New Pasture

Oh hai. Remember me? It’s okay if you don’t. It’s been close to a year since I’ve posted anything here. I skipped off to the land of anonymous to sort out my voice. It was a slice, let me tell ya.

The funny part about being anonymous is that it can become comfortable. Easy.

In my every day life, I’m the girl behind the scenes making it happen. Behind the camera, behind the vision, behind the words that help perpetuate positive change in the way we interact with each other and our jobs, the voice you might recognize but don’t know. You may see my name figuratively roll by in the credits, you may not. For me, it’s not about the spotlight, it’s about getting shit done and making a difference. I’m the domino tipper.

Then along sailed Captain Redbeard, who unknowingly started a catalyst in my brain. He left a comment on one of my first posts – Chuck Palahniuk is Saving My Life. I hadn’t read those words in a long time. I’d forgotten those words. I’d forgotten their meaning to me. Until, that is, Captain Redbeard reminded me.

So I’m back. Just not here. I’m over in fresh new environs, ready to split my head wide open and watch my brains fall out as I continue onwards with my Infinite Dive.

Best Of?

There’s one aspect of blogging that irks me and it’s that rarely do people go poking deeply into the archives. We all know there’s good shit in there, but we never go looking. Perhaps because it smacks of effort.

I’ve taken responsibility for the effort. However, your sacrifice is that these are some of my favourites. I also challenge you to go to your favourite blogs and poke around. Get a stick if you have to.

The Best of (?) [coughs] The Confessions of Cheeky Cici (from oldest to most recent):

• Vomit Dress
• Chuck Palahniuk is Saving My Life
• Crotch Punch – A Living Example of My Assholery
• Farewell November
• Plump Little Fucker
• Black and White Time Machine
• Silenced
• Thank the Stars

These posts should get you started.

Away We Go

It’s been a slice. Really.

I’ve loved every moment of writing for The Confessions of Cheeky Cici. I’ve loved every moment I’ve spent embracing her. She’s definitely cheeky and she’s definitely me. Though you should know that Cici’s just a name I use when I order food for take-out.

What’s helped make the process of writing this blog enjoyable, are my readers. I see your digital footprints and I’m very appreciative you keep on coming back. Thank you.

I’ve quietly started something new. I’m not ready to share it yet, but I will. Right now I need some quiet time with me and my new work – out there in the great big digital web. Under the veil of anonymity, I’m strengthening my voice.

Peace.

"My witness is the empty sky." - Jack Kerouac

Mucking Around

I don't need flowers and I don't need lady bugs. These gumboots crave the muck. They're meant to go mucking around. Thick muck. Squishy muck. Care to go jump in some puddles with me?

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It’s!

And now for something completely different.

It's!

Chemical Superheros

“The seizures have stopped.” “Thank god.” “She’s not out of the woods yet. Her heart is fatigued and we’ll need to run more tests to determine the extent of the brain damage. A lot of that will only become clear over time. She has a long road ahead of her. Her blood results came in while you were gone.” “She told me what she took, before her heart stopped.” “She’s lucky to be alive. When she’s fully conscious and capable, the police will want to speak with her. If they haven’t already, they’ll need to speak with you too.”

Dance harder. Dance faster. Numb the pain. Be more interesting. Seek revelations. Go on a spiritual journey. Feel good. Cope with mental health. Have fun. Trip out. I’m a fucking superhero!

Saying no to drugs isn’t good enough anymore. It’s not realistic with the cornucopia of chemicals available. Not everyone wants to say no. You don’t have to say no.

In the past, I’ve been ostracized for my thoughts – labelled a critical judge. I’ve ended friendships because I can’t be the saviour; because I can’t sit idly by and watch someone throw their life away. I’ve had hate mail and been threatened. I’ve been told I don’t know how to party – how to have fun. Well ya know what? Fuck that. I say these things because I care. Deeply. I say these things because I know better.

I partied my way through the aughts*. Sure, I’ve got some fun and crazy stories that would make the likes of Hunter S. Thompson blush. You know what else I’ve got? Holes in my brain, friends dead from overdoses (friends who said they knew what they were doing), friends dead from addictions (friends who said they could handle it), ended friendships because of addictions (because they couldn’t handle it and I couldn’t save them) and a raging passion for people to smarten the fuck up (because I’m tired of losing friends).

For fuck sakes, know your damn source. I can’t stop you from taking illicit chemicals. I have no power or control over that. What I can ask is that you know what you’re buying, know what it’s cut with and know how much to take. Do you really need to chase the high all weekend? Yeah, I’m sure you’re super smart. You’re a super hero, right? You just party on weekends and have done that for so many years now, that you’re a pro. Well, even pros can have their heart stop beating. Are you smart enough to start your own heart when it stops?

Hell, maybe it’s just brain death. That’s okay, right? There are machines that’ll keep you breathing and your body warm so your family can come, hold your hand, and weep. That’s okay, because you knew what you were doing, right?

“I just party on weekends…Thursday’s practically the weekend…Ugh, it’s Monday and I’m still fucked up from Thursday…God, I feel like shit.”

Smarten up.

[*Aughts: A decade such as that from 1900 to 1909 A.D., or 2000 to 2009, whose digit in the tens place is zero.]

Softer, Kinder

The bulbs are our brains. The illumination? Be softer, be kinder. Don't be so damn mean. Be gentle with yourself and be gentle with others. Context falls apart online and we can feel the impact of words viscerally. Don't forget that.

Somewhere

By chance, I heard.

There are no advisories when you’ve lost touch.

When you’re full up on empty, is it swift?

The horse in your veins kicked feverishly, I imagine.

The news came too late for goodbyes.

Rest in Peace K.F.

The Tentacle

I like whomever painted the tentacle on The Barclay Hotel. I knew I liked them the moment I saw their art. It’s simplicity has made me smile since I discovered it on Friday.

Perhaps that seems silly, but sometimes it’s the random, simple things that bring me the greatest pleasure. I’d love to take the tentacle and swirl it around in the artist’s brain a little bit – see if they smell burnt toast. Even better if I swirl across a gray coil that looks an awful lot like a suction cup and they blurt out obscenities.

Obviously, the wall needed a tentacle.

The composition tickles me.

Pause

My boat is in dry-dock while I patch up a few leaks.

No, it’s not a real boat, it’s a proverbial boat. I wish I had a real boat. That would be bloody brilliant. Alas, I don’t have a real one, nor do I know anyone who does, so until that changes, I’ll continue to play captain on my imaginary boat.

Dry-dock gives me the opportunity to reassess and formulate new plans. While I take these moments to pause, I won’t forget to enjoy the view.

Be still and listen.

Hand to Crotch

Crotch, crotch, crotchity, crotch.

For the past two weeks the most popular search engine term driving traffic to my blog has been “figure skating hand to crotch”. I find this highly amusing. The hits for Crotch Punch – A Living Example of My Assholery have gone through the roof.

So, to honour all the figure skaters who’ve had hands all over their crotches, I’ve created a photo montage for your viewing pleasure. Everyone loves a good crotch shot. Throw in some hands and you’ve got Hand to Crotch, the figure skaters dream.

[Editor's Note: Well, that was the most short-lived youtube video. Ever. Apparently, I broke every youtube rule with my photo montage (video) of "Hand to Crotch". The scathing letter in my inbox tells me so. Putting together a slide show at this point smacks of effort. For now, let's use our imagination, shall we? Imagine loads and loads of female figure skaters crotches, cupped by strong hands belonging to male figure skaters wearing shiny unitards, (unfortunately without codpieces), all put to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough".]

Without

"Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated." - Lamartine

A Good Meaty Chew

When I read stories about a wild animal’s proclivity for man-eating, I wonder if we taste good.

To a carnivore, a human is no more than prey. We’re food, plain and simple. We will continue to be consumed by crocodiles, tigers, lions, sharks, snakes and even chimpanzees (to name a few).

Animals that prey on and devour humans as alternative food sources are demonized by our fear. The fear inspires terrible tales and legends of beasts breaking down doors for a chance to chomp some sweet, sweet human meat.

Enter the horror movie.

Betcha thought this was going to be about cannibalism. Nope. It’s about my sick desire to watch people be eaten by ravenous movie monsters. Vampires are fine and dandy in a pinch, but what I really crave are creatures. Whether they are wild animals fixated on blood lust or aliens hell-bent on destroying earth – the experience is visceral. My pulse quickens and my pupils dilate.

I’ve long been a fan of watching toothy reptiles gnaw contentedly on humans – ever since I was a little girl and I watched Aliens for the first time. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I became aware that fear and excitement feel pretty much the same. The only difference being the emotional reactions we attach.

So why do I have this proclivity towards excitement when movie monsters eat people? I think the wires in my brain were crossed. That, and I’m the crocodile little Timmy flushed down the toilet 30 odd years ago.

This human skin certainly does get itchy.

Street art on Quebec Street.

Photographs of Strangers

Have you ever stopped to think about all the tourists who’ve taken your picture? You could be in a cherished family photo album in Japan for all you know. I know I am.

Hey look, it's people I don't know!

Which way? Which way?

There's one person in this photo who has the *best* expression. Go find him.

Could be you.

Kittens Swallowed My Feet

Whaddaya mean I can't wear them on my feet?

Same Space, Shared Air

“The air you breathe has, in the course of its travels, been literally everywhere on the planet, and has slipped in and out of the lungs of almost every human being who has ever lived.” – Rob Brezsny

Same Space

Shared Air

Thank the Stars

Plans have changed. I’ve got more time before I have to be fully present. I’m grateful for this. I was a bundle of nerves at the thought of being partly responsible for the vehicular safety of two inspirational musical talents. Now it can be about being present in a more enjoyable way.

Cars, stars and I have a history. I almost ran over Jeff Bridges on Robson eight years ago. I didn’t realize it was him until after I almost ran him over. He jaywalked in front of me and I slammed on the breaks, tires squealing. I honked my horn and yelled, “Are you crazy, dude? I could have killed you!” He stopped in his tracks, but not out of fright. Looking at me he cocked one hip and then gave me the finger. Then sauntered into Café Crepe. ‘Holy shit. It’s The Dude. The Dude just gave me the finger’, ran through my mind over and over, as people behind me started to honk their car horns. ‘Holy shit. I almost killed Jeff Bridges.’

That’s why I’m grateful I’m no longer responsible for assisting in navigating through a city gone wild with Olympic fever. Visions of a fiery SUV crash, covered on the 11 o’clock news – with an unnamed woman riding shot-gun, are gone.

Birds in Distress?

On Thursday I read a rant in the West Ender from a resident living near the Maritime Museum. The ranter wrote about the two bald eagles that nest there. They nested there in peace until the Olympic light show was installed in English Bay. The ranter noted that since the lights have been installed, they can hear the eagles calling to each other from the bushes in distress.

Sometimes we don’t notice things as being amiss or out of place until someone else points it out to us. This was the case for me. After reading the rant in the newspaper, I’ve started to notice some particularly odd bird behaviour.

On Friday I saw a group of pigeons acting even more discombobulated than they normally appear. They were erratic and their movements seemed even more jerky than normal. Five of the twelve hopped down on the road from the sidewalk and all five were run over by a passing SUV. They all saw the SUV coming and instead of moving out-of-the-way, all five stood there like deer, frozen in the headlights (except this was daytime), and they were squished by the tires.

On Saturday while I was downtown, I was passing by a park when my attention was diverted from my friend to the shrill chirping of hundreds of robins and chickadees in a tree. Like drunks in a bar who are unaware of how loud they are talking, the birds chirped with a shrill intensity that set my heart racing. The sound was not beautiful or melodic.

Despite the calendar reminding us that it’s still Winter here in the city, it certainly feels a lot more like spring. Flowers are blooming and the birds are back. I’m curious about the effect the helicopters are having on the birds. I’m also curious about the effect of the light display at English Bay. I know, as a human, the constant buzz of the helicopters has started to make me feel rattled. I wonder if the same can be said for the birds. I’m also curious if their nesting and mating practices will suffer as a result. Could we wind up seeing smaller bird populations in the city this year?

More observation is required.

Ode to a Dying Camera

My camera is already dead. Not this dying camera. My camera. My camera is already dead. This dying camera will be dead shortly. I can hear it coughing and spluttering at night. Hacking up its toxic digital phlegm. Poor thing is shaky and can barely stand on its own. Unable to focus its eye to take a picture, the fuzzy grain acts as foreshadowing of the dirt that will soon cover it, deep within a dump. Poor little stray point and shoot camera I rescued from the curb. It sat there, forlorn, so I had to take it in and try to love it, though it will never be my camera. My camera is already dead.

Enjoy what may be the last grainy breath of this dying camera. Click.

*cough*

*hack*

*wheeze*