I had the strangest thing happen on the day the world was supposed to end. It was scheduled to end at six. Could be late. Sometimes things go a bit later.
Apparently, according to a pal of mine, only the true believers were actually leaving – thus ending their lives. The rest of us have a hundred years of nuclear hell ahead of us and some other unsettling stuff, which many of us see coming anyway.
I haven’t read about it or any news for quite a while.
My mother recently died of cancer and for the longest while, the comfort of her survival was all I could attend to. The world would have to take care of itself and I’d catch up later, or I wouldn’t. I had stopped caring entirely.
So today, still a bit weepy but hanging in, I made myself enjoy the weather by scheduling some random outdoor tasks. I did some banking, bought a paper, a gross orange pop that is still clinging to stomach lining like it belongs there. (Don’t tell my naturopath.) I walked along College West destined for some café writing time and perhaps a movie. I really should have crossed the street. I considered it several times. The café was on the other side of the street.
So I was almost there. I smiled, nodded and said hello to a pretty cute Mr. of African descent who is eating vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone. He greeted me in unison. And then he turned around.
In about three to five minutes we found out a great deal about each other.
Okay, I’ll just tell you what I remember because the truth of this is insane to me and it felt like magic. Not a soul-mate magic, or even a romantic magic, but a spiritual magic – the broom of life sweeping me a bit forward.
“Hey.”
I turned around.
“What is your name?” He walked towards me extending his hand.
“Simone.”
“I am (shall remain nameless).”
“Where are you from?”
“Here?”
“Oh, here.” He pointed at the ground. “Oh. I am from Haiti.” Brief pause. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to write at the café on the corner.”
“Oh, you write?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going? Close by?”
“Starbucks.”
“Oh.” He paused and seemed to find it odd.
“I’m gonna put my headphones on, have a coffee and write for a couple of hours.”
“What are you writing?”
“A book.”
“What’s it about?”
I hesitated to tell him – the subject being so personal. “It’s about almost dying. I almost died.”
“You almost died. I almost died.”
“You almost died.”
“Yes.”
“You almost died. What happened?”
“It was 2004. The Africans were overthrowing the Haitian government."
“Your father was in the government.”
“Yes. My father was in the Haitian government and when the Africans were overthrowing the government, they burst into the house with guns and shot everything.” He gasped.
“But I was fine.”
“But you watched your father die.”
“Yes.”
“That’s hard.”
He looked right at me then started to walk away a bit. “I don’t know why I stopped you,” he said shaking his head and taking steps backwards.
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“No. No, not at all.” He stepped closer again.
“And you’re a writer.”
“Yes.”
“And you are going to write, right now in that café.”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Oh.”
We stood there for a while just staring at each other. I didn’t want to talk about accounting.
“I have to go, and you must write your story. When it is written I will read it over and over again because I want to know your story. And I will cherish it. A lot of people will want to read your story. I will cherish it. And I know it will be very good because you wrote it.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Simone.”
He repeated his name, which wasn’t necessary because I remembered it. We shook hands again.
“I don’t know why I stopped you,” he said again. “I don’t know why I stopped you. I was just walking by and then I stopped you. Good-bye, Simone.”
“Bye (insert name here).”
We parted ways. I read the paper and wrote for a couple of hours. I considered inviting him to join me, but I didn’t. I chose to write instead.
The world didn’t end, of course – at least not for most of us. But I felt another world open and I walked in.
@simone4king | www.simonefrank.com | Toronto, Canada
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
wrongStrongman
One monotonous evening while I was college, glued to the computer because it was a Graphic Design diploma I was after, I became possessed by the Goddess of Online Dating. She took over my body and forced me to create a profile on Plenty of Fish. It was great at first. My first date was with a Spanish scientist who traveled back and forth. I thought it went well. He never wanted to see me again.
It sounds harsh, but I'm a realist and can assure you that he simply was not interested in ever seeing me again. I was once a gal who rarely dated. I tried 'dating' in my 20s and realized that it would make my life a lot easier, if I only had drinks or dinner, went to plays, or danced with men I hoped to eventually spend a lot of time with. To date just to find out if he was someone I could date again. It just takes too flippin' long. And when I decided not to date a guy after five dates, too often they believed I was their girlfriend. Those break ups were so embarrassing for both of us, I think. I stopped. And I became sneaky. I got to know people a bit when I passed them on the street. I'd talk to them at parties, bars, events. And I knew if I was meant to date someone when I was attracted to him chemically, and began to see him everywhere. That was my scientific approach to falling in love.
So what am I doing online? Clicking on pictures? I have no idea. Mostly I'm cruising without danger of having to follow through after staring at some guy for fifteen minutes. It's kind of safe, right. Well that's what I thought. The opposite was confirmed on my series of date with candidate number one million six hundred thousand and forty three.
I met a man who pretended to be an Albanian refugee so that he could travel to North America. It took him a few tries, but it finally worked. We had a date on New Years Eve that lasted twenty minutes because he was fifteen minutes late and I had plans.
I thought he was sexy and actually, he had one of my fantasy body types. You know those guys who throw really big logs for competition. (This isn't him below. Just a visual. Just giving you a visual.)
I was in awe and imagined quite a delightful future. But alas.
One evening, after he was kind enough to pick me up from a thing I had in North Toronto so I wouldn't have to take the transit, I suggested we go out for a coffee. He parked the car, we got out and walked towards the café. In conversation about his ex-wife and kids etc., he casually slipped in that he had to beat his wife a couple of times. He said it like this,"I beat her too a couple of times, you know." I always imagine in these situations that the language difference or the background noise affected my perception so that he didn't say that at all.
But there I am, with my bag in his car, thinking I may be in danger right now. Thank God I have some acting experience. I played the role of the strong woman interviewing a sane man for the part of boyfriend. And I just listened to him tell me the story of his past.
For the details, you'll have to read my book. I'll probably call it 'cyberlove' unless some bastard steals the title, or I come up with something better. Basically, the wife beater was arrested, given a restraining order, put in jail for a day, and then released because he was coached not to admit guilt. He told me he said he was guilty and the judge told him not to tell her that. That's Canada, baby. Justice sometimes in some cases where the accused threatens that section of society that's running things. So then what happens? I get to meet him.
So I broke up with him in a voice mail. It's really the best way in that situation. He called back, emailed, asked for an explanation. I gave him one.
I will never date a man who has ever hit a woman for any reason.
I replied to his query with that one sentence. Make it your mantra. He told me he was drunk and hadn't had a drink since. But I said that he wasn't hearing me, because that was his reason. And no reason was acceptable.
Because for those of you who know me well, if a guy uses violence to make a point... let's just say, I ain't pretending to be 'Easy Like Sunday Morning'. I piss people off. Not on purpose usually, but often.
He still didn't get it so I had to tell him to stop calling, stop emailing and to just move on. No mincing words, no further explanation required. No opportunity to appear normal. None of it. Just an ending that saves me a ton of future grief.
Please ladies! Always do this! And men too! I've seen it get too ugly too often and there is always a sign with abusers. And the sign is not subtle either.
This random situation has inspired me to make an effort to socialize the old fashioned way... out in the world.
(Easy Like Sunday Morning by Lionel Ritchie... live)
and so we go...
It sounds harsh, but I'm a realist and can assure you that he simply was not interested in ever seeing me again. I was once a gal who rarely dated. I tried 'dating' in my 20s and realized that it would make my life a lot easier, if I only had drinks or dinner, went to plays, or danced with men I hoped to eventually spend a lot of time with. To date just to find out if he was someone I could date again. It just takes too flippin' long. And when I decided not to date a guy after five dates, too often they believed I was their girlfriend. Those break ups were so embarrassing for both of us, I think. I stopped. And I became sneaky. I got to know people a bit when I passed them on the street. I'd talk to them at parties, bars, events. And I knew if I was meant to date someone when I was attracted to him chemically, and began to see him everywhere. That was my scientific approach to falling in love.
So what am I doing online? Clicking on pictures? I have no idea. Mostly I'm cruising without danger of having to follow through after staring at some guy for fifteen minutes. It's kind of safe, right. Well that's what I thought. The opposite was confirmed on my series of date with candidate number one million six hundred thousand and forty three.
I met a man who pretended to be an Albanian refugee so that he could travel to North America. It took him a few tries, but it finally worked. We had a date on New Years Eve that lasted twenty minutes because he was fifteen minutes late and I had plans.
I thought he was sexy and actually, he had one of my fantasy body types. You know those guys who throw really big logs for competition. (This isn't him below. Just a visual. Just giving you a visual.)
I was in awe and imagined quite a delightful future. But alas.
One evening, after he was kind enough to pick me up from a thing I had in North Toronto so I wouldn't have to take the transit, I suggested we go out for a coffee. He parked the car, we got out and walked towards the café. In conversation about his ex-wife and kids etc., he casually slipped in that he had to beat his wife a couple of times. He said it like this,"I beat her too a couple of times, you know." I always imagine in these situations that the language difference or the background noise affected my perception so that he didn't say that at all.
But there I am, with my bag in his car, thinking I may be in danger right now. Thank God I have some acting experience. I played the role of the strong woman interviewing a sane man for the part of boyfriend. And I just listened to him tell me the story of his past.
For the details, you'll have to read my book. I'll probably call it 'cyberlove' unless some bastard steals the title, or I come up with something better. Basically, the wife beater was arrested, given a restraining order, put in jail for a day, and then released because he was coached not to admit guilt. He told me he said he was guilty and the judge told him not to tell her that. That's Canada, baby. Justice sometimes in some cases where the accused threatens that section of society that's running things. So then what happens? I get to meet him.
So I broke up with him in a voice mail. It's really the best way in that situation. He called back, emailed, asked for an explanation. I gave him one.
I will never date a man who has ever hit a woman for any reason.
I replied to his query with that one sentence. Make it your mantra. He told me he was drunk and hadn't had a drink since. But I said that he wasn't hearing me, because that was his reason. And no reason was acceptable.
Because for those of you who know me well, if a guy uses violence to make a point... let's just say, I ain't pretending to be 'Easy Like Sunday Morning'. I piss people off. Not on purpose usually, but often.
He still didn't get it so I had to tell him to stop calling, stop emailing and to just move on. No mincing words, no further explanation required. No opportunity to appear normal. None of it. Just an ending that saves me a ton of future grief.
Please ladies! Always do this! And men too! I've seen it get too ugly too often and there is always a sign with abusers. And the sign is not subtle either.
This random situation has inspired me to make an effort to socialize the old fashioned way... out in the world.
(Easy Like Sunday Morning by Lionel Ritchie... live)
and so we go...
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Teddy Pendergrass - The Whole Town's Laughing At Me (1977)
I was having wine and yes, smoking cigarettes indoors -- yes, indoors -- with a good friend last night. We were listening to music and exclaiming at the same songs.
I was trying to remember this one. I kept getting the title mixed up with, Used to Be My Girl by the O'Jays because of what the songs were about. Totally different feeling as you know in terms of musicality. They take me to two different places.
So she didn't get the point I was making, which was -- where did that spirit go? I don't hear songs like this so much anymore but then I usually listen to jazz. So raw, so that I believe the person who wrote it meant it, that Teddy meant it. I must go on a search to find new artist who sing with this much soul.
So, I share this video with you which is not visually my favourite editing style. :) There is a live version when Teddy was younger. It's a better visual, but this is the one. This is the one I remember loving from the start. This, after a rough day and a decision not to drink again tonight 'cuz I do have a day job.
and so we go...
I was trying to remember this one. I kept getting the title mixed up with, Used to Be My Girl by the O'Jays because of what the songs were about. Totally different feeling as you know in terms of musicality. They take me to two different places.
So she didn't get the point I was making, which was -- where did that spirit go? I don't hear songs like this so much anymore but then I usually listen to jazz. So raw, so that I believe the person who wrote it meant it, that Teddy meant it. I must go on a search to find new artist who sing with this much soul.
So, I share this video with you which is not visually my favourite editing style. :) There is a live version when Teddy was younger. It's a better visual, but this is the one. This is the one I remember loving from the start. This, after a rough day and a decision not to drink again tonight 'cuz I do have a day job.
and so we go...
Friday, October 8, 2010
Because we're stupid
I once had a lover who was against the idea of soulmate love. Well, love, I think he would have settled for love, but his idea of it and mine were quite different. He wanted to have an open relationship. Then just stay single, I’d say, that’s an open relationship.
But no, he wanted someone to come home to after having slept with others, and he had found it. He had recently fallen in love and was still recovering from that fall. So you can imagine that love seemed like a horrible idea to him as it does to me now.
Because I wanted someone who would love me for life. Just me and him, a monogamous union. Just like some of my parent’s friends. I think two is better than fifteen if you find the right one and one.
Once we were at a bar or something. He took me there. The place was crowded. We’re talking with a few of his friends and he brought our current argument to the table.
We all have many soulmates, right? And we’re all supposed to find one of these soulmates? And love them for all eternity! If all that’s true, then why are we all alone? He asked all pissed off and indignant.
Because we’re stupid.
Because we’re stupid, his friend said. And then he sipped his beer and started to turn away as if we were keeping him from finding his soul mate. It was utter brilliance. Perfectly true and honest.
But we’re not just that. We’re also frustrated and scared and hollow and cold sometimes. Sometimes we’re so cold we just shut every window and every door to keep comfortable. Like I refuse to do.
I laughed at him, you know. I thought - you’re never going to find it. I am. And you’ll be old and lonely and wish that you had made different choices.
But wait!
I wish I had made different choices. I wish I had been awake at times and pretended to be asleep at others. I wish I had not given up so easily at the exact same point in every union. I wish I had just put on a sweater – left the windows open, stood at the ajar door. I wish I had taken the good ones back instead of the bad ones.
And I wish I had more patience, wasn’t so bitchy. Wasn’t so crass, but who can help that?
I wish that I will find him now.
Now that I know more and am more.
I wish for a love that lasts forever.
I mean forever –
beyond the end --
leaving an imprint on the world I leave behind.
‘Cause I am not stupid.
But no, he wanted someone to come home to after having slept with others, and he had found it. He had recently fallen in love and was still recovering from that fall. So you can imagine that love seemed like a horrible idea to him as it does to me now.
Because I wanted someone who would love me for life. Just me and him, a monogamous union. Just like some of my parent’s friends. I think two is better than fifteen if you find the right one and one.
Once we were at a bar or something. He took me there. The place was crowded. We’re talking with a few of his friends and he brought our current argument to the table.
We all have many soulmates, right? And we’re all supposed to find one of these soulmates? And love them for all eternity! If all that’s true, then why are we all alone? He asked all pissed off and indignant.
Because we’re stupid.
Because we’re stupid, his friend said. And then he sipped his beer and started to turn away as if we were keeping him from finding his soul mate. It was utter brilliance. Perfectly true and honest.
But we’re not just that. We’re also frustrated and scared and hollow and cold sometimes. Sometimes we’re so cold we just shut every window and every door to keep comfortable. Like I refuse to do.
I laughed at him, you know. I thought - you’re never going to find it. I am. And you’ll be old and lonely and wish that you had made different choices.
But wait!
I wish I had made different choices. I wish I had been awake at times and pretended to be asleep at others. I wish I had not given up so easily at the exact same point in every union. I wish I had just put on a sweater – left the windows open, stood at the ajar door. I wish I had taken the good ones back instead of the bad ones.
And I wish I had more patience, wasn’t so bitchy. Wasn’t so crass, but who can help that?
I wish that I will find him now.
Now that I know more and am more.
I wish for a love that lasts forever.
I mean forever –
beyond the end --
leaving an imprint on the world I leave behind.
‘Cause I am not stupid.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
the door prize
I have thought about the karmic weight of such an occurrence and the metaphorical nature.
I felt so in control and so safe having chosen this route -- a detour from my regular ride home -- to avoid construction.
Maybe it's necessary sometimes to take the challenging route. Maybe trying to make things easier isn't working. Maybe there is no way to avoid a fall.
In every tragedy there is triumph. From this one, I learned that putting essential oils like lavender and eucalyptus on a bruise followed by Castor oil can truly provide comfort.
Arnica would have been best, but I opted to stay home and to use what I had in the house.
It also made me slow down. I had no choice but to sit quietly and calmly bring my body back to balance.
Luckily I had the day off. It was a challenge not to dart around like I usually do. It was a challenge to rest my body and my mind. One has to do that to heal, I've learned. It's the only way. Healing has to start with the mind.
A great book on herbal remedies is The Little Herb Encyclopedia seen above.
Monday, June 28, 2010
farmer's markets in the hood
There are so many things to get inspired by. I live in a city within the city seeking out things that I feel have soul. Every since I can remember, my family has been seeking out produce that comes either from our backyard, or from farmers. So how excited am I to find that there are two farmers markets that are a short walk from my doorstep. The sad part is that they are on Tuesday and Wednesday from 3-7. That makes it a bit challenging to visit.
Last Tuesday, I was able to attend the one at Trinity Bellwoods Park (http://www.tbfm.ca/) It's pretty early in the season, so maybe I expected too much. There was tons of kale and other leafy greens, some delicious strawberries.
I ate it in about five seconds, and some of the cherries were somewhere between the kind to be used for pie and the kind to eat. They were pretty sour, but what's a girl gonna do.
The prices were a bit high. A quart of strawberries for $4. The cherries were the same price. The honey I bought was also quite expensive for something I was buying directly from the grower. It was also already turning to sugar. Was I buying last year's batch?
The vendor tried to explain that honey has a tendency to do that. I've been eating honey from farmer's markets since I was three. I know how ridiculous it is to buy one that's already turning when I'm getting it from a farmer. I want that pure, dark delectable kind that is perfect when first opened. Not the kind that I'll have to scrape out with a knife a week after it's opened.
I have to admit, at the farmer's market at Square One in Mississauga. Items are lower priced than they are in major produce retailers. So I don't understand why those setting up shop in Toronto at this location charged so much.
I wonder if conscious business practices should result in higher prices. I have yet to visit the market on Borden Street in the Annex. The Bloor Borden Market runs on Wednesdays. (http://www.my-market.ca/)
The most interesting thing about the market at Trinity Bellwoods Park was the sense of community. People seemed to be part of some community I don't belong to. There were many random conversations with vendors and "nice-to-see-you-agains". So if you're looking for people who are also passionate about home grown eats, this may be a good place to connect.
I personally just wanted a big basket of ripe, sweet cherries and a bucket of honey at a reasonable price. (There were no buckets available at Trinity.)I will visit again later in the season to see how it's developed. I'm hoping there will be more farmers as well.
Last Tuesday, I was able to attend the one at Trinity Bellwoods Park (http://www.tbfm.ca/) It's pretty early in the season, so maybe I expected too much. There was tons of kale and other leafy greens, some delicious strawberries.
I ate it in about five seconds, and some of the cherries were somewhere between the kind to be used for pie and the kind to eat. They were pretty sour, but what's a girl gonna do.
The prices were a bit high. A quart of strawberries for $4. The cherries were the same price. The honey I bought was also quite expensive for something I was buying directly from the grower. It was also already turning to sugar. Was I buying last year's batch?
The vendor tried to explain that honey has a tendency to do that. I've been eating honey from farmer's markets since I was three. I know how ridiculous it is to buy one that's already turning when I'm getting it from a farmer. I want that pure, dark delectable kind that is perfect when first opened. Not the kind that I'll have to scrape out with a knife a week after it's opened.
I have to admit, at the farmer's market at Square One in Mississauga. Items are lower priced than they are in major produce retailers. So I don't understand why those setting up shop in Toronto at this location charged so much.
I wonder if conscious business practices should result in higher prices. I have yet to visit the market on Borden Street in the Annex. The Bloor Borden Market runs on Wednesdays. (http://www.my-market.ca/)
The most interesting thing about the market at Trinity Bellwoods Park was the sense of community. People seemed to be part of some community I don't belong to. There were many random conversations with vendors and "nice-to-see-you-agains". So if you're looking for people who are also passionate about home grown eats, this may be a good place to connect.
I personally just wanted a big basket of ripe, sweet cherries and a bucket of honey at a reasonable price. (There were no buckets available at Trinity.)I will visit again later in the season to see how it's developed. I'm hoping there will be more farmers as well.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The City That is Often Called Cold
I recently saw the movie 'The Secret In Their Eyes.'
In my search for a movie that would draw me into the plot and make me forget what was going on in my life. I became tangled in the plot. I remember thinking I was about to see a movie about crime, something suspenseful and troubling, but what I was left with was an examination of love. The varying ranges of love, the love that's realized and love that is never denied. I wondered about the choice to walk away from someone you'd really rather run towards.
Is it worth it to be safe sometimes?
To protect the heart sometimes?
The movie is shot beautifully using subtle techniques to give it life.
For those of you who liked, 'It's Complicated', a line used in 'The Secret in Their Eyes' at a few choice moments. It is complicated in a different way that is always similar in love. Highly recommended.
On the way home from the Cumberland the city looked different. The way it did to me when I was in my element -- exhibiting art regularly and working for myself. I stopped at a fruit stand to buy some blackberries. Everything felt romantic. There were three college aged guys working inside. They stopped talking when I walked in. The staff had placed a huge fan on the floor in front of the entrance. I walked in the door and my skirt blew up in the air.
I asked them if it was the Marilyn Monroe fan.
No one replied.
"You know. So it blows everyone's skirt up as they walk in."
No one replied.
"You do that on purpose don't you."
The cashier smirked as he put the berries in the bag. "Yes, we do."
He said with a straight face. "It's done entirely on purpose."
Then he smiled.
I laughed and walked the rest of the way home.
There's magic in this city.
This city that is often called cold.
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