Author Archives: blaak sheep

Disguised by striped and spotted fur, pointed ears and green eyes, she pokes at my ankles with her velvety paws whenever I sit down to write. I try to ignore her, but she jumps onto my desk and struts in front of my computer screen, blocking my view. Her tail is high in the air, swatting my face as it flicks from side to side. Bengal settles down comfortably into my papers, gazing at me with squinty eyes.

I stare back, awestruck by her cuteness. The vibrations of her purring can be felt through the desk, down to the hardwood floor, and back up the chair legs into my body. Hypnotized, I beckon for her to jump into my lap. She obeys, and snuggles into my chest as I rub her ears. I forget my deadline and am lost in the forest of super soft fur.

Instead of pushing her aside and plunging into my writing, I embellish her with play as she jumps off my lap. I shake a ball of newspaper tied to the end of some string which sends her into a chase of high leaps and scrambling tumbles. If I suddenly flick the ball up high, she opens her mouth and releases an odd, spitting chatter, threatening the would-be bird. Her claws skate over the hardwood floors as she slides from one end of the room to the other. This action is better than anything on television, and I hug my belly laughing as she crashes into the couch.

I  use the Bengal technique of procrastination with great caution, as I could be distracted for days without knowing.  It is practiced to relax me with feelings of well-being before the stress of the deadline wreaks havoc on my nervous system.

Awww, kitty-pooh-kisses-dooby-doo!

About five inches worth, with flecks of grey for seasoning. No one seems to notice, or care, or maybe they do, but are just being polite. My natural mousiness has reminded me of my impoverished state.   I can’t afford to get them done, and there’s no way in hell I’d do them myself. I tried once, twice, and three times a-brassy. Brassy on the verge of orange, actually. Very few blondes can get away with self-processing. And the ones who do don’t even need to colour it in the first place. They’re actually blonde.

Blondes, real ones, that is, are on the verge of becoming extinct, according to this BBC article.  Something about a recessive gene. True blondes only make up for about five percent of the entire population. These researchers also believe that the fake ones are to blame, since bottled-blondes are apparently more attractive to men than the natural ones.  Maybe it’s because we looky trampy, especially once the roots start to show. I notice I get more looks and compliments on my hair when I have roots. The Courtney Love look works for me.

Well, I’m not totally fake. As a kid, my hair was lighter,. My natural colour is not quite brown, not quite blonde, just in between, like dirty dishwater or weak milky tea. And I’ve tried colouring it dark brown, even reddish, but those colours make me look sick and pale. So blonde streaks it is, when I have have the cash. And not just any streaks. Few hairdressers know how to do them right. Most just dye it, so the roots show after two weeks, or they choose a garish tone that makes me look cheap and over-processed – shpank me, missy, let’s start breedin’!

So what’s my point? Vanity? Do you really care about my roots? My point is, I don’t care! I must be getting old! I am turning into one of those people. If I were a man, I’d have stubble and long, greasy hair. I already have a pot belly, the Midas touch. Jeez, why I don’t I just start shopping for a trailer? Surrey’s not so far away.

Or maybe it’s just the student/writer thing. Yeah, that’s it, that’s not so scary. That’s kind of cool, actually, artistic and free-spirited. But I’m not folky enough for that. To pull that off, I need to shack up on the Drive, get myself some hippy friends, wear hemp with patched jeans, shop at a co-op, and become vegan.

Crap. This new idenity-thing isn’t working.  I’m just broke, lazy, sick, depressed and … and… how can I finish that with a bang?
I’ll just blame my parents.

Peace out, dudes.

the rain falls
through murky tears
I lay down, weary
shipwrecked
from this battle of storms
grief lays her heavy hands
on my belly
telling me to rest
for now, let it be
nothing can be done
except to ride out the winds
that leave my flesh raw
the sting of betrayal
and lies
stays fresh for eternity
reviving the pain
from childhood
from death
from loneliness
without her presence
it’s hard to carry on
but I must
but for now
I weep

Last night on the Skytrain, I saw a real, live Homer Simpson. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was bald, fat, wore wide blue pants that were floods, and he had the same voice and intelligence level. He was talking loudly on his cel phone. I know, Homer Simpson with a cell phone, how frightening. And it truly was. The conversation that followed was hard on the ears, yet extremely entertaining. That is how I determined his intelligence level.

“Guess what I found last night on the street!”

“DONUTS!”

“Yeah, a whole box, and I ate them all!”

“No, I offered her one, but she said no.”

“She said, ‘Go ahead, if you want to get sick!’ “

He mumbled a few other sentences, I couldn’t hear cuz of the train rumbling and squeaking.

He ends the call. Then his phone rings. He answers mid-ring. He starts yelling at the person to meet him at the Skytrain station. That conversation is cut short,  and he slaps his phone shut.

The phone rings again. My, this guy is popular in his world of fellow ignoramuses.

“Hello?”

“Oh YEAH! …  Yeah … Oh, hey! Guess what I did!”

“Yeah … Guess what I just did!”

“Heh, I pissed in the elevator.”

“I said, I PISSED IN THE ELEVATOR!”

” YEAH!”

“It was cool.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, man!”

“Bye”

A few seconds later, his phone rings, and this time, I can hear his ringtone more clearly, a male country singer. Don’t ask me who, I hate country. Oh my, a redneck Homer!

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m near the Broadway Station. YOU GET OFF THAT BUS RIGHT NOW!!”

He is transforming into Angry Dad. I consider myself lucky to witness this rare event of cartoon/human metamorphosis.

“YES! MEET ME THERE!”

“WHAT?”

“Okay fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gets up from his seat and stands in front of the exit door right behind me, breathing heavily. He shuffles restlessly and begins pacing in circles.  I’m afraid he is going to pound the glass I’m leaning against because he knows I was listening to his conversation. This is Homer with a violent streak. Then he walks in front of me, down the aisle to the door furthest away. He stands really close to the glass as the train approaches the station. He looks at himself, making faces at his reflection, raising his eyebrows upside down, squinting and blinking heavily, scrunching his lips.

I have to get off too, and I go to the door in front of my seat. As we exit the train, he takes a sudden swing to the left, and practically bumps into me. I avoid him just in time. He glares at me, and I can hear him stop suddenly behind me. I’m afraid he’s gonna follow me for some strange reason. Maybe he thinks I have a donut stash in my backpack. I walk quickly across the platform and down the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I hear a man say, “The one time I go to use the escalator, it’s broken! Off all the times for it to be broken! Now I have to use the stairs!”  I look behind me, but thankfully it’s a man with his young boy, and he encourages the boy  to jump from the third stair up from the ground. Whew. I look up to the top of the stairs. Homer has disappeared.

I think about his conversation as I ride the B-Line bus home. Redneck clods should not be allowed to own cell phones. They should run ignoramus checks before the credit check. People’s ears are on the line.

I am still trying to poke out my mind’s eye.

At Douglas College, the students of the Print Futures: Professional Writing program are faced with many mixed emotions. One day fear, the other anticipation. The following day our confidence is smashed after we’ve been told our portfolios aren’t anywhere near ready for professional viewing, and that we can’t write a cover letter that would satisfy McDonalds.  Only ten more weeks until we’re done, until the portfolio show where we bare the past two years of our lives to everyone that matters.

As I read my fellow classmates’ blogs, they are expressing the exact same fears and concerns. Are we really qualified to be  professional writers? What happens when the security of the college walls are removed? I don’t remember anything I’ve learned, except for what a dangling modifier is, the purpose of a gerund, and a decent definition for exigence. My one friend outside of the program says she’s seen an improvement in my emails. She said I write with more focus. Hm. That’s somewhat encouraging. Will that get me a job as the next copywriter for MEC?

I picture Maureen, the program coordinator pouring a box full toys over her PF babies, and we can’t figure out how to play with them, except to fight over letter-blocks, cars and dolls, wondering which one is the best choice.  We are then left alone to put them away.

I feel even more vulnerable because I now have a label as a professional writer, and will have a diploma to back it up. I must live up to this label and impress people with my top-notch writing skills. I am paranoid of all emails I send out; people are thinking, “She’s a professional writer. This better be good.” No grammatical errors or spelling mistakes are allowed. Everything I write must be witty, edgy and balanced, capturing my audience from the very start. Part of me wants to retreat back to my old ways, finding the easy way out to a job doing admin work. That way I can’t get rejected or be judged, but then I recall the years of drudgery, bad bosses, and lack of purpose. No, I can’t give up without even trying. Man, I haven’t even started and I’m already complaining!

The distress begins to answer the age-old question: What do I want to be when I grow up? I’m grown up (some of you may beg to differ, especially the way I giggle in class), and I’m still not sure. Editing, book publishing, communications, Public Relations, magazine publishing?  I know I want to write, but now I have to decide who I want to write for, and what I want to write about.

Let’s start with what I don’t want to write about: accounting, finances, mining, computer software, legal matters, technical jargon, politics, the Bible, certain people (can’t name names), research reports, meeting minutes, transcriptions, cars, fishing, sports, sewing, Monster Truck rallies, meat. That’s all I can think of right now.

What I want to write about: the environment, animals, wildlife, health, health care, seniors, children, all people for that matter, social issues, food, cooking, music, books, writing, my family, my friends, economics, culture, the arts, things you can do with cheese and chocolate, religion, my mother, tea, exercising, my lack of exercising, disease, happiness, nice things, depressing things, the media, impacts, natural disasters, the obscure.

And even though I have an idea of who I want to work for, and what I want to write about, there’s the issue of finding work, getting published, rejection, rejection, rejection. I think that’s our biggest fear of all. Do we really have what it takes, not just personality-wise, but the right stuff on paper? Can we really demonstrate that we are the literate, polished, witty writers we claim to be?

Well, at least the good list is longer than the bad list. That’s a start. Right now, my ultimate writing goal is to be a freelancer, submitting articles and stories to magazines, newspapers, book publishers, websites, message boards and blogs. I wouldn’t mind doing contract work for corporate communications and public relations companies, which reminds me, I need to come up with three lists for my Professional Readiness Instructor. A list of PR companies, local magazines, and communications departments in Vancouver that I’d like to work for. Ooo, that’s a long one. I’d better get to work!

Maybe I’m not so hopeless after all. All I can do for now is focus on one day at a time.

Baby steps