I remember a strange moving day....

I had been living in a bachelor apartment in the West End of Vancouver. It had been a great place to live, with a friend next door and a swimming pool in the basement, but all of a sudden it was costing too much. I had lost my job and had no money. My friend, Jezebel (remember her from this post?) said I could move in with her. Great!! I would save a bunch of money and move in with a white-skinned bat-cave chick, upping my "cool" rating considerably.

I didn't have much stuff. My apartment had been almost empty, with my clothes in little piles along one wall, my stereo in the living room with my records leaning against it, and the couch that I slept on. That was about it, except for the retro dining table and chairs I had bought at a second-hand store. I decided to nab a shopping cart and load all my earthly belongings into it. Everything fit, except the couch, the table, and chairs. I decided to leave them behind--life was transitory, right?

I pushed the shopping cart into the elevator and rode the six floors down to the main floor. I felt kind of guilty about leaving without giving notice, but figured the table and chairs were a good peace offering to the sweet old landlady.

It was a short six or seven blocks to my new apartment. The shopping cart rattled loudly in the evening darkness. I couldn't help but wonder how far removed was I from the bag lady I appeared to be at that moment? No money coming in, all my possessions in one shopping cart...it was a disturbing thought, no matter how far up the "cool" rating I was moving.

I remember finding stuff in my locker....

One of the perks of Junior High at our school was getting a locker in the hallway instead of just stashing your stuff in your desk like in the kiddie grades. I liked having a locker. It was my little space.

I opened the door of my locker one day and found that all my stuff...my books, my jacket, everything...was covered in cigarette butts and ashes. Someone had taken the time to cram the entire contents of their ashtray through the little air holes at the top of my locker. I sighed and began picking the dirt and soot out of all my belongings. I could hear other kids laughing as they walked by.

Apparently I was not allowed to have even the tiniest of spaces to myself.

I remember trying on clothes from the missionary box...

As the pastor's family, it was our privilege to have first dibs on the clothes that were donated for the missionaries. I never knew what missionaries these clothes were designated for, I don't know if anyone did. I just knew that if Mom came home with a big cardboard box, we were going to have to spend about an hour trying on clothes.

This was always fun at first. I'd pick out the old lady dress and put it on, then mince around the room like Carol Burnett as the old lady. If there was a hat, I'd put it on and pretend to be French. Mom would laugh hysterically, but soon she settled down to business. She wanted us to try on anything that looked like it might fit. Anything. Everything. Even the ugly things. And there were lots of ugly things!

Mom would spend a lot of time trying to convince us how great an outfit looked if she liked it. I distinctly remember the sinking feeling of futile stubbornness in my gut that arose as she oohed and ahed over a seer-sucker pantsuit. It was so out of fashion that I had never even HEARD of seer-sucker, but Mom was determined that it looked fabulous on me, and so it went into my closet.

I tried not to wear it, but one day there were no clean clothes and the bus was coming, so on it went. All day long at school, people laughed at me. I tried to defend myself, explaining that it was seer-sucker, but that term is nothing but cannon fodder to cruel junior high students. It was a long day, and I never wore the outfit to school again.

I remember seeing a white guy that played guitar like Jimi Hendrix....

Because of my radio show at a college station (CiTR), I was exposed to all kinds of music that I wouldn't have known about otherwise. One of my favorite guitar players was Roy Buchanan, mainly because he sounded just like Jimi Hendrix, all bendy and trippy....yet plain as day on the cover of his album, he was a grey haired white man. I loved the paradox this presented to me!

When I heard he was coming to town, I bought a ticket right away. I figured when I got there, I'd run into all the other people I knew...but as I entered the main area of the Commodore, I realized I was wrong. The club was full, but not of my scenester friends. I was surrounded by a club full of men, men with short-cropped beards, men with jean jackets, men who had no fashion sense at all. I was surrounded by blues fans! It was quite funny! I think there were about 800 men, and maybe 6 women. I had entered the blues universe.

It was an amazing show. Roy Buchanan played guitar in some other dimension, he was a complete master of his instrument. I never noticed anything else until the lights came on at the end of the show, he really took me somewhere, I tell you. Once the show was over, I hightailed it out of there...too much testosterone for me to handle, even though apparently I was man enough for the blues.

The next year, I heard that Mr. Buchanan had hung himself in his jail cell. I felt very sad about that, he had seemed so happy when he was playing guitar on stage...it made me wonder about happiness and the things that bring it, and why is it so fleeting? Why is happiness unable to penetrate to the dark parts of our soul? It didn't seem fair to me.

I don't remember writing this letter....

"Dear Roger: You don't need to apologize for writing a depressing letter. Depression is a normal human emotion. I love you even when you don't tell jokes. (God, how I need someone to tell me that now.)

Is loneliness an evil under the sun? If it is, then I am a very evil person. But I don't think being lonely is evil; it aches almost the same as love.

I will read 'Waiting for Godot.' When you become a famous director you may cast me as Vladimir.

Funny thing -- just yesterday I was full of joy and very happy. Now I feel awful. This too shall pass. I had been wearing my hair forward. Today I brushed it backwards. Everyone said they like it. This too shall pass. I was very popular in high school. Now I sit alone at dinner. This too shall pass. Oh God, I pray that it will . Consider yourself privileged, Roger. Rarely do I get so personal in a letter. (Perhaps that is why it is so short?)

From one brave new lonely wave,

Paula"

My friend, roger, called me yesterday. He had been cleaning out old boxes in the garage, and there was this letter from me. I had written it on the wrapping of a McDonald's Apple Pie, slapped a stamp on it, and mailed it to him. I didn't date the letter, but it was probably from 1985 when I was a student at Trinity Western University. I don't remember sitting and writing this letter specifically, but I do remember the general malaise of my youth.

Looks like I was emo before any of these young kids with their hair falling in their face were even a tear-drop in their fathers' eyes.

I remember finding Blue on the road...

Blue was our dog, a beautiful little blue merle Shetland sheepdog that looked just like the one in the picture here. We had bought her from a breeder in Calgary. She had such a sad beginning in life. The breeder had sold her to a man, then months later was driving along a busy Calgary street and saw a bedraggled dog at the side of the road. She picked up the starving pup, and after checking tattoos, realized it was Blue! She called the man, and he was unapologetic..."She was a pain, so I let her out of the car to fend for herself." At the tender age of 11, I couldn't imagine a man being so cruel and evil. We bought Blue and brought her home, the fanciest dog we had ever owned, with papers and a pedigree and everything!

She was so smart! My little sister and I would make up tricks, and we'd only have to show her two or three times, and she'd know the trick forever. We'd point our finger at her, say "Bang!", and she'd fall down dead. We'd say "Slip me some skin" just like Huggy Bear from "Starsky and Hutch", and she'd put up her paw to shake. She was one groovy dog, certainly not a pain in any way! I felt proud that we had rescued her.

One hot, dusty summer day I was out in the garden grazing on the raspberries. After I'd had my fill, I began meandering back to the house, when I saw a kind of heap on the gravel road. I walked a bit closer to investigate, and realized it was Blue--not a good place for her to be napping! "Blue, come on! Get off the road!" The heap of blue-grey fur did not move. As the realization of what I was looking at slowly dawned on me, I froze. "Blue?" I could barely do it, but I walked two steps closer. There was no life there, none at all.

I ran to the house, crying. I told Mom what I had found, and she ran out to investigate. She came back to the house. "Oh, honey" she said, and pulled me into her arms. We cried and cried. I cried not just for the pain of losing such a sweet pet, but at the futility of our attempt to rescue her.

This is my 100th post. 100 memories from my life laid down the best I can, for anyone at all to read if they want to. I was wondering what to remember on this special occasion...something funny? Something sad or depressing? How about a little of both...


I remember practicing the piano....

Mom expected us all to take piano lessons. We weren't asked if we wanted to, we just had to. I hated practicing, especially my scales and triads and arpeggios. I knew they would help me play songs better, but they were so boring.

I can clearly remember one practice session. I was having trouble with my arpeggios, they just weren't coming out right. I was making the same mistake over and over again, and I was beginning to get very frustrated. I tried slowing it down to a crawl, but my fingers were still fumbling over the one area. I tried speeding it up to see if I could fly by the trouble spot...

By the 100th time of playing it wrong, I was in tears. I was angry! I was depressed!! I placed my fingers on the keys, took a deep breath, and tried again. WRONG! I slapped myself on the face, hard. "Stupid!!" I cursed myself. I tried again. WRONG!! I slapped myself again, harder. "Idiot!!" I even banged my head on the keys at one point, like a real-life version of Don Music from Sesame Street.

As you can guess, this attempt at humiliating my fingers into submission got me nowhere.

I remember getting hit in the back of the head....

The lockers at our school came in two rows, and the locker for my junior high years was in the bottom row. One day I was crouching down to get the books for my next class in the near empty hallway. Two boys from my class came running by, and one of them swung his Adidas gym bag, full of gear, into the back of my head as they passed. I was pushed by the force of the blow right into my locker.

If this was a scene on a TV show, there would be a laugh-track. I'm sure it looked kind of funny. I did not laugh, but pushed myself out of my locker and sighed. Another meaningless violence against me. I grabbed my books and continued on to class. I think I was lectured for arriving late.

I remember not wanting to walk into class...

Junior High. An awkward age for many, but especially awkward for me, as I was one year younger than everyone in my class. I thought it was very cruel for puberty to leave me alone for so long; while all the girls in my class were developing breasts, I was still a little girl.

I would get off the bus, go to my locker and put my coat in, grab my books, then walk to the door of my classroom and hesitate. I'd steel myself, then walk in. Every day my classmate, Terry, would sneer at me from under his long bangs and say loudly, "Jesus F***in' Christ, Rempel, are you ever ugly."

Every day.

There is no response to this. You can't argue it, you can't agree, you can't ignore it. It's a losing situation no matter how you look at it. Somehow his statement always made everyone else laugh. You'd think they would have got tired of the same announcement day after day.

I was 11. I thought I was ugly.

I remember wondering if I should jump...

I was living in a warehouse with my artist room-mate, Don. It was an old, empty warehouse that the landlord rented to artists for studio space. It wasn't zoned for habitation, but all six floors were full of artists, all living there, which the landlord conveniently chose not to notice. It was a beautiful old building, exposed brick inside, massive wooden beams along the twelve-foot high ceilings. Don and I rented one half of the very top floor.

One of my favorite things to do was sit in the open window and watch people go by on the sidewalk some seventy feet below. Unless I pulled out my guitar and started singing, they had no idea I was there. It was a free feeling, like I was unattached to the world, like an angel or a spirit or something.

One day, as I sat watching the people, I was overcome with a voice in my head, saying, "Why don't you just jump?"

As I sat there looking over the past few years of my life and what a failure they seemed, I couldn't think of a single reason why not. I began to wonder what it would feel like to float for five and a half stories, and would I feel anything during the sudden stop at the end...I imagined my funeral, and how none of my friends would probably bother to come. I wondered if any of the small tiny humans below would be in the way when I jumped, and would I kill them or just injure them? It was getting quite morbid, quite pathetic. Thankfully, Don came home in time to stop me from moving from pondering to action (I always knew procrastination was a good quality).

I talked things over with Don. Even with the usual propensity towards depression that any creative type suffers, this was abnormal behavior for me. We came to the brilliant conclusion that I should stop taking that new prescription of birth control pills until I talked to my doctor, who confirmed that a possible side effect of the Pill is suicidal tendencies. I guess if I was dead, I certainly wouldn't be getting pregnant, now, would I? Very effective method of birth control, that...

I'm still stuck on the wart memory (see entry below this one).

Why is that such a strong memory for me? What was it about that episode that was so important to me? I wonder if it was the aspect of being told I was a big girl? I remember often feeling disdain for grown-ups that would baby me. They'd tell me what a big girl I was, and I'd be thinking to myself, "Well, tell me something I don't know." I considered myself to be a big girl. I thought of myself as an equal player.

Now that I'm in my late 30's, I don't feel so sure about that anymore. I don't always feel like a big girl. I feel like everybody learned something in some class I must have missed in school that teaches you how to cope with life.

Maybe I'm growing backwards, like Merlin in "The Sword in the Stone." If only I felt child-like, and not childish, I could deal with that thought better. If only I gained magical innocence the older I got. If only I could regain my confidence. I don't remember where I lost it. Maybe that's why I'm doing this whole blog exercise, to find my lost confidence.

Have you seen it anywhere?

Maybe the wart memory was so important because I felt myself so distinctly separate from my mother. She wanted to see that wart, and it bugged me that she wanted to see it. I felt it was none of her business. Maybe that was the first time I ever felt that...it certainly hasn't been the last! The wart, a symbol of my waking independance. Except not a very good symbol, because Mom won, and the wart was removed.

Geez, how depressing. How easily my strength is removed, how I'm praised for turning it over. How often do I do this? How often have I done this?

I remember a moment of clarity, when I first realized that my life was empty and meaningless. I was at a gig, can't even remember what band, but I think it was at the Town Pump in Vancouver. The place was packed, and I knew over 50 per cent of the people there. This was my scene, and I felt like the queen. I didn't have to pay to get in, I could go back-stage if I wanted, I knew ALL the "cool people". But as I was looking around, it's like a light went on. The thought entered my head: "If I were to get sick and end up in the hospital, how many of these friends would come visit me?" I knew the answer. None of them. And I had no other friends. If I died, how many of these people would care? Actually cry about it? None of them. I was pouring all my energy into relationships that were not based on love and care, but on social standing and work opportunities. I was shallow! I was ugly inside!! The funny thing is that I was shocked by that.

I walked around the rest of the evening in a daze, trying to stare into everybody, realizing that I didn't really know any of them. I was overwhelmed with a deep and stabbing loneliness that lasted for over six months.

2002-08-28 - 7:37 a.m.

I remember: one day at school, the teacher was really getting under my skin. I was 11. By lunch time, I had had it. I took my lunch and quietly walked off the school ground and headed toward the highway. "He thinks he rules me? I'm walking to the city." The city was 70 miles away. I remember I was wearing a blue-and-white checkered dress, sort of a large gingham check, with a big bow in the back. It was made of polyester. I walked for hours on Highway 21, heading to Calgary. I didn't know what a prostitute did, but I did know that if you ran away, that was your way to make money, so I was determined to become one as soon as I got to the city. Thoughts of my family would fleetingly enter my head, but I'd push them aside. I was stubborn enough that I probably would have walked to Calgary, except for a man in a big sedan, driving the other way, heading back to my home. He pulled over and called out to me. "What are you doing by yourself way out here?" I lied to him, quick as thought, "I live near here, and I'm just out for a walk." Thankfully, he didn't believe me, and suggested that maybe I needed a ride back to town. I sighed. I got in his car. When we got back to town, I realized I had just missed the school bus, so I had to call home and lie again. And the next day at school, I had to lie to my stupid teacher as well.