A mere 9 months after refusing to sign the U.N. declaration on the rights of indigenous peoples, Stephen Harper formally apologises to  Canada’s Aboriginal peoples for a system of assimilation that has had destructive effects up until today. The residential school system, funded by the federal government and run by churches, isolated Aboriginal children from their families and communities so that they could more easily be assimilated into Euro-Canadian cultures. Inside the schools, siblings were seperated and children were forbidden to speak their languages or practice their culture in any way. Living conditions for these children were abhorrent: bad ventilation, overcrowding, bad heating in the winter and rotten food led to much illness and death. Furthermore, since the schools were badly funded, children were often forced to work on school grounds on tasks such as farming, cleaning and so forth rather than get an actual education.

Physical, emotional and sexual abuse were rampant. Offenses such as speaking one’s language could lead to one’s mouth being sewn shut or having a needle stuck through one’s lips. Wetting the bed could lead to being forced to walk around with soiled sheets over one’s head. And the list goes on.

The children who physically survived and made it back to their communities did not find a home. Rather, they were alienated from their own society and culture, not having practiced their language or learned the norms. Yet, they were not Westernised either since they were in isolated schools with low quality education, if any. Ill equipped to function in both their home cultures and in the dominant Euro-Canadian society, they were lost.

Today, cycles of cultural confusion have permeated many Aboriginal communities. The scars of the residential school system never healed but rather fed many social ills in the communities. Violence, substance abuse and suicide are still facts of life for Aboriginal people of all ages. It’s not a question of being unable to forget the past. Rather, it’s a question of multi-generational trauma.

Imagine yourself never having known parental love on account of being torn from your family at a young age, only to be subjected to poor living conditions and abuse. Imagine someday going back to a community that has become foreign. What do you do? You try to reintegrate and might succeed in part. You might wind up getting married and having children. But how do you love a spouse and children when you never learned how to love? How do you deal with the trauma of your youth without support?

In many cases, the trauma got passed on through the generations in this way: the abused become abusers of spouses and children and of substances that exacerbate the cultural confusion and the distress. And the cycle continues. Add to that the loss of traditional means of survival due to European encroachment on Aboriginal lands, and you have diminished opportunities for people to make a living for themselves and their families, yet more cause for distress and confusion. Then remember that many people are unable to get employment in the Euro-Canadian system due to poor education, by Western standards, and discrimination. Finally, add the racism toward Aboriginals that has been perpetuated in the media through baised news reports and stereotypes to feed the fires of self-hatred and despair.

In the past, the government has tried to “appease” survivors by giving them money. Many Aboriginal people felt that this was a token gesture. What does money mean anyway? Now, the government leaders have finally realised that a formal apology was necessary as an acknowledgement of the wrongs that have been committed.

Will this fix anything? If the governement follows through on promises to work to right the wrongs of the past, perhaps some progress will be made. However, as one can see in some of the comments made to the article found in the link above, there are still many misconceptions among the general public. Many people think that rather than encourage Aboriginal people to reclaim and celebrate their cultures, they should be assimilated. This idea makes me sick. When I hear people complain about the demands of Native people, anger rushes through my bloodstream.

It’s not just a question of forgetting the past. It’s not just a question of “getting over it.” Lives were stolen. Cultures were stolen. Perfectly functional systems that we could ALL learn and benefit from have been destroyed. Residential schools were one component of a multifaceted process that eroded away at these systems.

What now? Will Canada follow through? Or will the apology turn out to be yet another token? I try to be optimistic but I despair that, ultimately, capitalist and corporate greed will win out and get the best of all of us: Native, non-Native and those of us who are products of contact.

However, I recognise that a public recognition of the effects of the residential schools and a formal apology can be an important part of the healing process for survivors and their descendants. I sincerely hope that, in at least that respect, this will be a step in the right direction in the lives of all people who were an are affected by this tragedy. My warmest thoughts go out to you all today.

A few weeks ago was Suicide Prevention Week. It got me thinking. A lot. I don’t actually have a problem with suicide. I think that, in some cases, it’s a legitimate decision for someone to take their life and start all over again, somehow. I have no idea what happens to us – our spirits, souls or whatever the hell it is that makes us US – when we die but I’m pretty sure we don’t just disappear. In any case, who is anyone else to assess the legitimacy of what someone wants to do with their own life anyway?

Now, I’m not saying that we should be encouraging people to off themselves or that we shouldn’t try to prevent suicide. I don’t think it’s the BEST option in most cases and I think that most people have it within themselves to cope with whatever happens to them, somehow. And if someone has dependants, I think they have a responsibility to be around for the people that depend on them and to do everything in their power to be fully there. But if someone has no dependants and chooses to not live with whatever pain they have to deal with, who am I to judge?

Now, the other thing that was on my mind with regards to suicide prevention is  . . .what happens when a suicide has been prevented? It’s only the physical suicide that has been prevented. If a person got to that point, chances are they are already emotionally dead. Or maybe I’m projecting . . . 

I came frighteningly close to suicide when I was 23.  I was in an abusive relationship. I had lost my dad 3 years before and a baby 2 years before. I was an alcoholic. I had a crappy gas station job and I couldn’t make ends meet. I had forgotten my reasons for being in university. Everything seemed so futile.

So I decided on a method (sleep pills and a plastic bag over my head) and a date. I did what I thought would be my last night shift at the gas station. This was in the spring and at around 4:30AM, the sky would be absolutely gorgeous . . .a perfect shade of blue.  Every morning, I used to put on “Don’t Fear the Reaper” at exactly that time and just watch the sky.

That morning, as I was watching what I thought would be my last sunrise, serene and content, I thought that I should write my mom a note. Then I wondered how I could possibly explain it to her in a way that wouldn’t kill her heart. I knew that I couldn’t. And since I can’t deal with causing pain, I decided to keep trudging along for one more day and think about it a bit more.

Days went by, turning into weeks, then years. Things turned around. I left the abuser and moved in with someone who wasn’t abusive. I graduated and got accepted into an M.A. programme. I still wasn’t happy . . . that would come. I spent time in Northern Quebec doing fieldwork and learned values that I never learned elsewhere. I experienced nature in a way that I hadn’t elsewhere. I met someone who became a mentor in the art of overcoming difficulties and coming out laughing. I had a beautiful child.

4 years ago, I left the father and began to learn what it was to be autonomous and self-reliant. It’s been one of the toughest periods of my life in which I’ve had to question everything about my self, down to the very fundamental elements of who I am and what I’m made of.

2 years ago, when I was 33, I realised it had been 10 years since I had contemplated suicide. I also realised that I was happy. Without even noticing it, and in the midst of difficult angst-ridden times, I had become a fundamentally happy person. I had become alive in ways that I hadn’t been for a long time. I could feel. I could act. I could be me. I could be in touch with the world around me. I was living and I was so busy doing it that I didn’t have time to think about the value of it.

And it was then that I realised that making the decision not to kill oneself is only one step toward living.

I got fucked! I got screwed! I got fucked in the ass!

No, I’m not describing my first gang bang (although . . . ummmm . . . never mind). These are all phrases people would use not to describe their latest experiences as a sexual penetratee, but situations in which they were ripped off or deceived.

I’ve always found this interesting. From the time in high school when I said I had paid $10 for some piece of jewelry and a friend told me: “You got fucked!” to more recent times when I’ve noticed people using one of these phrases to describe their own misadventures  in the marketplace, I’ve always mentally paused and went: “Hmmmmmm. . . “

Don’t get me wrong. I use these phrases all the time. And I go: “Hmmmmm . . . ” when I use them too.

What makes me reflect is the negative association that we are making with sex when we do this. More specifically, I’m concerned with the negative association that is made with being the penetratee in a vaginal or anal sex act. Given that mainstream thought ascribes the position of sexual penetratee to  women or gay men, the latter often being qualified as effeminate men especially if they’re bottoms, this seems to be quite telling.

To get fucked, or to be a female or a receptive gay man, is to be the passive and naive recipient of an act of deception. To fuck, or to be male, is to aggressively and cunningly deceive.

This underlying discourse is not surprising considering that Western thought casts sex as an act in which men take from women and in which women give to men. Men like sex and women don’t. Therefore, a sex act is the result of either the man tricking the woman into doing it or the woman giving in, perhaps for some ulterior motive (wanting to be loved, wanting money or wanting a fur coat). This is manifested in promiscuous women being labeled as sluts, or women who give it away just a bit too easily, or without being tricked.

I’m not saying that this is actually true, of course. I’m saying that the mentality that is deeply embedded in Western thought leads people to unquestioningly abide by this “rule of thumb”. So to get fucked is to be cheated and to fuck is to be one-up.

But now that more and more women are embracing their sexuality and being promiscuous in more empowered ways, such as organising their own gang bangs and threesomes, now that more and more hetero men are waiting for women to make the first moves, now that more and more women are using strap-ons on their female or male lovers, and so forth, maybe “getting fucked” and “fucking” will take on new connotations.

Imagine a conversation in which a friend describes an experience in which someone gave them something beautiful and pleasant, whether it be a material gift or an uplifting compliment. “I got fucked big time!” they exclaim. You might remember days when they would have said it in an angry, vehement tone rather than with a dreamy, starry-eyed look.  Or imagine someone telling you that they screwed someone when they stopped and helped someone change a flat tire or held the door open for someone on crutches.

Big question: why is fucking still seen in such a negative light? Why is the role of penetrater imbued with so much power while the role of penetratee is imbued with a lack thereof?

Partial answer: because fucking is still seen as a game of power in which men take and women (or receptive gay men) give up something.

Partial solution: more men need to get their asses fucked with cocks or strap-ons. More women need to strap-on dildos and fuck. People should try to see penetration in a different light. People should see that people at either end of the penetration exchange (assuming there even is one in a given sex act)  are both giving and receiving pleasure.

Isn’t that what sex is supposed to be? Sharing pleasure?

Or am I just fucked?

Originally written Dec. 5, 2007

Come on. It’s been quite a while since I’ve ranted about anything. I’m way overdue! So today’s topic is: dating sites.I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve made much use of various dating sites in the past . . . oh . . . 5-6 years. The kinds of sites I’ve used range from innocent “friend finder” type sites for people looking to just date to adult-oriented sites for people just looking to get laid to BDSM sites for people looking for . . .well, it’s a bit too complex to explain here without oversimplifying it. One site that I’ve been on for a number of years caters to people that are into ethical non-monogamy (as in, having an open or flexible relationship where you openly communicate with your life partner and you are both aware of the sexual and/or emotional relationships that you each have outside of your relationship. This is in contrast to non-ethical non-monogamy, otherwise known as CHEATING and LYING and HYPOCRISY – been there, done that, don’t want to go back there EVER. Too stressful and you can never really look your partner in the eye and feel good about yourself after. Not to mention you’re messing with someone’s health and life, especially if you’re not careful about STIs. YMMV and who the hell am I to judge you if that’s your choice.)

And yeah, there is still some stigma attached to using dating sites. That’s just silly! Hey, some of us are WAY too busy to go cruising around in bars. Besides, bars are LOUSY places to meet people, unless you just want casual sex, which is OK sometimes but that can get a little boring. If I go to a bar, I want to hang out with my friends, not worry about flirting and stuff.

ANYWAY – Overall, my experience with these sites has been positive. I’ve met people that I’ve never seen again since and others that I stayed friends with even after we stopped having sex due to lack of compatibility or life getting in the way. And yet others turned out to be non-sexual friends because we met and clicked intellectually but not sexually. It’s all good.

However, to get to the point where I can say that my experiences have mostly been positive, I’ve still had to wade through my fair share of riff raff. I have several peeves when it comes to the approach some people use on these sites. If you’ve been on these sites, you may recogise some of these. If you haven’t and are planning to, maybe there are pitfalls that you can avoid.

Peeve #1 – Women writing to me looking for a hot, bi babe to share with their husband.

Now, I have no objection to FFM threesomes. For a bi person like me who is nearly equally attracted to both men and women, it’s like utopia! And in fact, one of my most beautiful and fulfilling sexual and emotional experiences was with a male-female couple that I met on the above-mentioned non-monogamy site and that I dated (yes, one can date a couple!) for about a year. Solid and stable couple so no jealousy, good relationship with them as individuals and as a unit, did other things like share meals, walks, long intellectual talks, etc. Ideal for all of us. And they were both HOT!!!! *sigh*

BUT: What bugs me is these women who first write pretending to be looking for a woman for one-on-one sex but then, after a few email exchanges, you find out she wants her hubby in on the action. Why not be upfront about that? Yes, I know it’s hard because you get refused flat out most of the time, but jeez, do you really think that hiding it for a while then springing it on a woman is going to change her mind if she<s not into it from the start? There are many reasons that I suspect that bi women on these sites turn down a lot of couples: a) they are in relationships with men and want female action on the side so won’t be interested in the woman’s husband or BF; b) the majority of men (I’d say 75%)are ugly (that’s my subjective truth) so it’s not necessarily worth having sex with an ugly man just so that you can get to his hot wife or c) they’re just not into 3somes.

A variant of this is: “It will be just me and you but I would like my husband to watch.” What?! The idea of consensual exhibitionism and voyeurism is obviously not offensive to me but what makes you think that every bi woman wants to be on display for the “male gaze” like in a porn movie? Sheesh.

Finally, too often I get the icky feeling that this woman is just doing this to please her husband. I know it’s not always the case but the pressure on women to be sexually adventurous is very great, to the point where many women may feel that they have to look and act like porn stars to keep their man’s attention.

Peeve #2 – People who send generic messages

You can tell right away when someone has this generic message that they just send to everyone. They claim it saves time. That may be the case but if you’re not willing to put a little effort into composing a message that makes the person feel as though you are responding to their specific profile, why the hell do you expect that this person will take the time to respond? I’ve gotten so fed up with receiving messages from guys that describe a whole sexual scenario that has nothing specifically to do with me but that he sends to every female profile that catches his eye that I put a note in capital letters in all my profiles saying that if the person wants a response from me, they have to indicate exactly what it is about my profile that makes them think we would click. My profiles are always quite detailed about personality, interests (sexual and otherwise), turn ons and turn offs, etc so that someone can easily find something to comment on if they take the time to read my profile before copying and pasting their damn generic message. I mean, I may be into casual sex sometimes but it doesn’t mean that I don’t like to feel that there is something specific about me that makes someone want to be with me. Sheesh. Which leads me to . . .

Peeve #3 – People who don’t bother reading profiles before writing.

Yes, yes, I know that on some of these sites, like adult friend finder, you can’t access people’s full profiles unless you’re female or unless you’re a male paying member. But still . . .

When I get a message like “My ideal woman is petite/slender and very feminine” after I’ve made it quite clear that I am full-figured and butchy, I feel entitled to being a little irritated. I specify these things to screen out people that are not into people that are like me. And what do I get for my painstaking time and effort? Messages like: “My ideal woman is petite/slender and very feminine”

The most recent message I’ve received on the poly (non-mono) site is what actually spawned this whole rant. Get this: this woman from the southern US writes to me and says that my profile caught her attention. She specifically quoted a line from my profile that reads: “I like women with strong minds that don’t live their lives to please men.” But then she says: “By the way, the child is OK.” Huh??? WTF? So I check out her profile.

A-HEM. It turns out this woman is one of these “anti-breeders”. Her list of turn-offs actually INCLUDES breeders. Hey!!!! Yo!!!! That’s ME you f*ing twat! But . . .according to her note . . . “the child is OK.” Oh, gee, don’t do me any favours you bigotted little wench. You really think I want someone in my life who is going to sneer at my “breedling” (a term she proudly claims to have coined) constantly?

Then her profile reads: “Not likely interested in a romantic relationship with Aquarius, Gemini, Leo, Scorpio, and Libra.” Ummmm . . .if signs are so important to you, why don’t you look at the person’s BIRTHDAY as indicated at the top of your profile. Then you would know that I’m an aquarius and wouldn’t bother wasting my precious time. I don’t care about that stuff but apparently it matters to you so . . . .

Then . . .then . . .get this, you’re gonna love this one. It’s just too good. From her profile: “I LOVE the European people, also the Middle Easterners if religion is not the focal point of their existence…Indians are one of my top ethnic loves.”

. . .

. . .

I’m a f*ing cultural anthropologist and it says so in my profile. Then you spring this ethnocentric shit on me?!?! What.The.Fuck. As a dear friend, also an anthro, would say: “ARE YOU ON CRACK?!?!?!” Or are you one of those people that thinks that exoticising “the other” is OK and not dehumanising?

She doesn’t want rednecks, but she discriminates against redheads, people under 5′5″, people who are not weight/height proportionate and people who have intellectual disabilities. uh-huh. I’m impressed.

But hey, if you’re female and have big lips, a big butt and long hair or if you’re male and are softspoken, intellectual, thin and into urban culture and if you don’t have any of the above-mentioned turn-offs, let me know and I’ll set you up with her. K?????

And finally . . . .my biggest pet peeve of all . . . .

Peeve #4 – People who can’t write coherently

OK, so after the drama of peeve #3, maybe this is a bit anti-climatic. But still. How can you possibly expect to turn me on sexually if you can’t turn me on intellectually? And how can you possibly expect to turn me on intellectually if you can’t put a sentence together? Come on. You don’t need a B.A. to write a coherent message that avoids the use of “u” and “plz”. If I feel like I’m reading a student paper, I delete it.

Here’s a classic example of what I mean: ” i like ur profile. plz look at mine and if u r interested rite me back. here is a pic of my cock. hope u like it.”

arrrrrrrrrrrrgh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

‘Nuff said!!!!! Fortunately (well, everything is relative), as I transition and delete all my “female” profiles and replace them either with nothing if I just decide to give up on the online dating scene or with FTM/transman profiles if I get desperate because no bio males (hetero, homo or bi) that I meet want to sleep with or have a relationship with an FTM (I’m not worried about females . . .both hetero and lesBIan women seem to be down with transmen), I won’t have to deal with as many of these. If I still get things like “my ideal woman is petite and feminine” I think I will pretend to be it, set up meetings with these assholes and pull a “Crying Game” on them. Then, when they scream, I will rip out their tongues and . . .well . . .maybe not. But it makes for a good movie script, no? Just picture it: The Dating Site Avenger! S/he could have a cape and everything! Oh!!! And a g-string! And nipple clamps!! Because nipple clamps are sexy!!!

Sorry, got carried away. In closing, here is a final peeve. I didn’t include it in the list because it’s more about what happens after the email exchange than the actual online approach thing: people who stand you up on dates. Now, I did this twice in my young life and felt really shitty about it but I wrote to the person after and explained that I got scared etc (this was in my very early dating site days). But I’ve been stood up . .. ummmm . . .ok, actually only once by this woman who never wrote or called to cancel. . . but it pissed me off! So . . . don’t do that!

Yeah.

Rant over. Time to sleep.

Please come back later. Wonky things happened during transfer of writings from old blogs . . .crazy weird font shit. I’ll try to fix it soon.

(Originally written a long, long time ago).  

Close friends know this story. A long time ago, when I was 20, I lived with a guy who was 17 years my senior. It ended in disaster (sort of) but the upshot is that, while I was with him, I was exposed to tons of excellent music that existed before I had even been born in 1973. Among this music was a gem of a band called Gracious.

According to my ex, this band had produced two records in the early 70s then had disappeared from the map. He had a 2nd hand tape of the first record from way back when and, when I heard it, I quickly became addicted although I had never even heard of progressive rock. I made sure to make a copy for myself for future use but, the sound quality being what it was, I was longing to have the original vinyl. At the time, I assumed that this had not been reproduced on CD.

Time passed and I intermittently looked up Gracious on the Internet, that newfangled thing I started experimenting with in 1997 or so. I searched to no avail. Finally, a few months ago, I found a site that had information on the band. There was a space where one could leave comments so I left one and asked that anyone who had info on how I could get the record contact me.

Now, at this point, it’s worth it for me to pause and mention that I have a pretty good relationship with the universe. I ask for things and I often get them. Not usually material things, mind you, because I don’t believe in manipulating the supernatural to gain mere material wealth. But it’s important to understand that, for me, access to music that touches me is so much more than a question of material wealth. Music touches my entire being at a very deep level; it resonates through the core of my being. I live and thrive on it.

So when Robert Lipson himself, the drummer for the band, wrote to me to bring to my attention the existence of the first two records on CD, it felt as though another click in my life happened. These clicks happen when things fall into place; especially when I didn’t know they were out of place to start with.

Now, you might be wondering why I specified the “first two” records whereas above I said that they had disappeared after two. Well, it turns out that sometime in the 90s, a few of the original members got back together to record a third one (well, a CD this time). I haven’t heard this one yet but . . . I finally got to hear the second album (“This is . . . Gracious!!) in addition to the already known and loved first one (“Gracious!”)

Amazing stuff, I tell you! I highly recommend Gracious to anyone who is into prog rock or who simply enjoys hearing intelligent music that has the capacity to transport one to interesting and unknown places.

The first album, the one I already knew, mesmerised me the very first time I heard it. As I listened to it over the years, I developed a whole visualisation that goes with it. I’m fairly sure it has nothing to do with the intentions of those who created the music – and most of it has little to do with the actual lyrics, expect perhaps the last song. It is the music that transports me.

I close my eyes and picture a wicked and fragmented world parrallel to the one my body is in. The first song, “Introduction” is like a teaser . . . an invitation into this warped world. I picture walking into a huge house where there is a weird party going on: people with outrageous outfits, trying to look rich and slimy. There is this underlying aura of filth – you’re not sure if you want to be a part of this or not but you feel you have no choice. There is something sexy in the air and you can’t resist, especially when you hear: “Let your mind trip to the things that we do”

“Heaven” is found through a door from this house: perhaps after metaphorically dropping something during the intro. You are in a field of very tall grasses on an overcast day – you feel the presence of a female spirit of some sort. You can almost see and hear her but not quite. You know she’s wearing a white dress (not a wedding dress, just a long white dress) and that she has dirty blond hair. Just as you feel like your soul and mind are going to explode, because she fills you in ways you can’t describe, the riff changes and suddenly you’re relaxing by a creek on a sunny day. Frogs and rabbits are hopping by and you’re drinking lemonade. You picture some musicians in your mind and they appear somewhere . . . only translucent, but visible enough so that one of the guitarists winks at you. They are not a young band, you think . .. perhaps this is the older version of them, since you are listening to this over 30 years after it was made. Suddenly, the music shifts and you are lost again – and find yourself in a place of passion. You’re being sung to by a beautiful man with hair . . . that is not short but hangs above the ears in a lovable way. He almost seems angelic, because of what he’s actually singing, but you know he’s not. You know where he could take you if you let him  . . .and it scares you . . . but you let him take you there anyway. You have goosebumps and your heart is racing. Is he her? The one in the field with the white dress? You don’t know but you feel her on/in him. The pace quickens and becomes almost amusing, comical. You see an older man with a big black hat dramatically playing the piano with a big grin. Then it’s over. And you wind up in . . .

“Hell” starts by making your stomach plunge into the depths of your soul. Small white stones drop onto the piano from “Heaven”, accelerating in their pace until there are none. And then you are in a creepy place full of unexpected things. You crouch down for a while while the music slowly intensifies and does a few zany things, not sure of your next move. Eventually you walk in any direction and you find a rope. You climb it (and for some reason I always picture Homer Simpson climbing this rope). It take forever it seems, until finally you come to a respit, a soft place with soft singing, perhaps meant as a false reassurance that things will be OK. You don’t buy it but are intrigued. Swinging door open in front of you and, drawn in, you enter a tavern with a piano player. The familiar smell of cigarettes and beer as well as the familar sounds of vinyl in the juke box fill your senses. Still weird but at least familiar. A fight breaks out. You stay away but observe carefully and realise that it is a mock fight – glass gets broken but no one is really angry. You’ve had enough. You run back out of the doors and down a long, long hallway. You wind up on a runway, running faster and faster until you come to a small one-person plane, like the ones we see in war movies. You jump in and fly away.

I’m not sure what happens to you while you’re in the plane because the next song is a complete respit from all the weirdness, pain and fear. It is a harpsichord and accoustic guitar version of Fugues in D Minor. I’ve often said that if I met someone who could play this for me on the harpsichord, I would marry them. I’m not even into marriage but this is so beautiful: all kinds of things simultaneously come to mind. Dancing with a broom in the kitchen wearing a tattered dress. Dancing in a ballroom with a handsome man . . .perhaps the one from “Heaven”. Mice dancing on a piano. Cartoon mice, of course. A beautiful man playing an instrument . . . any instrument. Fingers on a harpsichord. The song eventually ends on a bitter note, bitter because this space is leaving you behind and you’re not sure if you will find it again.

Violent music suddenly assaults all your senses – your vision becomes blurry and you can’t function. You crouch down in fear. You’re paralysed. It ends and you are left with a snippet from “Moonlight Sonnata”. It’s like . . .a “Dream”. This bit always reminds me of my Dad (R.I.P.) for some reason. The dream transforms: you are momentarily back in the field with the white-dressed woman. You are sitting their, sweating and recovering. A voice in the skies chants “good night” over and over again. You’re confused. You wake up. You are trapped inside someone esle now. You see through her eyes as she applies her make-up in the mirror. She is tired – so tired, she doesn’t care anymore. She walks out. You can look down, out of her eyes, and see her stockinged legs and fancy shoes. She walks down the hallway of her building, casually, with hips swaying. She has a purpose. She is in the street now. It’s nighttime and the streets are wet. She enters a concert hall with thick, blood red carpetting. She walks all the way down to the front row. Eyes target her. The musicians see her and smile. They know her and were expecting her.

She sits. You’re still trapped inside her but you feel a tug. You are pulled out and wind up inside one of the musicians. You hear what is going on in his mind. He looks out at the audience, especially noticing her. He becomes obsessed. His mind is cluttered with thoughts and images involving her, all floating around in little bubbles in his head. “I can just see her face. Her eyes, they sparkle like the drink she’s sipping.”

The show is interupted by a drunken man who walks down and loudly reminds the musician in which you are trapped that he owes the drunk money. Events progress at an alarming rate. The drunk whirls the object of “your” obsession into an adjecent bar while “you” pace around backstage and plot to get her. You enter the bar, much violence ensues. Some of it is amusing and caricatured. The brawl is interupted with a group of stereotypical tropical-style dancers at some point while onlookers dance around. You, because you have become him now, decide to put an end to the partying around you and end it all with a direct attack. It ends with 2 gun shots.

The alarm rings. You, the original you, whoever you are, are in bed with a blond woman. She sleeps. It is still dark outside. You sit by the starry window and listen to the gentle male voice in the sky sing “good night” a few times. The sun rises suddenly and the voice turns more aggressive “GOOD DAY! GOO-OOD DAY!” You get up . . .it looks like you are back in the routine of your regular life. You’re not sure if you’re happy about it or not. You go on with life; the memories haunt you constantly and you’re never sure when you are about to slip into the whole episode again to avoid the repetitive grind of daily life.

And that’s it! Of course, most of this visualisation was formed at a time when I was living a very dreary, drug and alcohol permeated life, thus the escapist and stereotyped feel to a lot of it. Some of it seems unpleasant . . . at that time, even escapes from the dreary life were frought with pain. Anything to forget what was really happening.

NOTE: I actually added onto this post as I transferred it from my other blog. There is a difference in font, as you can see. I’m too lazy to try to fix it. Sorry!

(Originally written July 29, 2005)

Well, I’m still in the afterglow of yet another fantastic Iron Maiden adventure. I don’t believe I could ever get tired of seeing the boys live and of feeling the music course through my veins in a way that just isn’t possible when listening to them on the stereo.

We were 3rd row this time and the guards at the Collisée Pepsi in Quebec would not let us move up to the gate for some strange reason . . . but it was still a great show.

It’s funny when I think back to the first IM show that Joanne and I went to back in 1992 (Fear of the Dark tour) at the old Montreal Forum. We were a little intimidated; we had the impression that an IM show would be very serious in nature, mostly theatrical. When we were there, though, it turned out that the guys seem to be having a blast on stage and their enthusiasm is beyond contagious. We loved observing Jannick’s crazy antics, Steve’s lip-synching and, most of all, Bruce’s passion as his voice touches the very depths of our souls. Of course, being an absolute beauty far from hinders the wonderful impact that he has on the both of us . . . an effect that lasts even today.

But it’s hard to put my finger on one specific thing that it is about Iron Maiden that produces so much magic. It’s not *just* the music, it’s not *just* their stage presence, it’s not *just* the passion . . . it’s not *just* anything. It’s a package deal; everything about these guys and the music that they create fits together to help foster a unique atmosphere.

It’s funny to think that, at 32, their music still touches me as deeply as it did when I was 13, if not more. I can relate to it in much different ways, now, of course, with more life experience and more emotional baggage that I’ve accumulated. But it still helps me maintain a drive that is inexplicable in it’s intensity; a drive that I have anyway because it’s inherent to who I am but that needs a little boost now and then.

Thanks guys.

(Originally written February 19, 2006 on an even older blog).