Yesterday in Toronto

Last night I walked to the Eaton Centre from work, and I took some pictures of the things I saw.
I posted them to facebook in an album called “Things I notice because I don’t belong.”

Here are a handful.

Records for sale $1 out in the snow

 

A chilly spot to sit

 

Beautiful Lights

 

The McArthur Skating rink

 

A homeless man, trying to stay warm over a vent in the snow

 

Frozen fire Hydrant

 

And that's me - in the cold

 

This city can be so amazingly beautiful and yet it is a difficult temperature.

I am still falling in love with Toronto every day.

P

The Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory of my life’s existence

I adored the ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ book and film as a child and vowed that one day, when I was rich (and famous, in my mind those two things always went hand in hand) enough, I would make that infinite candy land a reality.

I think like most kids, the magic of the chocolate river and surrounding candy trees stemmed from the vastness of that land, the endless delicious potential and the way the children were encouraged to partake of the scrumptious surroundings (well…except when they went and took things they were told not too…like poor old Augustus Gloop – but that’s ruining the metaphor that I’m about to get to).

Even though I don’t have daffodil candy cups to drink out of and then devour, I’d say that life has pretty much become the candy field of my dreams. Every day presents a new delicious possibility. The world is that Candy field.

As I subway-ed with my roomie Jem this morning, we looked up at the Toronto train line and compared where we had been on the that multi-coloured bisected squiggely “U”. Jem went to Uni here for four years but is a PEI native, and I’ve been here 8 months (nearly 9! wow!) and between us we haven’t been to all that many stops on the Subway line.

As we train surfed and bumped into our fellow subwayer’s (actually quite a nice experience as everyone is padded up in the winter jackets) we talked about how we need to randomly jump on the train and get off at a new stop to see what there is to see.

It’s hard not to get bogged down in the routine of every day life. I’ve only really been living in Toronto six months (because the first two I was up in Haliburton at Camp) and yet I’m already pretty routined up. Work is a routine, you get up, wash your face, brush your hair, put on your clothes, eat some breakfast, grab your bag and head for the subway. You get to work, do your thing, then you go home, make dinner, have a shower, watch something on your laptop and then go to bed. All to be repeated the following day. Sure there are mid-week variations, you might see a movie or grab some dinner, but usually there are cinemas or restaurants you always go to. It seems varied but it isn’t.

Hence the Jem and Paris plan to shake things up a bit and randomly go somewhere in Toronto. Variety is the spice of life – it’s something my mum always says but it truly is true.

Another thing my Mum loves to say is:

“If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always gotten.”

Ain’t that hard-edge-of-the-hammer-that-smashes-you-in-the-head truth?

Basically, if there is something crappy in your life, it isn’t going to change itself. If you always plant corn in the spring, you’re going to harvest corn in the fall (I am totally making shit up now…I know nothing about farming). But do you get what I’m saying?

I’m not sure if it is fear or laziness that keeps us trapped as prisoners in our own lives. For me it can be both of varying scales. On a smaller scale, eating at different restaurants is a laziness thing. I know what food I like and I know places to get it. I know the movie theatres that are nearby and so I go there.

The fear thing comes in more when people talk about big changes. A friend of mine that I met in an awful amdram play I am doing, tells me she wants to move to Australia. Yes there may or may not be a guy involved. My advice is DO IT! She tells me how she doesn’t love her job and she’s not always so happy. I told her the quote above and she sighs and tells me it’s not that easy.

No. It’s not easy to change things. Most people (including myself) fear change.

But it’s the struggles and the big leaps which often yield the most fabulous rewards.

Think:
-Getting Married
-Moving Countries
-Having a baby
-Changing Jobs
-Traveling
-Writing that novel
-Committing to that creative project.

If Charlie had never bought that chocolate bar, if he’d gone on as he had, then what would have happened? His two sets of grandparents would still be sharing that one double bed.

And he never would have got to try that floating lemonade.

Austraalien on Australia day

I wanted to write a post to coincide with Australia day, about what it means to be an Australian expat living far from home.
That was yesterday here in Canada, two days ago for my Australian friends. Time differences are weird.

The thing is, I have a complicated relationship with the country I was born in, lived in briefly somewhere in the middle of my childhood/adolescence, and then went to University in.
I am Australian, according to my passport. Australia is “home” according to that small navy little book, with colourful pages, my details in the front and a tracking chip in the middle. But if you flip through it, the stamps in it, the time-line… well… they tell a different story.

That’s what this blog is about, me and the Austraalien experience. Being an Alien in every culture. Someone different, noticeably outsider-ish whether it be because of the colour of my skin and hair, my accent, or my lack of cultural identifiers. I felt like a complete idiot when I started University, people talked and laughed about things that I had never heard of. They used slang I wasn’t familiar with, and had social cues that went right over my head. But then so did my Hong Kong Chinese friends, laughing in Cantonese, a language I vaguely but-not-really tried to learn.

But then, I have never tried to fit in.

Call it stubbornness, link it to my generations love of individualism.

The perceived otherness, the thing that sets us a part. The thing that makes us special.

Because that’s what everyone wants to believe. That they are some how different and special.

I’ve written blog posts before about seeking a home, that elusive construct that I’m not sure exists for me.

But I’ve never let my roots grow too deep. I could have stayed in Australia after my Masters degree, 2012 would mark six years. But I didn’t. I got out. I had to. I was choking and suffocating, not happy in myself, my relationship or the path I was headed. When I lived there, I couldn’t stop dissing it. I compared it constantly to my other “home” Hong Kong and ridiculed things that I perceived as being inferior to that Asian shopping and eating Mecca. I refused to see the positive qualities, the things it did extremely well.

The thing that kills me now that I’m over in North America, is how many people are busting their asses to get over to the country I snubbed. Canadians, Americans, and those from the UK (the majority of people I meet here) are DYING to go to Australia. Many have already been, and used up their one year living visa. People are incredulous that I would trade Sydney, Australia, that haven of beach blondes, bridges and blue sky, for the great white North.

And when I think about Australia, being far away from it, I am ridiculously proud of some aspects of that wide flat country. Yes we have beautiful scenery, but we’re also a notoriously fun and friendly people, big drinkers and big talkers. People love Australians- and everyone has a cultural anecdote or joke to tell.

I’m ridiculously sentimental, and when I hear the qantas song, I tear up. It’s here if you haven’t heard it before.

Tear jerker for me, here are the lyrics:

I’ve been to cities that never close down,
From New York to Rio and old London town,
But no matter how far or how wide I roam,
I still call Australia home.

I’m always trav’lin’,
And I love being free,
And so I keep leaving the sun and the sea,
But my heart lies waiting — over the foam.
I still call Australia home.

All the sons and daughters spinning ’round the world,
Away from their families and friends,
But as the world gets older and colder and colder,
It’s good to know where your journey ends.

But someday we’ll all be together once more,
When all of the ships come back to the shore,
I realize something I’ve always known,
I still call Australia home.

But no matter how far or how wide I roam,
I still call Australia, I still call Australia,
I still call Australia home.

Even though Australia day doesn’t really mean anything to me, here in Canada it gave me pause to think about what it means to be an Aussie, and it did make me feel homesick for that sunburnt country.

There are lots of songs and poems which I do identify with, that do speak to something deep inside me, a nationalistic pride I suppose.

But then I remember how out of place I feel when I’m there. Is that something I’ll grow out of? Will I ever truly feel as though I belong there?

When it all piles on

Sometimes I get super stressed out.

Little things bother me and it feels like there is nowhere to hide. I was having a case of this last night as I struggled with low blood sugar, crankyness and just a general down-in-the-mouth attitutde.

So when it all gets to heavy, I turn to the Desiderata. It’s my philosophy to live by and I took a line from it as my tattoo.

I hope it brings you some peace the way it does for me.

 

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Birth Order: A Psychology

Recently I have been meditating on the psychology of birth order and how it affects ones personality (weird, I know usually I think about kittens and puppies and how cute they are or what I would do if I was caught in a zombie apocalypse). Perhaps this has come about, as my youngest brother is about to embark on the University experience while mine came to a close just over a year ago.

There are three of us in my family and therefore we have the stereotypical birthplace orders, the Oldest, The Middle Child, The Youngest. I’m not sure how the psychology of birth order relates to those with more or less children, I have a friend who is one of six, and then I have friends who are only children. I’m sure there are traits associated with any and all possible family units. I’m sure that there is a difference if you are a child of divorce, if grandparents or other guardians raised you, or if you are from a family with same sex parents.

The three of us as Babies

But what interests me at the moment is seeing the theory of Birth Order psychology in practice in my own family, especially in relation to how the three of us transitioned from High School to University

As we grow into adults, it will be interesting to see how we develop, and what our birth positions had to do with the way we developed, where our lives too us. What we achieved or perceived as important goals and milestones in our lives.

Us a little older: Kip, Me, Riles

According to the first website I looked at when I typed in “Birth Order Psychology” which you can view here (as you can tell, my writing is extremely well-researched) over half of the American presidents have been first born children.

The article says

Clearly, firstborns are natural leaders. They also tend to be reliable, conscientious and perfectionists who don’t like surprises. Although, firstborns are typically aggressive, many are also compliant people pleasers. They are model children who have a strong need for approval from anyone in charge.

Interesting. I am the first born in our family, and definitely a leader type. I don’t know that I am a perfectionist – I’m kind of sloppy actually. For sure can be described as aggressive and also a huge people pleaser, and have always felt like I need approval from my parents or other figures in authority.

Lets take a look at what they say about my brother Kip who is the middle child

These kids are the most difficult to pin down. They are guaranteed to be opposite of their older sibling, but that difference can manifest in a variety of ways. Middle children often feel like their older brother gets all the glory while their younger sister escapes all discipline. Because the middle child feels that the world pays him less attention, he tends to be secretive; he does not openly share his thoughts or feelings.

Middle children may not feel they have a special place in the family so friends and peer groups become much more important. They can usually read people well, they are peacemakers who see all sides of a situation, they are independent and inventive. If a firstborn is a company’s CEO, the middle child is the entrepreneur.

Interesting. When we were small, apparently Kip only wanted to do the opposite of what I did. He lived in my shadow quite a bit and hated it at school. I was academic, sporty and always in plays, clubs and after school activities. Kip was always into gadgets and technology. He for sure is a peace-maker. Always writing wrongs in our little family. He is definitely independent – jetting off to Europe on a whim, and inventive. He is always the one fixing things and coming up with things.

Hmmm.

Lets see if this theory can go three for three and see what they got on Riley, the youngest.

Babies of the family are social and outgoing, they are the most financially irresponsible of all birth orders. They just want to have a good time. Knowing that these kids love the limelight, it’s no surprise to discover that Billy Crystal, Goldie Hawn, Drew Carey, Jim Carey and Steve Martin are all lastborns.

While lastborns may be charming, they also have the potential to be manipulative, spoiled or babied to the point of helplessness.

“The last born is the one who will probably still have a pet name although he’s 29 and has a masters degree.”

Huh! Well there you go. I wonder what 18 year old Riley “Little Pants” thinks about that!

 

The offical Family portrait: Riles, Me, Kip

 

5 problems we would face if we could have a pet dragon

Those that see me during the week know that I am currently reading the second book in the Game of Thrones series: A Clash of Kings. The book weighs a shit tonne* and is causing me to grow additional muscles in one of my shoulder blades, thereby creating the coveted Hunchback of Notre Dame look.

I regret taking the advice of a friend to begin reading this series, as it is extremely addictive and hard to put down – thereby necessitating that the hardcover book come with me wherever I go, lest I have a few moments of peace to read a few pages.

The book and a half I have read of this series has been uplifting, devastating, dramatic, emotional, terrifying and angering. The best part of it all however has been the introduction of three of my favorite characters.

Three Dragons.

I LOVE dragons. My Chinese astrology sign is a dragon…there is really nothing I could say against dragons. I wish they existed. And if they did it would be glorious indeed. I would have one as a pet and all who went before me would tremble…

However we would face some challenges as Dragon-owners, you and I (because I know you’d want one too).

This is the truth. So it is.

Below are 5 problems I would face if I could have a pet Dragon.

5. Finding hilarious outfits for My Dragon.
In Hong Kong Markets, and in boutique pet stores across the globe, you can find hysterical little outfits for your pets. My cranky-ass cat, Guinness, has been wrestled and bullied into a number of outfits, much to our amusement and his displeasure. Finding a funny outfit for a Dragon would be beyond difficult. I mean, not only would the Dragon get pissed and slash you with their razor-sharp claws, it’s hard to choose what to dress them as, come on…it’s already a dragon! What are you going to dress him/her as? A lobster?

4. Giant Dragon Craps
When we had dogs growing up, one of the worst possible fucking things I had to do after school, was pick up the dogs poo from the backyard and move it (to the rubbish bin or into the neighbors garden…by flinging it over the wall). Can you IMAGINE the clean up required for a full grown Dragon? It would be insane and literary FLOOD the park you were walking through if your Dragon had an accident. Just visualize the rude stares from the other pet owners.

3. Stopping Pet Dragon from terrorizing other Pets
I love the dog Park at the Trinity Bell at Dundas and Ossington, but I can imagine being severely reproached if my Pet Dragon scorched the cute little Corgi I always see, in his excitement and rough-housing. And what about the poor squirrels in the park? Their hearts would actually explode from their chests if a Dragon tried to chase them up a tree.

2. “We’ve just had these floors re-done!”
My cat Guinness back in Hongkers, loves to sharpen his nails on my Mum’s walls. He’ll also scratch the floor, the couch and your leg. Everything basically, except the scratching post we have. So imagine what a dragon would do to your wall, floor or leg if she tried to claw at it. That would be bad indeed.

And the number One problem in having a Dragon as a Pet is…

1. Finding somewhere to house your Dragon while you go away on Holiday.
   There are so few vacation Dragon-sitting services (google it, I did) and as much as you love your pets, you can’t let them stop you from going away. A Dragon is a big responsibility to dump on your friends so… If you’re trying to get to Coachella (like I am) you’re going to need the professionals.

And so concludes this edition of “It’s Friday and I am sapped of creative juices.”

Paris

*Shittonne is an accepted measurement for recording things that are ginourmous

Picture shanked from http://blog.advocate-art.com/index.php/archives/3240/victoria-maderna-advocate-art-illustration-agency-cartoon-greetings-cards-childrens-booksboy-and-dragon-pet

Is there something wrong with me?

This week I have seen two films starring child actors in central roles.

The first was “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close” and last night I saw “Hugo” in 3D with the boyf.

Both are based on books, and I had heard nothing at all about ELAIC but had heard rave reviews from boyfs brother about “Hugo.” On paper “Hugo” is amazing. It boasts some great actors, Ben Kingsley, Michael Stuhlbarg, Sacha Baron Cohen, Frances de la Tour, Richard Griffiths (who I met in Hong Kong a couple of years ago) and some cute, wide-eyed child actors, Chloe Grace Mortez and Asa Butterfield. Not to mention is is directed by Martin Scorsese and has captured the use of 3D superbly.

“Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close” also boasts some pretty big names, if you’ve ever heard about a little old actor named Tom Hanks, and some woman or other named Sandra Bullock (I think she won some kind of award or something last year before he tattooed retard of a husband left her for a woman with a swastika tattooed on her forehead – mama would be so proud). Also when I saw the trailer of the film, my first thought was “Oh god. Not another 9/11 film.”

But here’s the weird thing and the reason for the title of this blog. Hugo has 94% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and is generally accepted as a masterpiece of cinema, while ELAIC has a 54% rating, many people, like my initial reaction, questioning if 2011/2012 is not a little to soon to be dredging up memories of the “The worst day” (to quote Oskar Schell, the main character from the film.)

And how did I react to these films?

I loved ELAIC. I wept the entire time. I thought the cinematography was amazing. The script was tight. The characters were full-bodied, flawed and sweet. The scenery of various parts of NYC was visually delightful. The journey tore at my heart-strings apart, and then put me all back together with the final redeeming scene.

Hugo drove me a little bit nuts. I thought it was predictable, I found the main character aggravating (why are you always running away/looking teary eyed at people…yes yes I know you’re an orphan…AND?!) and I kept noticing sloppy continuity throughout the film, which fixated me far more than why the old man (Ben Kingsley) was so cranky. I groaned at some of the dialogue eg:

Weepy Child Actor: I’m sorry…it’s broken.
Gruff older man type, suddenly warmed by poor, brave little boy: (clearly talking about child) It’s not broken. It’s just perfect.

Boyf LOVED the film. “The best film I’ve seen all year” and was UTTERLY shocked that I was like… “meh.” So too boyf’s brother (a film buff and wannabe director), eager to find out if we adored it as much as he did. They have since both pronounced me fools, and although they deny it, I can see them re-evaluating my presence in their lives.

*Secret whispered conversation*

Boyf: Well if she doesn’t like Hugo, imagine what else she might not like!?
Boyfs Bro: You’re right! She doesn’t have the same judgement as us on this film…she’ll never be one of us!
Boyf: True… better just dump her now…oh? What was that? Yes coming dear. She’s onto us! Must go.

I love film, and although I’m lazy in remembering directors and actors names, I do view widely and have a very varied film taste.

My favorite Director is Wes Anderson and I most particularly love his film ‘The Darjeeling Limited.” But there are lots of other styles that have tickled my fancy, like Saving Private Ryan and Bridesmaids, which are as different as Metal and Moss (did you like that? I was going for something different from “Chalk and Cheese”).

I like to go into movies knowing very little about the film so I haven’t been swayed by my favorite reviewers or had my mind tainted by badly put-together trailers that give everything away.

So yeah, I was surprised by my reaction to Hugo vs ELAIC because I already had heard things about them.

I didn’t HATE Hugo as a film. There were a number of redeeming factors in the film, the visiting of early movie history with the Lumiere brothers and George Meilies turning out to be the cranky old man from the train station toy shop (very interesting). There is also the joyous and visually fascinating world of the inside of the clocks and mechanical devices in the train station which whir and click and are engaging combined with the wonderful time period (1930′s) and set in Paris too AND in 3D. Wow. But then that’s a small pet peeve – all British Cast in France, brummy accents, posh ones…It’s Europe…it’s close enough… (??!?!)

But definitely the major difference between the two films was that one had an actor playing a child with mild Asperges syndrome, doing an outstanding job, and then there was “The young actor in the title role (of Hugo), Asa Butterfield, (who) is a bland presence with a painfully narrow range of facial expressions.” (Joe Morgenstein, Wall Street Journal).

I don’t know, maybe that’s harsh, I didn’t act in a Martin Scorsese film at age 12 like Asa has.

Maybe (like my sweet Boyf semi-jokingly suggested) I have no heart.

But I don’t know. I weep in commercials sometimes. At certain times of the month anyway. And I would describe myself as a compassionate, liberal, loving person. So…

Boyf likened the story to Great Expectations (which I had to study in University and which I did HATE) so maybe it’s in the vein of that, poor boy coming up in the world (uhhuh…yawn).

Maybe I’ll give it another go when it comes out on DVD, but for now, too much cheese. See it for the visuals, but see Extremely Loud and Incredibly close for the storyline.

But what are your thoughts? Have you seen both? Did you have a preference?

The Old Woman Across the Street (A Short Story) part 3

Packets and packets of envelopes bursting with photographs, held together with elastic bands lined up in rows filled the suitcase. An old camera rested on top, the neck strap faded and battered, fraying in places.

 

The old lady pulled a packet free and snapped the band from around the bulging contents. In faded blue scrawl across the back, a date and an almost illegible place.

 

“Berlin, ‘88” she said, pulling a few photos at random and showing me. A woman in her fifties/early sixties beamed at the camera – pointing off to the side at the half demolished soviet wall, drinking a beer in a town square, smiling in the sunshine outside an old brick building.

 

“You were in Berlin for the wall being torn down?”

 

She nodded. Returned the photographs to the paper tomb, and pulled another from the case. Sun damaged, color leached photographs, clearly from the seventies if the fashion was anything to go by. A middle-aged woman in front of a bunch of south-east Asian temples, eating in a street market, riding an elephant.

 

“Thailand” she said, handing me the envelope. I pulled out more of the photo’s while she skimmed her soft wrinkled hands across the tops of the envelopes, selecting one at random.

 

“Zimbabwe” she said, barely flicking through the pictures before pulling the band taut against the envelope and putting it beside my pajama clad leg as I sat on the bed.

 

“Galapogoes Islands…Italy…Oklahoma…these ones are all from America, my first trip.” She said, pulling more envelopes and laying them on the bed. She squinted at faded spidery writing, pursed her lips and finally pronounced…

 

“India.”

 

She kept pulling envelopes and piling them on the mattress until there were more than a dozen, the bands holding them closed straining, some broke in my hands when I tried to remove them. In all the photographs the same woman, presumably the old woman from across the street, stood smiling at the camera. I looked at the photographs, the vibrant life that spilled out of each one and then raised my eyes to the tiny, dingy bedsit. The old woman leaned back against the wall her bed was pushed up against. She watched me through her half slanted eyes as tried to comprehend the photographs in contrast to the bleak existence.

 

“You’ve…travelled so much” I said at last, not quite sure what else there was to say.

 

The old woman from across the street inclined her head.

 

“Yes.” She scooped up some of the envelopes.

 

“I’ve never been one for standing still. I decided early on that I’d live every day. That I would see things. Go places. I left home at thirteen. You could in those days. Since that day I’ve been on the move. I’ve been to 86 countries.”

 

She watched my reaction, I was absorbed. She went on…

 

“You see an old woman in a small room with few possessions. But I have more valuables than just these soft paper copies.”

 

She lifted a shaky hand and brushed a finger against her temple.

 

“If you could unscrew this head and tip it upside down, the memories, the experiences that would tumble out…well you’d need more than a battered old leather suitcase.”

 

There was so much I wanted to ask her, about family, finances, logistics. She was at once the ghost of my future, with my own drive to keep moving, my commitment phobia, my intense longing to see things and “Go Places.” She was as fascinating as I hoped to be as an old craggily woman. And yet her existence terrified me. The dingy room. The squeaky impersonal bed. Her total loneliness. Her suitcase filled with photographs and her mind full of memories. The only things to show for a lifetime.

 

I let myself out of the building, and sprinted across the street to my own, safe, airy, light filled apartment with my young roommates, our cheap bottles of sweet wine, and my laptop with the mindless sitcoms. I breathed easier being back in my own space.

 

I still see the old woman across the road on the days I come home straight from work. She still smokes her smelly, maybe Turkish cigarettes and they still smell like they are laced with marijuana. We wave now. We’re on waving terms. She’s just a face I recognize in my street, there are more and more every week.

 

I still think about her suitcase of memories tucked under the uncomfortable bed in the dingy little apartment.

 

And yet… I’m still planning my next escape…

The Old Woman Across the Street (a short story) Part 2

The old woman from across the street was much lighter than I thought. Her bulk was added to by layers of clothing. She was actually quite frail, and as I helped her to her feet I realized just how old she was. Lines carved rivets through her cheeks and under her eyes. The powder she had applied to her face was caught in the cracks, and her eyebrows were drawn on.

 

“Let me help you with your groceries” I said, gathering her meager items together and putting them back in her pull-along trolley. The vegetables were limp I noticed, and the apples which had rolled away were puckered, even from before their tumble across the salt packed concrete.

 

The hairs on my exposed arms and shoulders stood on end in the tart coldness, refreshing to my feverish skin, but also shocking. After everything was gathered and put back, I easily lifted the basket to the top of the stairs and left it there, hopping back down to assist the old woman in getting up. She was still shaky on her feet.

 

“Let me help you into your apartment” I said, and before she could argue I scooped up her basket and pushed open the unlocked communal front door. Inside a long dark corridor stretched ahead, a couple of doors to the left and right, and in the far corner, where the shadows were, a tight staircase rose up into the building. I stood back, letting the darkness fade into light, the old woman led the way slowly to the back of the hall and up the flight of stairs. On the first landing she turned right and entered the second door.

 

It was a house of tiny bedsit apartments, as I’d guessed, and the room had all the comforts a little room in an old house could accommodate. A single, simple metal framed bed pushed into the corner, a basin behind the door, a bar fridge, a hot plate and a window that looked onto the brick wall of the building beside. It was a pretty standard dingy little affair. I put the basket down just inside the door. The old woman sat down gently on the bed, sinking into the thin mattress. She seemed weary and bruised, and so, so old.

 

“Can I…would you like something?” I asked. The old woman shook her head and waved her papery thin-skinned hand.

 

“You should go. You are sick” she said accusingly, and I was surprised by her New Zealand accent, so similar to my own brash Australian burr, slightly burnt at the edges.

 

“You’re a Kiwi!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself.

 

She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders.

 

“I was. It’s been a long time since I was down in that part of the world.”

 

She pushed herself off the mattress and knelt down to put away her groceries, but the distance from her upright position was too far and she groaned, clutching her back.

 

“Please let me help you,” I said, calmly steering her back to the bed, and pulling the items from her basket. She sat heavily and watched me.

 

“You’re Australian” she said.

 

“I am.”

 

“You’re a long way from home.”

 

“So are you.”

 

She snorted.

 

“Bah. Home. This is home now.”

 

I looked around at the dark grubby little room and shuddered.

 

“Have you been in Canada long?” I asked, inspecting the semi-rotting fruit.

 

“About a year” she said. She pointed at one of the apples, “Pass me one of those would you.” She took a small bite of the fruit, closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

 

“Organic” she said, eyes still closed. She sighed.

 

I looked at the apples. If organic was code for rotten then she was right on. I put them in the bowl above her fridge.

 

There wasn’t much personality to the room and I was desperate to know more. It had been a while since I had met any other New Zealanders or Australians and I wanted to swap stories. I also didn’t want to go back to my stuffy apartment and watch more episodes.

 

“Where did you live before you came here?” I asked.

 

The old woman slowly opened her eyes and looked me up and down.

 

“Nosy.” She said.

 

I shrugged. I’d been called worse.

 

Wearily she pushed herself up from her bed and got to her knees beside it. Under the bed an old leather travel case, scuffed with age was wedged between floor and springs. She drew it out and unclicked the clasps.

 

 

I stared at the contents.

 

Utterly impressed…

The Old Lady Across the Street (A short story) Part 1

The old lady that lived across the street was always standing on her porch smoking stinky cigarettes. I suspected they were laced with weed. But they could have just been Turkish. She seemed out of place in our yuppyish neighborhood, until I realized that the house across the road was actually divided into tiny bedsit’s, and that she must be one of the renters.

 

I guess she had a room at the back of the house because there was never any Rear Window shit where I watched her life through our living room. I never saw her lights go on, never saw her playing piano or watched her watching TV. I really didn’t know anything about her except that she was always smoking her stinky cigarettes at 5.30pm everyday that I came straight home from work.

 

I didn’t really think too much about her, she was like any other neighbor I’d come to recognize in the street I’d moved to. The young father with bright red hair and a bright red wagon which always had two bright red-haired children stuffed into it and another hanging off his free hand. The middle-aged man in faded Canada Post Jacket fussing with his lawn every morning, leafs/snow/grass.  The pretty girl who was always bundled up on top, and wore thin stockings below.

 

They were all a part of the landscape and I took them for granted. Maybe sometimes I fantasized that I was like Truman from ‘The Truman Show” and they were all extras that added to the scenery. Other times I was less egotistical and just found it amusing that the number of familiar faces were growing with every passing day.

 

Then one morning, I took the day off.

 

Sinuses clogged with snot, chest heavy with mucus, eyes itchy, bloated, stomach churning. Yep, I had the whole list of fun I-can’t-go-to-work excuses. I sat on the couch miserably in my pajama’s, a freshly opened box of crackers in front of me, and the day stretched out like one feverishly exciting house party-of-one.

 

And then I saw the old lady. Hair covered with a scarf, bundled up in a mustard yellow sweater and heavy navy coat, she eased herself carefully down from the steps of the porch with her drag-along shopping trolley, and set off down the road towards the shops. I’d never seen her walk anywhere, and I’d never seen her off the porch, so I was surprised by how slow she was. I guess “old lady” denotes that she’s old, but there are varying stages of oldness. This was definitely less of the Helen Mirren old, and more of the papery thin-skinned grandmother old. I started watching episodes, filling up tissues with the poisons from my nose, throat and lungs. Occasionally I would look out the window and watch the goings on of my street. Mostly I was half conscious.

 

When I was at the end of my sixth straight episode of a sitcom, the old lady coming back down the street. Her pull-along basket didn’t have much in it. Leafy greens poked over the edge and I could see lumpy bags down in the bottom. I watched her try to navigate the stairs, the basket and the awkward distance between each step. And then she fell, not heavily, but backwards over her basket, and like a turtle, she lay on her back, arms and legs wiggling in the air. I pushed myself up on the coach and strained my head left and right looking out the window. No one was around, it was early afternoon, the street was quiet.

 

I grabbed my keys and ran down the stairs, a resplendent vision in faded saggy singlet top and hole riddled green and pink pajama bottoms. The old lady had used the railing to pull herself up, but she still looked shaken and her food was scattered over the pavement.

 

“Are you okay?!” I asked, out of breath and red-faced from my flu.

 

The old lady seemed to be checking herself all over for breaks, she was massaging her knee. After a moment she nodded, and tried to pull herself up further. I put my hands under her elbow and gently lifted her to her feet…

 

 

Photo Credit http://www.monalia.com/partners-in-rhyme-headquarters/