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Creative Non-Fiction Class

We had a substitute instructor one week in February and she had us do an in-class assignment that I quite liked. She played us a few YouTube videos: some narrative folk songs, and a few poets reading their work. Then we had to take one of the pieces that resonated with us and copy the style, telling our own story.  The poem I liked had the line “this is not a place to linger” repeated throughout (of course, I threw out my notes from the class and can’t remember who it was). I came up with the first four paragraphs, pretty much as is, in class, and added the final two later. I enjoyed the free-writing exercise and was pleased with how it turned out. Although not a formal assignment, I kept it in my portfolio for the end of the year. (February 2011)

Although the orange and auburn leaves in the valley look beautiful this time of year, this is not a place to linger. When the deep, dark days of December descend into that valley, and the cold, coal black skies begin to spit out sparkling snowflakes you will begin to realize that this is not a place to linger.

This is not a place to linger, even if you enjoy the silly, slippery sports like skiing, sledding and skating. There are better places than this to play.

When the twinkling lights and cheerful snowmen begin to appear, you may think that it isn’t so bad. Plied with the spirits of the season (rum and eggnog, mulled wine, hot chocolate with marshmallows and peppermint schnapps) you will believe that all is merry and bright, but don’t be fooled. This is not a place to linger.

A new year brings hope and the promise of a fresh start, but this is not a place to linger. Soon the frost, the cold, the snow, the cold, the ice, the cold, the wind and the cold will convince you: this is not a place to linger.

If you survive the winter you’ll begin to wonder if Crayola has released their special edition Spring in Northern Alberta box of 64 shades of brown and grey. You will forget the beauty of autumn and winter and realize that that this is not a place to linger.

Don’t let the budding leaves and warmer temperatures fool you. This is not a place to linger. Work a part-time job while you finish high school. Find a cheap apartment in the city and leave as soon as you can. This is not a place to linger, and if you don’t get out now you may never leave.

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Creative Non-Fiction Class

The longest assignment we received was to write about a “cultural artifact.” I had a hard time figuring this out, but eventually settled on knitting (although since it’s technically a verb, I went with “knitting needles.”)

I‘m pretty happy with this piece. I got to write about one of my passions and to connect it and myself to other people. Explaining knitting to non-knitters has always been a challenge for me, and I like to think that this piece gets me closer to that place. My writing prof brought up a really interesting point that I had not (consciously) considered while writing, that the narrative is like a work of knitting itself. I also really hate the title. (February 2011)

Start with two sleek nickel-plated ends that fit perfectly in my hands.  They will be cool to the touch at first, but will become warm with use.  Connect them with a smooth join to a strong but flexible cable that won’t kink, no matter how much they’re twisted.  Taper the tips to a sharp point capable of slipping through the finest yarn.  Make the shaft so slick that the stitches slide with ease, even if they are a bit tight.  Contrast the shiny silver ends with a vibrant purple cable.  These are my knitting needles.

Knitting is my meditation.  It keeps my hands busy so my mind can find peace.  It’s simultaneously relaxing and invigorating.  Once you know the basics you can turn off your brain and settle into the repetition: insert needle into stitch, wrap yarn around needle, pull loop through stitch and remove it from needle.  Repeat.  The act of knitting is quite simple.  On the other hand, the art of knitting is a challenge.  There’s more to it than making stitches.  Consider the many variations to the basic knit stitch, the qualities of different fibers and how needle size and yarn weight affect gauge and drape.  Learning to read a knitting pattern is like learning a new language, and the act of creating something beautiful and practical from two sticks and a bit of string is wildly satisfying.

While I find pleasure in the process as well as the products, I also have a special connection to the knitting tools that I use.  Yarn comes in an endless variety of colors and fibers and weights.  I am drawn towards purples, blues and greens.  I prefer merino wool, alpaca and silk blends.  Knitting is a tactile experience, and fondling yarn is a sensual activity.  Some people have a secret stash of porn; we knitters have our yarn stash.  And not unlike an angler who has her lucky fishing rod, a baker her ideal spatula, or a writer her favorite pen, a knitter has her preferred set or style of needle.

The most familiar knitting utensils are a pair of foot-long straight needles, pointy on one end with a knob on the other.  I learned to knit with a set of these, but I no longer have any use for them.  They are large and awkward and make me feel like a child stumbling around in my mother’s high heels.  My knitting needles are just my size.  I don’t need to worry about jabbing the person who sits next to me on the airplane.  Long straights also limit the knitter to making flat pieces of fabric, which is perfectly acceptable when making a scarf, but three-dimensional objects will require seaming.  Knitting is fun.  Sewing up seams is not.

Double-pointed needles are just that: needles that are pointed at both ends.  They are shorter than straight needles and are usually used in sets of four or five to knit small tubular objects like socks, mittens and sleeves.  Trying to maneuver a handful of small pointy sticks jutting out of a small knitting project is unwieldy and frustrating.  These needles also have an annoying penchant for slipping out of the work, leaving the stitches in danger of unraveling.  Once they’ve escaped your mitten or sock they will burrow deep into the sofa, roll away under someone’s chair or hide in the dark corners of your purse.

My knitting needles are circular needles.  They combine the best of both worlds.  They can be used to knit back and forth like long straights to create a flat blanket, or you can knit in the round to make tubes of any size, from the body of a sweater to the fingers of a glove.  Not all next-gen knitters knit with circs, but I see them used more often by my peers.  I’ve even got my Aunt Marilyn, a traditional knitter who showed me the ropes, knitting socks using the Magic Loop technique on a circular needle.

—

Mary Lillian Guthro passed away on June 30, 2010 at the age of 83.  Cancer.  She was my dad’s mother, my last surviving grandparent and a knitter.  The last time I saw Mary was the summer of 2008.  I had been knitting for a few years by then, and I think she was pleased that we had something in common, but it was hard to tell.  To be honest, we didn’t know each other very well.  She lived in Nova Scotia, and we moved to Alberta when I was three years old.  When I showed her my handiwork that summer she sort of peered at it and nodded.  “That’s nice,” was about all I could get out of her on the topic of my knitting.  Mary was a woman of many words, but in my experience they were rarely complimentary or kind.  I suspect that she always thought I was a little bit spoiled, being an only child, and didn’t want to encourage me too much for fear I might think too highly of myself.

When I was in my twenties, my grandparents came out to spend a couple of months with my parents.  My mom had the idea that Mary could knit me a sweater to keep herself busy.  I remember when I was little she knit beautiful Fisherman’s sweaters for my parents and me.  They were incredibly warm, albeit a bit itchy.  I didn’t think I’d get much use out of a traditional pullover, but when I went to visit one weekend, Mom and Mary and I went shopping.  We found a pattern for a long-sleeved cardigan that I liked.  Mary took my measurements, purchased the yarn and got started right away.  I was excited.  I’d never had the opportunity to see anyone knit up close.  I watched her cast on and start knitting.  She was fast.  I was fascinated by how two pointy sticks could turn a big bag of yarn into an article of clothing right before my eyes.

The sweater turned out to be a disaster.  It didn’t come close to fitting me.  The sleeves were different lengths; the body was too wide and too short.  The stitches were uneven.  It didn’t look like my grandmother’s work, but she behaved as though there was nothing wrong with it.  I couldn’t help but wonder if she really didn’t care.  Maybe she felt rushed or pressured into doing something she didn’t want to do.  My mom thought Mary might have forgotten how to read a pattern since she had spent the last decade knitting mittens from memory.  I was disappointed.  I tried to be grateful for the time and energy she spent working on something for me, and I gave her a big hug and thanked her for the sweater.  After my grandparents went home to Nova Scotia my mom unraveled the whole thing, put the pattern and the balls of yarn into a big bag and put it away for me.  I forgot all about it.

It was a few years before I decided that I ought to do something with that bag of yarn.  I had always thought of knitting as old-fashioned, something that grandmothers did to keep themselves busy, but I was beginning to think that there was something kind of cool about handmade objects.  I remembered some of the awesome knitted items I had been given as a kid: checkerboard slippers with a pompom on top, the rainbow balaclava that kept my head and face warm when walking to school, and best of all – warm woolly mittens.  The attached idiot strings ensured that I wouldn’t accidentally lose one of those handmade treasures.  I began to imagine the practice of domestic arts to be edgy and retro. There was something appealing about having a unique hobby, something different than anything my friends were doing. I decided to learn to knit.

Mary was too far away to be my teacher.  Instead I asked my surrogate grandmother, my boyfriend’s Baba, to teach me to knit while she was in town.  She gave me my first pair of long straight size 7 knitting needles and a practice ball of icky acrylic yarn.  Unfortunately, she was a terrible teacher. Knitting was second nature to Baba, and when it came time to describe what she was doing, it was impossible for her to translate her movements into words.  Instead, she tried to move her needles, hands and fingers slowly while I watched closely and tried to mimic her actions.  It was hopeless.  Eventually I managed to cast on a row, but the stitches were so tight that I could barely squeeze the needle into the stitch to make a new one.  Baba’s visit ended and I became frustrated and gave up, defeated by a pair of pointy sticks and some fat string.

As I always do when I find myself at a loss, I turned to Google.  My preliminary “how to knit” queries got me some decent results.  There were helpful diagrams and a few YouTube videos describing the basics that Baba had failed to explain.  I picked up my size 7 pointy sticks and my squeaky acrylic yarn and tried again.  And again.  I continued to make tight stitches, but in time I loosened up enough to be able poke the needle through the loop without a fight.  I managed to knit a little square that didn’t look too terrible so I figured I could safely move on to a scarf.  I went to Michael’s and bought some cheap white acrylic yarn to go with the many balls of black I had left over from Mary’s sweater fiasco.  The next time Baba came to visit I had finished about a foot of my scarf.  She was impressed with how my skills had progressed, but not as impressed as I was.

I continued to knit boring, flat things and didn’t really improve on my skills until my Aunt Marilyn came out from New Brunswick for the summer.   She helped me figure out tension so I could knit even stitches that weren’t so tight.  She gave me a little booklet called “How to Knit” that plainly portrayed all the basics of knitting.  Suddenly it all made sense. I became insatiable and wanted to know everything there was to know about knitting.  Aunt Marilyn gave me a set of short double pointed needles and showed me how to knit in the round.  She taught me how to read knitting patterns.  I used my new skills to make my first pair of mittens.  I learned to knit the slippers that I loved so dearly.  I started to understand the differences between wool, acrylic and other fibers.

—

I wasn’t able to go to Mary’s funeral.  It was held two weeks before I was scheduled to arrive in Nova Scotia for my vacation.  I had set the dates and booked my flight months in advance.  Before I arrived, my parents had been helping to clean out Mary’s house, and my mom was keeping her eyes open for anything she thought my grandmother might have wanted me to have.  I’m the only serious knitter in the family so my mom called dibs on all of the knitting stuff.  On my second or third day back we went to Mary’s house.  I could not believe the yarn stash she had.  There was more yarn in her house than any one person could knit in a lifetime.

I spent awhile digging through everything, but it was mostly cheap acrylic yarn and it all had the slight scent of stale cigarette smoke, a stinky reminder of my grandpa Herb who died three years earlier.  I ended up salvaging a decent sized bag of yarn.  Moving on to explore the hardware I found a few treasures: needle gauges, tiny rulers and scissors, some vintage patterns and lots of cool old buttons.  The needles were another story.  I am still shaking my head at the number of knitting needles this woman had purchased over the years.  The majority of them had never even been taken out of the packaging.  And most of them were size 7.  How many sets of the same size needle could one knitter need?  I picked out a few for sentimental reasons.  The rest of Mary’s knitting stuff went to charity.

I think she would have preferred it that way.  Mary donated the dozens of pairs of mittens that she knit every year, in every color of the rainbow, to her church to distribute to the poor each Christmas.  While cleaning out Mary’s house, my mom found a Safeway bag with three different sets of mittens in varying stages of completion and asked me if I would finish them.  I admit I have always been a selfish knitter.  I knit for myself, and I’ve only started knitting gifts for loved ones in the last couple of years.  I can’t imagine spending countless hours knitting for strangers, but I did spend an afternoon on my summer vacation honoring my grandmother’s memory by working on the mittens with her size 7 double pointed needles.  I didn’t like the needles, and I didn’t like the yarn, but I did like feeling as though I was helping Mary with her unfinished business.

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Creative Non-Fiction Class

Assignment number three is to write about an event (are you sensing a theme?) and once again I know what I want to tackle. The problem is that the event that I want to write about is big. Huge, really, and I only have 1500 words to tell the story. It would have been smart to choose something else: a birthday, a birth, a wedding, anything, but I really wanted to write about my road trip across Canada with friends. I’m stubborn like that. So I tried. And I was not entirely successful.

Word limitations are good, or at least a necessary evil, but it’s important to choose a topic you can fit into the space provided. I had too much to say, too many pieces I wanted to include, and ultimately, I ended up with a fractured travel journal instead of a cohesive essay about an event. But in the spirit of sharing, I’m still going to post it here. (December 2010)

The Destination:

Cameron Beach, Port Howe, Nova Scotia.  I’ve never lived there, but it’s home.  My Aunt Marilyn and her family have owned land here for a couple of generations, and my parents got a good deal on some property a few years ago.  Now that they’ve retired, mom and dad have built a summer home and relocated from Alberta.  It’s been eleven years since I’ve stepped foot on the muddy red sand, walked for hours on the sandbars when the tide is out, or smelled the seaweed-salty air, but I can recall all of these things perfectly.  When I was young we used to return to Nova Scotia every two to three years to visit family, always spending time at “The Beach,” which, despite its generic title, always means Cameron Beach.  We’d stay with Uncle Clarence and Aunt Marilyn at their log cabin cottage that my uncle built in the early seventies.  Eleven years is a long time to be away from home, and I can’t wait to get back.

The Travelers:

Marsha – That’s me.  I’m 31, a recent graduate of the University of Alberta with a B.A. in English.  I’m using my degree to its full potential, working full-time in a chain restaurant. An upscale burger joint.  One great thing about working in the service industry is that it’s easy to get time off, provided you can live without a paycheck.  My boss has assured me that I’ll be welcomed back when I return in two months.  I’m lucky.  This is a luxury not many people I know can afford.
Dan – My boyfriend.  He’s 23 and a current English undergrad.  He’s the moody, artistic type that I find so attractive.  After being “just friends” (occasionally with benefits) for a couple of years, last summer we decided to try being a couple: so far, so good.  Dan also works at a restaurant, although his attitude is more negative than mine.  He’s quitting his job to go on this trip, and planning to spend the entire two months with me.
Wade – My roommate and close friend.  He’s 23, and he graduated with a slightly more employable B.Ed.  Wade is from Northern B.C. and he returned there after graduating to work for the local school board.  It turns out that Fort St. John doesn’t have much to offer an attractive and intelligent gay man.  In less than two years Wade returned to Edmonton, moved in with me, and got a job as an instructor with a private company.  He hasn’t been there long, but he’s still managed to get a full two-week vacation.  I’m thrilled that he’s spending it with me.
Andrea – A friend.  26 years old with a B.Ed. and working as an employment counselor.  She’s banked three weeks of vacation time and is going to spend an extra week in the Maritimes with Dan and I after Wade heads home.  Andrea is our glue.  She’s five years younger than me, but she’s the mother of the group.  Andrea is also our social convener.  She’s the one who plans and organizes the activities and events that have kept the four of us close when life outside of school could have caused us to drift apart.   In fact, it’s Andrea who pulled this whole trip together.

The Vehicle:

1990 Cadillac Seville: white with navy blue interior and leather seats.  If you have to drive a car on your cross-country road trip, you want a roomy and comfortable luxury vehicle like Caddy.  She actually belongs to my parents, but when they moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia they took their Ford diesel truck and left the Cadillac in my care.  It was a win-win situation.  They could make their road trip together in one vehicle, Caddy got to spend the winter months in my heated underground parkade, and I got to drive her.  Of course, mom and dad eventually wanted their car back.   My dad’s proposal was simple: I drive Caddy to Nova Scotia, and they pay for the gas.  It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and the 2006 Crossing Canada Road Trip was born.

The Trip:

Approximately 5500 Kilometers.  Our goal is to do it in twelve days.  We don’t want to rush, but Wade would like to spend a couple of days in Nova Scotia before his flight from Halifax takes him back to work.  We arm ourselves with dozens of maps and tour books from the AMA.  The plan is to stay in Canada the entire way, and not cheat by crossing the border.  Over a couple of bottles of red, we make a rough plan of our route, discussing where we want to go, what we want to see, and where we will likely spend our nights.  Friends and relatives are contacted about spare bedrooms and floor space.  When a hotel is necessary, all four of us will stay in one room.  Dan and I get one bed, and Wade and Andrea will share the other.  We giggle over hotel espionage: only two of us will enter the lobby to book the room, that way we never have to pay for two extra people!  Andrea would like to make hotel reservations in advance, but she is vetoed.  Although we’ve discussed possible destinations and tourism possibilities, Dan has insisted we don’t make any concrete plans, and keep the journey open to the possibility of spontaneous adventures.

It’s all Relative: Edmonton – Saskatoon – Gimli
The trip starts off great with everyone in good spirits, although Dan’s a bit hung over from his goodbye party at work.  The road from Alberta to Manitoba is mind-numbing, but the company makes it fun.  We play car games and sing along to whatever soundtrack is chosen by the current driver.  Friday night is spent at my Aunt Lorraine and her partner Esther’s little farm near Saskatoon.  On Saturday we stay in Gimli, Manitoba with Linda and Eric.  Technically they are Wade’s great Aunt and Uncle, but they’re too young for such grand titles.  Both hosting families are generous, providing us with comfortable accommodations, delicious food, tasty adult beverages, and excellent conversation.  Staying up late isn’t a problem since we can take turns napping in the backseat the next day.  We couldn’t ask for a better start to our trip.

The Long and Winding Road: Gimli – Great Lakes – Niagra-on-the-Lake
We knew that this would be the most difficult part of our trip.  I was not looking forward to driving through Northern Ontario.  Towns are few and far between.  There are a lot of rocks and trees.  This is where savvy travelers veer south into the U.S., but we’re persistent.  As we travel around the Great Lakes Dan becomes moody and stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over.  It’s like being in group therapy.  We drive until we can’t stand each other or being in the car a minute longer and then Dan suggests a walk and a picnic near Lake Superior.  It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to smile and laugh with each other.  We keep going.

In the Niagra region we get to be tourists: we see a play at the Shaw Festival, check out Niagra Falls and take a Wine Tour, which appeals to everyone’s taste.  I’m relieved that we’re having fun again.  However, we’ve also started to have minor car troubles.  Sometimes when we try to start Caddy she gives us a three-minute anti-theft warning.  If you remove the key, wait a few minutes and then try again, she’ll start up.  It’s annoying, but we figure we can put up with it until we get to Nova Scotia.

Je Suis Canadien: Ottawa & Montreal
A road trip is about the journey, but you’ve got to have destinations along the way.  We spend two nights in Ottawa exploring the city streets, Parliament, and the National Art Gallery.  When it’s time to move on, Wade insists we take a quick detour to Carp, Ontario for a tour of the Diefenbunker – a Cold War bunker.  He’s a history buff and this turns out to be the highlight of his trip.  While I have my reservations about spending a couple of hours in an underground bunker, it turns out to be pretty cool.  When we emerge from the underground we head to Montreal.  Thinking it might be cheaper, we stop for gas about 45 minutes from the city.  Big mistake.  Caddy has decided that we no longer deserve the three-minute warning.  She refuses to start.  Maybe she’s tired.  Maybe she’s angry about something one of us said.  Whatever it is, she’s decided that there’s no way we’re going to go any further in her.  We spend hours at the gas station trying to figure out what to do next.  We end up taking a cab into Montreal and get a tow truck to escort Caddy to a dealer within walking distance of our hotel.  After arranging for her repair, we put that stuck-up bitch out of our minds and enjoy our time in Old Montreal.  We shop, we walk, and we laugh.  We soak up history and culture.  We eat amazing meals.  We spend an afternoon wandering in The Village and try, with varying degrees of success, to speak French.  After two days we get word that Caddy is feeling better and is ready to move on.  So are we.

Coming Home: Montreal – Port Howe
I’m excited to get to The Beach and see my family, and everyone else is tired of being on the road.  It’s over 1000 Kilometers to Port Howe, but we haven’t been driving in Montreal and we’re feeling up to the task.  Dan and I get up early, pick-up Caddy from the shop and return to the hotel for Wade, Andrea and our stuff.  We drive straight through, stopping only for gas/pee/stretch breaks.  I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and the distinctive smell of the maritime air.  My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away.  My friends laugh at my childish excitement, but it’s started to rub off on them and they join me in giddy anticipation of our arrival.  As we turn on to Toney Bay Road – the road to the beach – I can barely contain myself.  I was twenty the last time I was here, my parents’ house is new and the night is dark, but I know the place as soon as I see the welcoming glow through the front windows.

I’m home.  And I brought friends.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The second assignment was to write about a place. I knew I wanted to write something about the time I spent in South Korea, but it took me a long time to settle on what story to tell. I really struggled with this one. In fact, I almost dropped the class before this was due. After all, I was only taking it for fun, and the stress of writing, along with the pressures of my work and personal life took me to a level of anxiety that I almost couldn’t handle. I made an appointment with my prof and she talked me down off of the metaphorical ledge and gave me an extension on the due date. This is probably my worst piece from the class, but I’m sharing it anyway. Why not, right? It is a good story. (November 2010)

On my first night alone in South Korea I got trapped in my bathroom.  A new door had been installed in anticipation of my arrival.  I could tell that it was new because there was still plastic around the handle and the doorframe.  The door opened fine from the kitchen, but I guess no one bothered to go inside and close it to be sure it worked from the other direction.  I didn’t usually go to the effort of shutting the bathroom door when at home alone, but the apartment didn’t feel like home to me.

I had been transported to my new accommodations by Lay and Mr. Ko: two Korean English teachers from the school where I would be working.  I was disappointed by the appearance of the building when we pulled up, but I kept a smile glued to my face.  I didn’t want to appear ungracious to my hosts.  The entrance was an unmarked door that faced an alleyway so narrow there was barely enough room for Mr. Ko’s car to drive through.  Looking up, I could see no windows in the three-story beige cement façade.  Not that there was any scenery in the alley other than garbage bags and a few small red and blue plastic pails (which I later discovered were for the disposal of food waste) lining the front of the buildings.  You can imagine how lovely the alley smelled in the thirty-degree heat and humidity of late August.  Welcome to Korea!

Mr. Ko, the strong silent type, wrestled my heavy suitcases up the flight of stairs to a second floor apartment.  He then grinned at me, shook my hand and bowed his head, then hurried back to his car, leaving me alone with Lay.  She showed me around my new home, dutifully pointing out the many items that had been provided for me by the school.  I smiled and nodded and said “thank you” a lot.  Before leaving, Lay gave me a sheet of paper with my new address written in both English and Korean.  She also gave me her cell phone number (in case of emergency) and left me with a hand-drawn map and instructions on how to get to the school the next day.  Although I didn’t want to be alone, I was relieved when she said goodbye and left so that I could drop the brave face I had been wearing all afternoon.  I threw myself facedown on the single bed and cried like a little girl.  I let all of the stress that had been building since I landed in Seoul six days earlier pour out of me on to my pillow.

My little meltdown didn’t last long.  When I ran out of tears and my breathing returned to normal I made the conscious decision to get the hell up and familiarize myself with my surroundings.  After all, I was excited about this adventure.  I wasn’t about to let a little fear and loneliness ruin it for me.  If this was going to be my home for the next year I might as well try to make the best of it.

The apartment itself was dingy, but all of the furnishings were new.  The bedroom was a decent size with a wardrobe, a low table with drawers and a small television perched on top, and a single bed made up with a neon orange and pink bedspread.  It hurt my eyes, but I appreciated the splash of colour in the otherwise dreary space.  On the wall above the bed, up near the ceiling, I discovered an air conditioning unit that was controlled by a tiny remote.  I couldn’t read the symbols, but after a little trial and error I managed to get it working.  The cool air was refreshing and made me feel a little bit better.

Although from the front of the building there didn’t appear to be any windows, I actually had three in my apartment.  One opened out to the hallway and had metal bars on the outside, presumably to deter thieves.  I could see through the window into the apartment across the hall.  The window on the opposite side of the room faced the brick wall of the building next door.  I opened it and peered down into the narrow passage that ran between the two buildings – definitely no view from here.  I sighed and began to accept the fact that my room felt like a prison cell.  The vertical beige lines on the cheap wallpaper didn’t add to the aesthetic.  The only other window in the place was a tiny one in the bathroom.  I closed the bedroom windows and the plain beige curtains and let the air conditioner work its magic while I moved to the other room.

The front door opened directly into the kitchen and was made of thick grey metal.  It had three different locks.  I had learned that the crime rate in Korea is quite low, but between the bars on the windows and the ultra-secure door I started to wonder about the neighborhood I would be living in.  On the wall by the door I found a strange box, bigger than a standard thermostat, with a few different buttons and some knobs.  The Korean words beneath the buttons meant nothing to me, but I suspected the box might control the under-floor heating that I had heard was standard in Korea.  I was half right – it turns out that it controlled my hot water heater.  While I didn’t need the floor heat in thirty-degree weather, I shivered my way through three days’ worth of cold showers until the landlord kindly stopped by to show me how to work it.

I had been provided with a table and two chairs rather than the traditional low table and cushions on the floor.  I was glad, not because I’m particular about chairs, but because I didn’t like the looks of the linoleum floors.  An enormous rice cooker sat on the table – the focal point of the kitchen.  I had also been provided with other kitchen essentials like dishes and a few food items.  It was a pretty standard kitchen.  The only notable thing was the gas stove that Lay had made sure I understood before she left.  You had to open the gas valve on the wall before you could start up the stove.  It reminded me of using a propane BBQ: open the main gas line, turn on the stove gas, turn the knob to light it, and when you’re finished cooking, turn everything off.  I figured I could manage to cook without burning off my eyebrows or blowing up the apartment.

The bathroom was in a room off the kitchen.  It was small, with a standard toilet, which I was relieved to find.  I was not looking forward to using the infamous Korean squat toilets.  A glass cabinet on the wall revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner.  It was a nice touch, although I had brought my own toiletries from home.  There was no bathroom sink (I would be washing my hands and brushing my teeth in the kitchen), but a set of hot and cold water taps jutted out of the wall at knee level and connected to a long hose that led to a showerhead, which hung at hip level.  Showering was going to be… interesting.  The drain was in the middle of the bathroom floor, but there was no shower curtain or designated bathing area.  The entire room was the shower.  I could live with that, but I was a bit concerned by the final piece of equipment in the room – a washing machine with a digital screen.  What if it got wet?   I was going to have to get out of my habit of taking long luxurious showers every morning.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to pee, I turned and closed the door and sat down on the toilet.  Afterwards, I headed to the kitchen to wash my hands.  Except the door handle wouldn’t turn.  I tried harder.  Nothing.  Confused, I bent down and looked closer thinking maybe I had locked it by mistake.  But regardless of which way I flipped the lock the handle still wouldn’t turn.  It dawned on me that I was trapped in the bathroom in an apartment in a foreign city with no way to get help.  I flashed on an image of myself screaming from the tiny bathroom window and realized that I didn’t even know the Korean word for help.  What was I doing here?

My heart started racing and I thought I was going to pass out.  I sat down on the toilet and put my head between my knees to keep myself from freaking out.  I repeated the phrase “everything is going to be OK” over and over again.  If I had to I would kick down the door.  I wasn’t entirely sure that was an option, because it seemed pretty sturdy, but just telling myself that I could gave me courage.  I looked around the bathroom for something I could use as a tool – toothbrush? No.  Maybe I could use the shampoo bottle to bash the door handle off?  Doubtful.

I started to giggle hysterically at my predicament and sat down again to catch my breath.  I kept thinking that when this was all over it was going to make for a great story.  On my fifth attempt, using all of my strength, I managed to haul on the door handle hard enough to get it to turn a bit.  This small success gave me the nerve to keep working at it and eventually I managed to escape.

I was only trapped in the bathroom for a half an hour, but the anxiety stayed with me the entire time I was in Korea.  Although I tried to keep my sense of adventure and stay positive, I didn’t even make it through three months of teaching English in Korea.  I ended up breaking my contract and fleeing home to Canada.  I felt like a failure, but at least I was free.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

A year ago I finished the one and only writing course I have ever taken. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done plenty of writing for courses (I have an BA in English), but I’ve never taken a writing class.

The class is called Creative Non-Fiction, sometimes known as Literary Non-Fiction, but never simply Non-Fiction, because I guess there is some kind of non-fiction stigma. Non-fiction = not imaginative? boring? I’m not sure.

Anyway, it was a great class. It was scary and hard and exhilarating (like all good things in life). I loved it. Not everything I wrote was good, but I was writing and it was awesome. I promised myself when the class ended that i would keep writing. And I broke my promise. I haven’t even kept a journal (something that I’ve done on and off through my life) in the past year. So I’m here to attempt to resolve that. That old cliche “it’s better late than never” better be true or I’m in big trouble. I’m a pretty punctual person, but it seems that in my life, I’m always falling behind.

I think I’ll share some of my writing from the class here. And I’m committing to writing in this space. I’m not sure what it’s going to look like or where it’s going, there’s no map, but a random collection of words is better than no words at all. And maybe it will lead me somewhere. That’s an exciting possibility…

Because it’s not too late. Yet.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I’m a liar.

Lying comes naturally to me. Sometimes I don’t even notice that I’m doing it. I’m not exactly proud of this fact, but I also don’t see it as being a major character flaw (OK, that’s a lie. It is a flaw, otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to justify it).

My ability to lie makes me a good actor. I can be very convincing. I think it comes from having a good imagination. I know I started lying when I was a kid. I’m not sure where I learned the skill, but it drove my parents crazy. I can’t even count the number of times I was told the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Life lessons from mom and dad.

The lying I do isn’t mean to harm. It’s not malicious. Perhaps it’s my own version of a social experiment. Testing people to see what I can get away with.

As an adult, the lies I tell are insignificant, and usually relieve me of some kind of discomfort. The so-called Little White Lie. If I don’t want to see someone I will fabricate a fiction about another commitment (you know you are a true friend if I’m willing to admit to you that I don’t feel like hanging out or talking to you); maybe I call in sick to work when I’m really just tired. Or I’ll answer a question the way I think you want me to respond, rather than how I really feel. I’ve been weaning myself off of these little lies over the years. As I age it seems that I care less about pretending to be someone I’m not, and am finally becoming more comfortable with the reality that I’m not perfect, I can’t please everyone, and that’s alright.

I often think that the worst lies are the ones I tell myself: I’m happy with my life. Everything is fine. This is as much as I’m going to get and I’m satisfied with that. Complacency. Comfort. Calm. These lies build over time, forming a cushion around me, and I know that if I don’t start poking some holes, one of these days it’s going to explode. It won’t be pretty.

So, OK. I’m convinced that lying isn’t an admirable quality, but it’s also not necessarily a terrible attribute. Especially if I’m willing to acknowledge it, be aware of its power and strive to keep it under control.

But recently I did something horrible. I lied to someone I care about.

It was a lie of omission. I failed to impart some very important and time-sensitive information.

I’m not entirely sure how it happened. Looking back, I could try to blame the unique situation, the fact that a great deal of alcohol and ego were involved, but the fact is, I should have stopped and said something. I needed to speak and I didn’t.

So, when I realized that I fucked up, what did I do? Did I take a deep breath, summon up my inner strength and face the truth (and consequences)? No. I did not. And for me, struggling to understand this lie and the fallout surrounding it, that is the hardest part to accept.

I can accept that I made a mistake, as awful as it was, in my original omission. I make mistakes. But to continue that lie, especially to this person who means a lot to me, when given the opportunity to confess? I believe they call this feeling guilt.

But guilt and shame are not useful emotions. They succeed in making me feel bad, but offer nothing in the way of redemption and no way out. It’s OK to feel them, but there is no point in dwelling on them. Acknowledge. Accept. Keep Going.

So I did. I finally found the courage to tell the truth. The whole truth. It was hard. I wish I had done it sooner, but at least I did it. It hurt him. That is the worst part. I couldn’t keep him from being hurt, and I hated knowing that I was the cause, but you know what? He didn’t break. He didn’t hate me. And most importantly, he didn’t run.