LOOK! I made another pretty collage.

Well, I buzzed my head again. But I found a surprise. I FRACKING BALDSPOT! (The brilliant people who watch BSG (and no, I won’t be explaining what that stands for) know where fracking comes from.) There’s no way I am going bald. If anything, I have too much hair. Tracy can attest to this because she was my haircuttress for several years. Though I suppose Leah can also confirm this as she is my current buzzcuttress. It might be going grey, but it’s not going bald. Or even showing signs of thinning. Except for this baldspot.

So where did this baldspot come from?

I believe it’s from this economic downturn, or so it’s called. Frankly, this is just a bad story. When they start talking on the news about positive things—markets go up. When they start talking about bad things—markets go down. All just talk. But the funny thing about stories is that even if you know they are just stories and you’d be silly to believe them, your heart—being your heart—does whatever the hell it wants. Or at least my heart does. Frack.

And this economic collapse is doing bad things to me. It might just be the chinooks, but I am stressed out. I have a mortgage. I have payments. And I have the knowledge and fear of what it’s like to lose a job. All this combined equals a small, ridiculous baldspot. That’s my theory.

What am I going to do about it? Maybe slab some peanut butter on it. If not, just remind myself that people survive through much, much worse and I am a bit pathetic for getting myself all worked up about it.

me: whats that poem like dont go… _ into that good? night. think its a dylan
Brendan: Rage rage against the dying of the light.
me: dylan… thomas? do not go gentle
Brendan: Yup.
me: it just popped into my head. it’s like I retain water, but they are poems
Brendan: I know it from the movie Dangerous Minds. My posse don’t do homework!
me: been standin most out lives living in a gangsta’s paradise
me: so i gotta be down with the hood team, too much television watchin got me chasing dreams
I know that song by heart
HEART
Brendan: Where art thou, Coolio?

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I am sorry I pulled a disappearing act this week. Just when you thought I was coming back in full-force *poof* I vanish again. Well, I am going to vanish again.

We found out on Wednesday that Leah’s Grandfather passed away. We will be leaving this evening and traveling to Minnesota for the funeral. In some ways, I can tell you that this was expected. It was coming. We knew for a while. There have been a few scares. Frankly, I was beginning to wonder if he just might be around a lot longer. But, we found out on Wednesday that it was his last day here.

You know me, I love language. I love stories. And as you might have guessed, I have been thinking about the stories we tell ourselves when people die. My thoughts on this actually started a couple months ago when we began watching the television series Six Feet Under.

I have already received many Sorry to hear that, My prayers are with you, etc. And I, myself, have offered some as well. And it’s part of the stories we tell. I am not suggesting that we don’t mean it. But it’s how we respond to other peoples pain.

It’s been a while since I have been to a funeral. For me—and I assume many of you—it often forces me to look at my life and think I need to start doing better. That’s a story. Or else I might think I am here to respect and honour this life. Or I am here for family. It was their time. And there’s probably a lot more stories we might tell. Or maybe we ignore death all together, so then maybe it didn’t really happen.

I used to think that stories came first. (And this might be a chicken and egg scenario.) You might be surprised to hear that I am not sure that’s true anymore. I think action comes first and then the story. Something happens and our response is story even though sooner or later they start to mix.

Someone dies. That is the action. Our response is a story. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s not just glossing over the gigantic hole in our heart. The pain of someone leaving. And in light of that, all those stories seem to fade away. And all you could ever hope is that you could have them back. And usually the response to this is faith or a rational response. But I don’t know that either are appropriate. Some times you just have to soak in it. You have to jump down that hole and wait till you hit bottom.

I was reading the other day that they successfully cloned a dog in South Korea. My first thought was Awww look at the cute puppies. My second thought was—I wonder if I could get Charlie’s DNA, maybe we could bring him back. There are probably still a few hairs around the house. Because I miss him. A lot. And Charlie was only the best dog I have ever known. But I can’t have him back, not even with cloning. And that’s just a hole in my heart.

I don’t know the best response to death. But I am going to be there to celebrate, to mourn, to listen and to support. I didn’t know Gaylon Ayotte. I shook his hand once. Leah did. He was her grandfather. And a good one, from the stories I hear.

I’ll be back some time next week.

I’ve been thinking about a couple of things lately, but the most prominent is that I am getting older. And I am changing. Emily turned 22 yesterday and I was thinking about what I could tell her about being 22. The only thing I could think of is that it is a strange feeling realizing you remember more of your life than you forget. I really don’t remember much about being 10 and younger, but from 11 on it’s all pretty clear. And you just remember more.

I track movements and changes in my thinking. How I got from one place to another and another. The crazy thing about being 22 is that you start to realize you aren’t as smart as you imagined. You don’t have it all figured it out. If only I could be as sure about everything as I was at 18. I just needed money, nice clothes and a way to see my friends when I was 18. I need all the same things now, but I have to think about every decision. The scope just gets bigger.

Well at 26—almost 27—I now know that I am not as smart as I imagined and nor am I as original. My whole life, all of the Gen-Yers, have been swollen by self-esteem. I am important, unique and special. AND NO RED PENS ALLOWED! But the truth is, as by mentioning Gen-Y, I am not that unique. I am actually just like everyone else, part of a group. I am trackable. I am marketable. And it’s not that this is the worst thing, but it’s simply not what I expected (because I have been so wrapped up in my unique awesomeness).

Some months ago, a new radio station started in Calgary—X92.9. There have only been a few radio stations that I have enjoyed in my life. Actually, there is only one other one. It was a station in P.A. Can’t remember the name. But I really enjoy X92. As I have said before, when I listen to it—it’s like being back in highschool. I really pumped that sentiment to a lot of friends, but then I realized I have reached a marketable age group. Like those weirdos who love 80s radio stations. I am a weirdo who loves 90s radio, remembering what it was like being 12 and feeling Nirvana in my veins.

So as it turns out, I am not an island or unique. I am just another one of you humans. And I guess I am okay with that.

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