Of Sheep and Men

I’m not the only one who’s uneasy about life’s lack of coherence. I’m currently reading “D’où viens-tu berger?” by Mathyas Lefebure.

Mathyas was a young, successful, wealthy advertising executive in an agency called Cossette, in Montreal. I happen to know it well. I’ve worked in film advertising for years. I know some of this man’s colleagues. Advertising uses a mother lore of often young, very creative and extremely brilliant people. There lies the paradox. They are way too brilliant not to be struck by the futility of their work. It’s an awareness they all have, and some deal with it better than others.

Mathyas decided to give it all up and become a sheep shepherd in Southern France. The book tells of his experience.
It rings many bells for me. I know exactly the milieu and lifestyle he gave up. But I also grew up in Provence. Let’s say I can relate to both where he came from and where he went.
Johnny Depp, who chooses to live in France, often says that North-Americans have forgotten how to live. Indeed, life in Europe is on another beat and in small villages, it’s another planet altogether.

There’s also the fact that my father had this lifelong fantasy of giving it all up and becoming a shepherd, exactly like Mathyas did. My father was a dreamer and this lifestyle was his Utopia. It took me years to realize that he was dreaming out loud, and that the dreams themselves were fulfilling enough to sustain him. It wasn’t about doing it. It was about dreaming about it, and polishing the dream like a well-loved object.
I waited for years for us to move to a small village so I could go to the market, riding a small donkey, to the Saturday morning fair. I believed every bit of it. When I finally stopped believing, in my teens, I grew older.

I remember a time, back in France, when people sat around a table and talked at leisure. People sat in the bistros and talked. I see myself sitting at a café, on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix, watching people strolling by, and being more entertained by their variety, and personalities, and idiosyncrasies then by a 50 million Hollywood action movie.
This capacity to take the time to savor the moment and the beauty around you, I once knew it, once had it. Here, I cannot conjure it back.
Being torn between worlds is not so bad. But I’m still waiting for coherence.

Watching and waiting…for what?
I hear echoes of bleating, rusted neck bells, and crickets’ song in dry grass.

Standing Still

I am one who runs away by throwing myself forward, headlong, burning my bridges to make sure turning back is not an option, jumping without a chute to find out if I can fly. If I can’t, I learn about broken bones. Motion is the key no matter what the cost.

I used to have a print out of a learning curve taped to my desk. It’s a jagged line except for intervals where the line becomes perfectly horizontal. Those are called plateaux. They’re part of every learning process, training process, living process. They are the times when you stand still, neither making progress nor regressing.

I feel like I’m plateau-ing these days. My body mass won’t budge. I’m maintaining my level in training but seeing zero improvement. My life is a statu quo. I am standing still. I am going nowhere, aiming for nothing, just living. It is not peaceful or rewarding. It’s just plain weird.

I am not complaining about it, merely observing it. Standing still is very unusual and uncomfortable for me. Normally, I run away forward. This time I’m not. This time, I’m experiencing stillness, wondering at it but tolerating the discomfort. I’ve no idea what comes next.

This weekend, I bought a bed. I love cats and sleeping, combined if possible. Both cats and sleeping require a decent bed. Mine was old and creaky and overdue. I bought a new one which should be delivered in about two weeks, much to my son’s chagrin since he was quite ready and willing to start jumping on it right away. I’ve finished paying for my car this year, now I can start paying for my bed. I accept donations. I will be poor but imbedded. Short of living in the lap of luxury, I will sleep in it. Guests will be welcome. Just drop me a line.

R.A.S.

Life: the harsh and merciless struggle...

Women and Men

I will be in Toronto Monday through Wednesday. Checking out the hotel (Delta) I was very surprised to see I was allowed to bring my pet! How cool is that?
Will I bring my pet? Well no, but I'm telling you, we're getting closer to hotels loaning or renting out pets to traveling owners who are missing theirs. Mark my words. Then it's just a short hop to pets being allowed in the workplace and then BINGO! Happiness and Productivity. There will be special pet-free floors for the handicapped, a.k.a. people who dislike animals or are allergic. And we'll all live happily ever after.

I started a lunchtime conversation/debate yesterday on the classic question of whether a man and a woman can be friends without an attraction at least on one side, which quickly veered to whether a man will have any close female friends that he's not somewhat attracted to, and veered again to the different expectations men and women have of s.e.x. (I put dots otherwise my bro is once again going to tell me that I'm gonna get all the perverts who do a search on that word.)

We were three girls, two straight guys and two homosexual guys. Five of those own fine brains. What a fascinating conversation! It was lively, funny, revealing and full of insights. I had a blast. Oh, the social fabric of our lives…eternal wonder.

If you ask why I exercise so much, I found the answer recently:

The advantage of exercising every day is that you die healthier...

...

I'll end with a quote from my favorite target:

"Free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat."
—President George W. Bush

On Bacteria and Money

Gosh, it's so hard getting up this week! This morning, my clock must have ringed for about thirty seconds before I finally emerged from my vivid dream (which I won't tell you about because you don't care).

I did the 3-classes-in-a-row thing yesterday, but perhaps because it's the beginning of a new session, the classes were so easy I actually had to put my sweater back on, I was getting cold. Cardio didn't budge much but I console myself by thinking I must have been right into the so-called fat burning zone at moderate intensity. I sure can use a few hours of fat burning zone!

I'm still trying to find a solution to my sport-bras problem. These wonderful synthetic materials are great, they support well, and they won't hold the sweat against you like cotton does. Therefore, companies think they are justified in selling them between 40 and 60 dollars each! I think that's ridiculously expensive. I work out at least four times a week, I need at least four of those and I don't have time to do washing during the week. Do the math. Still, I could manage all that. But THEN, sweat has bacteria, and the bras start developing a bad smell after a while of intensive use. No matter how much you wash them after that point, they smell bad again after ten minutes of wearing them. So I am faced with just throwing away my 50$ sport-bras after only about six months of use. How ridiculous and expensive is that?

I've tried the Febreeze antibacterial spray on them. Doesn't work. I looked for the "Win" detergent supposed to solve that problem. They don't sell it in Canada.
Faced with throwing away three of them, this weekend I'm trying my last resort: bleach soaking. I'm desperate. If anybody out there has faced and conquered that problem, PLEASE share!

I think it's poposterous that I should pay four hundred dollars a year in sport-bras just because I don't have a Y in my genes. That's just discrimination! They should GIVE away sport-bras since women need them through no fault of their own... or at least keep them at a ridiculously affordable price, which should also apply to sanitary products and men's shaving stuff. Dream on Brig.

Then, you add up a new pair of good shoes every six months, which, of course, I'm due for… perhaps I should take up knitting and save a ton of money…

These were my greedy, mercantile considerations of the week. Thank you for watching.

No Words

Winter has landed. The eager snowploughs, chomping at the bit, quickly entrenched unsuspecting cars behind walls of snow. Fur coats have come out of hibernation. The world is white again, no racism implied.

I can't write, for the life of me, I can't write. I cannot write about this very late supper with friends and the confidences I received around 3 am, raising disturbing images best left shrouded.
I cannot write about adapting my expectations to reality, about being disappointed but not being crushed, about accepting to not understand.
I cannot write about a life with no particular crisis, with plenty on the agenda ahead, flowing like the river that has not frozen yet. It's like emotions have been suspended. I can't write without emotions. I'm still here.
Right now, I'm watching neutrally, patiently, dispassionately. I’m watching you. And you. And you. Just watching, while I water my flowers and sip on my coffee.

Dreamworld

Dear Subconscious,

When I decide that I'm giving up on someone, I don't like when you bring him back in my dreams, especially when you make him nicer than he ever was in real life. It pisses me off. I thought I'd let you know.

Sincerely yours,

Brigitte

Snowstorm!

We FINALLY had a snowstorm yesterday evening. What a sight! Large snowflakes swirling everywhere, visibility down to a few feet…all covered in white. It was awesome!

It happened precisely between 18:03 and 18:06. At 18:08, when I reached the gym, it was over and there was no snow left on the ground. But for a few minutes, MAN!...

Why I'm glad I've no Y

Girls are wonderful. Girls talk about anything, including "feelings" and "personal life". That's the way they relate and bond with each other.

I had a conversation with a male friend who basically demonstrated how his absence of tact and empathy were really caused by his deep unease towards anything that has to do with feelings. It's not that he is heartless, it's that emotions make him so damn uncomfortable that he'll take any way out rather than have to deal with them. And often, even though he's an intelligent being, his way out will leaves much to desire. Ok, granted, he's a bit of an extreme case, thank god.

Then take my latest conversation with my hairdresser. Anybody who's familiar with the length of my hair knows that my hairdresser is not my bosom friend. I've seen her twice in the past year and a half and I didn't know her before that. We started chatting while she fought with my hair and before I knew it, I was asking her very personal, direct questions to which she was giving very personal, direct answers. She was a near-total stranger. By the time my hair was dry (two hours later), I knew that she was about to leave her husband, that she had taken a lover, that that was a lot to manage. She knew about TLM and that I had never cheated on my husband. I suppose guys will laugh at that. But we were sharing, we were relating to each other and we felt like friends when we parted. It was not gossip at all. It was two women close in age comparing experiences. It felt so good!

I find it so rewarding to talk about the real stuff instead of having to skirt and thread lightly around issues because men are not comfortable talking about them!

I'm just glad I'm a girl.

TGIF

And so ends my first week back, back to work, back to the gym. It's busy at work, which is the best way to be. It's sore at the gym and my body is in a kind of shock. I hear it: "Man, you crazy? What was THAT? You trying to kill me?... And WHY is the rum gone?"
I’ve never quite understood why my body speaks to me with a Bahamian accent.

Miss Loukhi feels right at home. She throws herself fearlessly on Fatso for flash attacks and they wrestle and love it, the flea and the elephant. Fatso needed that, since Grumpy refuses to play. All Grumpy does is hiss, spit and run when faced with friendly overtures like claws deep in her flesh.
Last night I came home and Fatso and Loukhi were sleeping together. They lifted their heads, smiling and blinking their eyes sleepily, with an "Hey, what's up?" look. I started petting both at once and was rewarded by a double purr. The three of us stood there perfectly happy for a few precious minutes.

I read year reviews and New Year resolutions on various blogs. I'm afraid I failed to do either.
Let's see. I start this new year determined. Determined to be alive, to miss no occasion. Determined to take chances, to be genuine, and to laugh and smile every time I can. I enjoy humor but I had not realized how precious laughter is until my co-worker died. This week, I had several chances to laugh and I thought of her, who laughed a lot, and suddenly, laughter was …important.

I think of her at night, and I wonder: "Where are you now, D. where are you now?" I know no other human being has ever wondered that before. I'm deeply original.

I haven't been to the movies in ages but I will go and see "The Painted Veil" within the month. There's my resolution. Oh and brother? "Bon Cop Bad Cop" was grossly overrated. :)

In Memoriam

Denise Dumouchel

September 2, 1959 - December 31, 2006

Walking

On New Year's day, I decided to go for a walk. Ipod firmly in place, I set out with no particular goal, just wanting to walk. The wind was very strong, white-capping the river. In my bulky winter jacket, I was about as aerodynamic as a tank but I was full of energy and walking at a brisk pace.

When you walk without a fixed destination, you go wherever your steps take you. First I crossed the bridge, and then went up the hill. The mountain was looming above me, white and grey. Resistance was futile, as I believe the Vogons mentioned before. So up I went. Once on the mountain, I shut down my Ipod and the sound of the roaring wind and falling water filled my ears.

All around me, it looked like the thawing forest in Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The climb was steep and I was reminded that the most exercise I had taken in ten days was lifting a glass to my lips (ok, many) and a book to my eyes (ok, many). In no time, I was sweating heavily, completely soaking up the t-shirt I had on. I own four of those wonderful synthetic shirts that keep the moisture away from you. I just thought I'd mention it. Just owning some doesn't necessarily mean you're bright enough to wear them, right? Well a wet t-shirt sucks. Thankfully, I had enough layers covering it to not have to worry about the cold.

I climbed on and on, still not worried about any destination. I passed crossroads. The world was silent and empty around me. Eventually, I reached some signs. They said: Parking 2.2 km and Pain de sucre 1.1 km. By that time, my heart was back within my rib cage. I still felt strong. Although I knew it would be steep, what's 1.1 km? And to the right I veered, now aiming for the mountain’s highest peak (yeah, ok, we're not talking Everest here).

The ground was a mixture of ice, half-melted snow, rocks and roots. There was no sure footing and the going was hard. The last 0.3 km felt worse than the whole rest of the climb, but huffing, puffing and sweating, I finally reached the top.

The weather was nasty up there, the wind icy. Turning my back to it, I got my cell phone out (never leave home without it). It beeped, flashed CHARGE BATTERY and turned itself right back off. Let me amend: never leave your effing home without your effing cell phone charged to the effing max. I was still prepared. My pockets still held my Ipod (charged), my keys (car is approximately seven km away in a straight line), my bank card (never leave home without it) and several dollar coins. After all, pay phones were invented way before cell phones. Of course, the nearest pay phone stood about three km of heavy terrain away.

I started back down and quickly realized the way down would be much trickier than up: still no sure footing, but gravity now tugging hard at my five feet ten. My progress was so slow I figured I'd be back home around six that night. My foot hit a rock hidden in the snow and a shot of pain went up my ankle. I stopped. I'm alone on the mountain, three km away from help, and my cell phone is dead. Spraining an ankle is NOT an option, I decided. Keep walking.

After several near-misses, I slipped almost elegantly and slid down several feet on bare ice. I came to a stop with what is gracefully called my buttocks area sitting in a pool of melted snow. I got up, squeezed the water out of my jeans and went on. Eventually, the terrain evened out and although I still had to deal with ice, melted snow and rocks, I was no longer climbing down but walking. It became easier.

I finally reached the parking lot and a pay phone. I called home just to let them know that I wasn't lost in the wild suburbs and then started on the ten km that would bring me home. By that time, my hip flexors were screaming obscenities at me. When I crossed the bridge again, I honestly wasn't exactly "enjoying my walk" anymore. I was walking fast, with a mechanical purpose: getting home! When I reached it, I looked at my watch: I had been walking non-stop for four hours, covered an estimated twenty km, a third of that in rough, hilly terrain. I was hurting about everywhere I could think of except the top of my left ear. But it was nice to know it could be done. It's all about pushing limits, isn't it?

(Now if I hear a single marathonian or triathlonian snigger, you're dead meat. I know you guys would have probably ran the whole thing. Hey, to each his/her challenge dammit.)