security company) about the two hour orientation seminar I'm required to take before I can start working for them. After such a long time, the wheel began to squeak. I wrote a few e-mails asking when-and if-there would indeed be a seminar. Finally, they responded with some pretty good news. They would fast track me onto the call-list as long as I took their test again, and got my other two safety certificates. (free, online tests)
At last! Hope!
Unfortunately, it's an on call basis, and I hear there are times when there are long stretches with no work. So it's back to hitting the streets with resumes.
Hope gets dashed once again.

MID MAY:
Helie says they're quite busy these days, but I cannot work for them until I collect the required I.D. I have no Ontario Picture I.D. yet and my passport has expired. More hold-ups!
I had the chance to help an acquaintance finish his dry-wall contract after his assistant bailed. I had done it a few times years ago, but didn't realise how much I had forgotten until I committed myself to the job. I felt terrible that my skills weren't up to snuff, as it were, but my friend seemed happy enough with my enthusiasm and was content to instruct me where needed. We worked together happily, singing along to the radio (he's a professional musician also) and conversing about everything from music to religion. I think he was impressed by my positivity and eagerness to please. That is until 5 days in, when I let him down terribly. Worried that morning I might be late, I ran out of the apartment forgetting to drink that day's methadone. I fretted the whole trip to work (an hour on transit) knowing that what awaited me that afternoon was the wracking sickness of opiate withdrawal. I warned him that I had forgotten to take my "medicine" but assured him I had a few good hours before I would be useless. Unfortunately, I barely made it past lunch before I began throwing up.
I felt ghastly, both physically  and emotionally. I was leaving him in the lurch with the work of two people and a deadline looming. I would never have bailed if I hadn't made such a stupid, careless mistake.
I hope he understands, and I haven't damaged his opinion of me.

Today there is a street festival outside my door. "Spring Into Parkdale!" I wandered the corridor to check out the vendors, and spent four dollars on a little black sequined blouse from my favorite local vintage boutique. However, too many Hipsters and not enough actual neighbours sent me home sooner than I had planned. Passing my local cornershop grocer, I noticed they had begun selling fresh flowers; Tulips of all colours, so happy and fresh! I splurged one last time this day, and brought home a small bunch. No matter how poor we were, Taylor would scrounge enough change to buy me tulips almost every week. When he couldn't afford any, he would steal flowers from someone's yard. I put them in a vase and set them next to his picture on the gothic Victorian sideboard he loved so much...

It's Been Awhile...

An explanation for my conspicuous absence of late. The recording seems to be picking up momentum. The first five songs are nearly complete, which will give me almost half an album. Andre, one of my writing partners, has come up with piano arrangements for our two songs that are astonishingly beautiful. The drummer and bass player are lined up for their sessions. This the closest I've come to realising this long standing dream. It's actually beginning to take form. In the meantime, Belle has been helping me build a website, slated to launch in conjunction with the release of the first single, "Your Room", co-written with the inimitable Owen Pallett. 
Despite the good news, unemployment still weighs heavily, both financially and emotionally. I'm trying everything to find work, even resorting to workshops at the local employment centre.
With the free time itinerance gives, I've taken the opportunity to pursue some weighing health issues, going for all the tests and check-ups my G.P. feels are necessary with encroaching middle-age. This in itself is practically a full time job. I suppose I should be grateful for the opportunity.
Weaning off the methadone finally seems to show a light at the end of a long, claustrophobic tunnel. I'm down to 60mgs. At the rate of 5mgs a week, I should be free of the "liquid handcuffs" by the summer.
The discipline of writing daily can be transplanted into other aspects of life that I'm trying to wrestle: a better diet, morning yoga, perhaps running again, even finding time and strength to be more social. Too much isolation adds to the depression that already plagues me .I'm blessed by wonderful friends, and a devoted extended family. I thank the Goddess for their love each and every morning.
But I digress...
I will be more diligent with my posts in the future.

Oooh, What a feelin'...What a shame...

Yesterday morning I was listening to CBC's Q, as is often my want. Lorrie Brown, the old Much Music mainstay was filling in for the usual host, Tom Power. At one point, she was interviewing Peter Bowker, the writer of the BBC series "The A Word"-a hard hitting depiction of a family struggling with an autistic child. Our own CBC has been running the series on Sunday nights. The subject of the soundtrack was raised, as music figures prominently in the series. Songs by such artists as the Buzzcocks and The Jam are featured, as are pieces by Gordon Lightfoot and Ron Sexsmith. It was then that Lorrie Brown drew her proverbial nails across the chalkboard of my mind, and asked a question so offensive that partially desiccated pancake almost fell from my gaping mouth.
"Did you include those Can/Con tracks because you knew the series would be shown in Canada?"
GAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! I gargled, nearly choking on my breakfast.
Now, this is something I take issue with. I have a love/hate relationship with our Can/Con regulations. It seems that people outside our borders are more partial to Canadian artists than we are. Pick up any copy of MOJO magazine and you'll find articles about Mary Maragret O'Hara, Metric and the afore mentioned Ron Sexsmith, as well as a multitude of lesser known Canadian indie artists, all included among the British, American and International artists covered by the discerning English magazine, but listen to average hipsters standing in line at a Wholefoods checkout, discussing a recently watched Canadian film, and they will always seem surprised that it was good. The recent offering of CBC's wonderful comedies are "almost as good as American sit-coms". You'd never know they were Canadian! I realise we needed to legislate Can/Con to remedy this kind of self deprecation.
HOWEVER...
For decades, The Can/Con legislation has been in desperate need of restructuring. It has always been highly flawed. When someone like a Celine Dion, who's only remaining link to Canada is a birth certificate, can fall under the C/C umbrella, it has failed. When radio stations, desperate to fulfill the regulated  percentage gives airtime to the running joke that is Nickleback, it has failed. C/C has always perpetuated mediocrity.The legislation regulating the percentage of Canadian content on radio was put into effect in 1971. Before that, there were dozens of successful Canadian artists welcomed outside of Canada. Because they were good. Neil Young, Steppenwolf, The Guess Who, Joni Mitchell, The Band, The Diamonds, Paul Anka and countless others became huge stars outside our border because they stood up on par against American and British acts. They didn't have airtime offered to them out of the need to fulfill a quota.
Today we live in a global village-as far as broadcasting is concerned. The internet has no borders. Is the Can/Con legislation-as it stands today-becoming obsolete? This leads me back to Lorrie Brown's inane and insulting question to Peter Bowker, did they in fact 'include songs by Gordon Lightfoot and Ron Sexsmith because they thought the series would be shown in Canada?' How fucking humiliating. On behalf of all Canadians, I was insensed but even more so, profoundly embarrassed.
Bowker sounded almost bewildered as he answered, "no...they're good songs".

The Reluctant Muse

I often speak with Belle about the nature of the creative process. I bemoan my lack of ambition and inspiration. She insists I must create a least one piece of art each day, whether it's good or not. A song or blog post or some other kind of poetry or prose-as long as it gets done. Successful-and prolific- songwriters swear by this process. Even if you realise halfway through it's going to turn out to be a piece of crap-finish it. This is a habit that must become as ingrained as muscle memory. Surely, according to the law of averages, they can't all be bad. The more more prolific you can become, the greater opportunity for those moments of brilliance. Certainly, this idea is not new, in fact, it's so well known that expounding upon it is ridiculous. What is more ridiculous, however, is that I have not embraced this discipline. It is not a practice of daily life. I write about it to remind myself of it's importance-and how dangerous inactivity can be. I fear my inspiration has atrophied. I haven't written a song in over a year-piece of crap or otherwise. I'm embarrassed to admit this publicly, but it's true.
You can't wait for the Muse to reach down and "touch you with divine inspiration". She lives inside us. She is an inherently lazy bitch who must be shaken out of her complacency every now and then. She must be coerced, teased and tricked with rituals and games. She must be fed and exercised with music, art, literature, vibrant conversation. Any kind of stimulation. Unfortunately negative influence also has a profound effect. Heartbreak, conflict, trauma all inspire great art. It's become a cliche. Perhaps that's the cause of my recent dry-spell. I've been avoiding negative emotions-even going so far as to medicate myself against them. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. No drugs or alcohol. My brain chemistry has been completely altered since my last real creative period. This must have had a huge impact on my creative impulse. I'm terrified I've lost it altogether.
Belle assures me that I haven't. She insists I'm a "genius". Flattering. Even if I was, that's based on a back catalogue written during years of heartbreak, substances and existential angst.I'm not that person anymore. I fear she was the artist, not I.
Could there be a marketing demographic consisting of people who want to hear songs about joint pain, empty-nest syndrome, menopause and fear of mortality? Belle assures me there is. She says it's called "Adult Alternative". Thank you, CBC.

Epiphany

It's first real week of the year. Twelfth Night has passed, the trees are down and trimmings stowed away for next year. Kids are back to school, and work proceeds more regularly as it did before "Christmas Chaos" took over. Sad as it usually would have been for me, I forewent the decorating and diet this year, for a number of reasons, not least of which was financial.
So it's back to job hunting for me!
Yesterday, I began what will be the first track for a new project-yet to be named. A dear old friend asked me to be his partner in an electronic duo. It's the perfect arrangement-I sing for his project, and he plays bass for mine! Our first session was surprisingly productive, little self-consciousness, good focus, and a great synchronicity of ideas. Tomorrow is a session with B. for my own work. It's great to know I'll have a bass player in the future, but without a drummer, nothing can really move forward. Frustration and worry...

I wasted the better part of last year bemoaning my procrastinate nature and lack of inspiration.I'm amazed that B.has remained, faithfully waiting for me to get my shit together at last, and raise my head from the bedclothes-figuratively AND literally. While many causes of my latest depressive episode were situational-anyone would have mourned the losses I suffered this year-I fell victim to my chemistry yet again. It was mitigated by the medication I've been taking. I can only imagine how bad it would have been had I not been taking it. Oh,so much time wasted trying to rouse enthusiasm and confidence! Each passing day further and further from my goal; defeating my most cherished dream! The more I avoided it, the less I felt it was deserved. The illness plays cruel tricks with your mind. Even as I intellectualised the necessities of work-work that I loved, an hour might pass me seated in a chair, coat on, keys in hand, completely immobile. Eventually I would give up, and crawl back into bed. I stopped calling to cancel altogether. B just knew.
Bless B! Incredibly understanding of my situation, and patient as a saint. I suppose it doesn't hurt that like most artists,he suffers from the same affliction, not as severely as I do, but enough to know how difficult the disease can be.

Back in the studio soon!

Yet this New Year seems to have shifted axis; awoken something long dormant. If Sunday was any indication, inspiration has kicked into gear. I'm anxious about tomorrow-but for the first time in a long time-looking forward to it.
I haven't called to "reschedule" yet, anyway...

Auld Langxiety

Should auld aquaintence be forgot...or at least 2016 as soon as possible.
I had a lot to celebrate, seeing the ass end of this last year. I think we were all  happy to see it go.
And celebrate I did, in my jammies, cuddling up with my kitties and a Walking Dead marathon.
I know I can't be the only one who eschews public drunkenness and anonymous sex in favour of quiet contemplation, or perhaps an intimate gathering of family and closest friends (read:cats.) I would much rather stay home and do housework-literally-in a symbolic act of preparation for the year ahead.I would much rather open a bottle of champagne with a lover on a windswept beach.I would much rather fall asleep in front of the t.v.at 10:30. after dancing a waltz with my mop.I would much rather forgo the whole damn thing altogether...
I must spend hours making-up and dressing in an attempt to achieve some obligatory-and impossible-standard of beauty (dress-code in effect)  I must wait in line in the cold for fourty-five minutes, only to pay an exorbitant sum of money on a cover charge to a simian doorman who grunts "no in-outs" which means I can't leave the bar for cigarette every now and then.It's twenty deep at the bar and I must suffer some 'Gino's' inane diatribes on the closing year punctuated by the occasional "Whooo!" I must duck poorly aimed and potentially lethal high-fives. I must hold an uncomfortably full bladder because I don't wish to endure squeezing through the gauntlet of a washroom hallway, where I may fall prey to every last dateless loser vying for that slovenly midnight kiss.
And people look FORWARD to this?
Yes, a new year. Tabula Rasa. Another chance. An exceptionally terrible year over at last. I can see why people would want to celebrate. I actually WAS tempted to go out and join the happy throng, even just a lone shot of tacky tequila at my local.
I'm leaving so much behind. So much lies ahead.
It seemed only fitting to mark the occasion in some way...
So I wrote this.
Midnight came and went. It came without douchebags, it came without booze, it came without hangovers, vomit stained shoes...maybe New Years isn't something that comes in a bar, maybe New Years is something more private, by far...