a change is gonna come

this photo has absolutely nothing to do with the following post but i took it the other day while i was out for a walk and wanted to share it.

Last night, I dreamed that I had become a school teacher. I knew I was for sure remming at the time because (a) I was teaching at my old Catholic high school and (b) my socks did not match my belt. Anyways, Dali couldn’t have painted the picture better himself. My classroom wasn’t at all like the one I remembered as a student. There were no stained glass windows, chalkboards or pictures of sunsets with biblical quotations on the horizon. There were not even walls.

The surreal homeroom I found myself teaching in looked more like it was cut straight out of a Harry Potter film. Two closed eyelids and I went from adjusting the temperature on the space heater to taking the class attendance deep within the Ministry of Magic. On all four sides I was surrounded by students. Like an inverse pyramid, they sat on rows of bleachers that rose higher the further they pushed back. I could barely make out the faces of the students at the very back as they faded into darkness.

Although I was boxed in to a square, I began the class with confidence and ease. Stage fright has never been a problem of mine and so it has rarely chased me in my dreams. The nightmare didn’t begin until I handed out the course syllabus. Holding on to a copy for myself, I watched a cyclone of white pages swirl up in every direction before dissolving in to thin air. With everyone’s attention, I cleared my throat and prepared to speak, until I realized the page in my hand was blank.

Tripping over sentence fragments, beads of sweat raced down my cheek and I began to lose my cool. I could feel the pressure of a thousand eyes closing in on me, and had no clue what move to make next. I had a classroom full of students with no idea what I was supposed to teach them. Each stutter marked the passing of another hour. There was no way out and no place to hide. After what felt like an eternity, I was saved by the bell of my alarm clock. I woke up with my bed cover on the floor and the traffic report on the radio.

I had a classroom full of students with no idea what I was supposed to teach them.

Like the blank page in my dream, I cannot tell you how many times I have sat at this wooden desk in front of a blank computer screen. When I graduated University and moved to Vancouver, I thought there would be no end to the number of words I would stitch together. I envisioned Fringe plays, best-selling novels, and a hilarious website that was updated every other day. I didn’t anticipate spending half my time serving tables in a restaurant and the other half being too hungover to hold a pen upright.

For months, I searched scrambled for a creative outlet to bridge the gap between a life I left behind and a new one I hadn’t the foggiest clue what to do with. But alas, every time I sat down with a sober mind to write, nothing would come out. It took me the longest time to discover that my problem was not that I was blocked; it was that I was trying to create from a place that didn’t exist within my self anymore.

I have always felt that Meryl Streep put me on this earth to make people laugh; but a deeper part of me has also felt she placed me here to teach. When I began writing Rugged Fox, my only goal was comedy.  I adapted stories from own life and made sure to trim out any plot line that I considered “too serious.” I decided it was my life’s mission to write about boys, fashion and strict skin regimes. Other issues impacting my life, like depression, anxiety and alcoholism were for my offline journal only. Now, after three years of sitting beside the Pacific Ocean, I find myself in a space where I can share the other parts of my story. 

As we move in to 2012, I will launch a new section to this site called “School of Fox.” It is still in the works and like my dream, I have no clue exactly what will be on the course outline; except I have enough ideas to start. In the coming months, I will be sharing with you what I have learned about sexual identity, self-esteem and most importantly, self-care. Using my journal entries as a jumping off point, I would like to teach everything I didn’t learn in high school. I would like to emphasize that I am not a doctor or registered counsellor, I am just a redhead with a lot of great teaching outfits.

let's get it on

“Must I always be lonely, with my dreams at your doorway?” – Molly Johnson

Dear lovers, I apologize for leaving you up-dateless for so long. Where have I been you ask? Well, the unofficial answer is I drowned. The forecast for Vancouver this past month has called for rain with a 90% chance of more rain. Officially, I had a bad case of writer’s block. Rendered creatively impotent by one grey sky after another, I surrendered myself to living in someone else’s dream. That was until eleven-eighteen this morning, however, when I returned to my own.

For those of you who have been dying for an update on my love affair with the mailman: this is it.

Since my last transcripted encounter with il postino, I have seen him not once or twice, but three times.

The first time was approximately four weeks ago, when he called from the lobby to inform me he had something with my name on it. Practically tumbling down three flights of stairs to pick up what he was putting down, I was disenchanted when he passed me the envelope and said, “It looks like you got something here from your mom.” Feeling icky and gross about getting myself all worked up just to receive a box from my mother, I suppressed the urge to gouge my eyes out and thanked him humbly before returning to my apartment.

Dear David Duchovny...The second time was ten days ago. My father was in town visiting for the weekend, and it just so happened that we walked in to the apartment block just as the postman was making his rounds. Waiting for the elevator, I watched as he sorted each piece of mail - with the utmost care and precision - into its wanting slot. Catching my eye lock with his, he paused briefly to casually say “You’re 605 right” to which I urgently replied, “Am I ever.” Checking to see if he had anything for me (talk about full service) I wished him adieu as the elevator door opened in front of me. Stepping inside, it quickly occurred to me that I had completely forgotten about my father who was standing right next to me the entire time. Nervously chuckling, as the elevator went up, I proceeded to give him this half-baked explanation about how Canada Post is much friendlier on the West Coast.

The third time was at the aforementioned hour and minute this a.m. In the midst of washing dishes, I was interrupted by an unexpected wrap at my door. Suspecting it was him, my eyes panicked at the fact I was not ready. On the first knock, I debated opening up the door adorned in my yellow latex gloves. How domestic he would think, a man who can cook and clean up afterwards. But then on the second knock, I recalled my old strategy. Grabbing a rocks glass from the cupboard, I whipped open the refrigerator promptly followed by the freezer to discover that not only did I not have apple juice I also did not have ice. My plan foiled, I abandoned the glass, splashed some dish water in my hair and opened the front door just before he started to turn around.

Standing two feet from my lips and seven large strides from sweeping me off my feet and carrying me into bed, there was no doubt it was him: il postino. Smiling, he handed me the package and seduced me with “hello.” Taking it from his grasp, I made sure to accidentally graze my fingers against his own. Rough and no-doubt scarred from years of paper-cuts (the danger of the job) I noted the contrast between his hand and mine. While his skin was damaged proof of day-after-day of hard work, mine was an excellent example of a proper manicure. Returning my gaze back to his, my mind tuned-out and in to its very own episode of The Redhead Diaries. 

“Did you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” says Rugged Fox, opening the front door to his apartment wider.

“I … I … I don’t know if I have time” replies il postino, the rainwater dripping down from his hair and trickling on to his perfectly-defined chest.

“It’s pouring outside,” seduces Rugged Fox, “you look like you could use something to warm you up.”

The postman crosses the threshold into Rugged’s lonesome apartment, the door swinging shut behind him. It is apparent the Fox has sealed the deal, or in this case, envelope. 

Cut two commercial breaks later and you will have to start paying to read this blog.

Returning back to what actually happened - after all was signed, sealed and delivered - I watched as he left and then shut the door behind him. Turning around, I ripped open the package left in my hand and sorted through the unopened envelopes sent from home. Tossing them on to my bed, I paused briefly to watch the rain fall outside and then returned to the dishes waiting for me in the kitchen sink.

Le Fin.