Dust

I was first introduced to The Sorrys' music during the course of what was ultimately a summer fling. I dated Aaron for a month or two, and it was the kind of quick, exciting relationship I used to have when I was younger. It was fun, and I felt young and happy while I was in the midst of it. I even chose to believe in its future, a boldly optimistic decision I hadn't made since I was in my very early twenties. But it did feel like a decision, as opposed to the outlook I'd brought into my much earlier relationships. Before I chose, I felt the nagging doubts natural to an experienced thirty-something year-old, particularly in Aaron's refusal to discuss the long and significant relationship he'd recently been in, or how that might still be affecting him. When it ended, as, duh, of course it did, I spent about a week feeling angry and sad, but I got over it. I didn't even miss Aaron, and I didn't want to be his friend. It was significant, though, but its significance was virtually unrelated to Aaron, and all about me. I felt possibility. I remembered that I was worthy; that I could be seen the way Aaron saw me, however briefly. And I knew that I didn't want light. And the two of us were definitely light. I wanted brutal honesty, but I wanted that to come with faith. I had always imagined these things in opposition to one another. I had been so doubtful of every romantic relationship I'd approached since I was 22, aside from this one, and including the one that lasted for four years. I decided, post-Aaron, that I would rather get hurt than enter everything with so much cynicism, despite the odds. 'Cause it's hardly possible to beat the odds if you go into everything so certain that they're stacked against you. And besides, however things ended up, I had a really fun summer.

That was also the first time I quit drinking with real intent. I mean, I had tried to quit drinking in the past, for set periods of time - a week or two that I never made it to. This time I was going to quit drinking for good, for real. It didn't work that time, but it set the stage for several months later when I did, with a lot of help, finally manage to quit drinking for good (hopefully!). It was an incredibly optimistic thing to do, and it came out of my decision to develop a more optimistic outlook, more generally.

The other thing I got out of that summer was my introduction to The Sorrys. And listening to The Sorrys on cd is great and all, but there's nothing like a live performance, something that took me far too long to discover. I was kind of nervous about going to see The Sorrys live, because I didn't want to run into Aaron and all those weird social dynamics. That's just not a way to live your life, though, if you're a music fan and you live in Halifax. This city is small, and your history is everywhere.

Jim, Steven, and Richard are great musicians, and they sound so together, but seeing them live, you also get to see how much they are enjoying playing together. They have so much fun! Even better though, is how they remove that line between performers and audience, inviting the people in attendance to truly participate in the event.

Trevor Millet is the best front-person in Halifax, maybe even in the country. He's entertaining and sometimes slightly offensive. He gets off the stage and wanders around talking to the audience while the rest of his band remains on stage. He drinks his band-mates beers. He is unpredictable, and he doesn't seem to censor his thoughts. He's so much more than that, though, and I feel really lucky to get to know him, however peripherally. He's a really great songwriter, and what makes him such a gifted writer is undoubtedly his genuine interest in the people around him. I get the feeling sometimes that he wishes he could be living parallel lives, that would afford him the time to really get into other people's worlds.

I've been going to watch bands since I was about sixteen, and I've been lucky to have had some favourite bands who have made me feel really appreciated as a fan. Certainly the most notable and constant has been Dave Bidini, of Rheostatics. But there's also, once you get to that level, a degree to which professionalism plays a role in being personable. Not that famous people have to be nice, or remember names, but it certainly makes for better press. When I was in high school, my friends and I used to sneak in through the back doors of Lee's Palace, left ajar by Dallas Good, of Satanatras, or Derek Madison, of Grasshopper,who found us underage fans endearing I think, who got excited by our enthusiasm. They weren't that much older than we were, after all. The way I felt then? That's how I feel when I see The Sorrys play. I love that I can be 35 years old and feel excited about hearing this super amazing band play songs that I love, and then sit down with them after the show and talk like we're friends.

All of that said, I don't feel like The Sorrys are on a different planet of awesome that is far, far away. They're grown-ups, with families and careers and responsibilities. They're grown-ups like the way I should be, could be, would be, if I had made different choices. I write songs myself, and Trevor likes my songs. I mean, he has really listened to and really appreciates them in a way that I don't think many people have or do. It means a lot to me that anybody could be affected by what I write, and especially somebody who writes great lines like, "I have an aversion to disaster, but I like the edges rough." The mutual appreciation makes the audience-performer line even blurrier, and I like that. It's more interesting, and fuller. 

In my quest to live my life, and to experience relationships that are clear-eyed, honest, and built on understanding, while also being fun and exciting, I would like my soundtrack to be reflective of that as well.

*It has just been brought to my attention that the lyrics for "Dust" were actually written by Jessica Russell. I'm going to leave it here though. I almost like that it was a collaborative project even more than when I thought that it wasn't.

 Dust - The Sorrys

The greatest lie that you ever told was in your laughing out loud.

The greatest sins that you did commit were always against yourself.

And in the end we all turn to dust.

Why don't you tell me, what was your rush?

The greatest pain was in your smile. I knew it was a lie.

But I always loved your smile, yes I always loved your smile.

And in the end we all turn to dust.

Why don't you tell me, what was your rush?

I Love You All The Time

I got my first laptop in 2006, a wonderful Christmas/birthday present from my mother and my step-father. It was meant to be - and it was - a useful educational tool. I could bring my homework to the bar, afterall! That made me immediately more productive, for a bit, before things got too hazy.

It wasn't just my first laptop though, it was also the first computer I had that wasn't ancient, and slow, and reliant on a telephone line for access to the internet. I was a pretty late arrival to the internet party, but I jumped on board with a fair amount of gusto.

At the time, I was playing in a folk duo called nate and marcel, and of course we recognised that having some kind of precense on the internet was becoming a practical necessity. Myspace was very big at the time, not only as a site for hosting music, but for networking as well. It was a way to get information about shows and releases out to a larger audience, and was especially helpful for planning tours or out-of-town shows. In my initial attempt to create a myspace for our duo, I accidentally ended up with a personal, non-artist profile instead of the one that I'd been trying to make. But I held onto it, and it ended up being utilised far more than my professional one. I'll get back to that. That's what this entry is about.

And there was also halifaxlocals. The atlantic provinces seem unique, with their collection of related "music and skate talk" messageboards. I have sought out similar forums for other communities when planning tours, but I haven't found anything that compares to halifaxlocals.

When I first began posting on halifaxlocals it was to promote our shows, but it wasn't long after I acquired my laptop that I began reading and eventually contributing to other discussions. Halifaxlocals exists primarily as a tool for promoting local musicians and local performances, but that is certainly not all it's about. Everything gets discussed there, from local politics to favourite diners to cell phone providers. It's a helpful resourse, and most of the regular posters are exceptionally articulate, well-informed, clever, and funny, while also being very considerate. Above all, it is a community. It's a weird mixture of real-life and online community, given its regional focus. Most people seem to choose not to remain anonymous, and there's a lot of back and forth between people who are actually friends. These people actually do see one another in real-life. I have never met many of the posters on halifaxlocals, but I have met many of them, too, and there are a couple who are among my closest friends. These friends, we don't know each other because of halifaxlocals, we have just all found ourselves there because of our common interests. The messageboard seems to somehow both facilitate and maintain community, here in Halifax. It is almost always where I first hear about things I want to hear about.

There is another online community I feel a part of, too, and it is very different from halifaxlocals. It's sloppier, harsher, and much more abstract. And it isn't very useful, especially these days, or even as encouraging of intelligent discussion, but I really like a lot of the few remaining people who spend time there, and somehow, so strangely and slowly and inappropriately, that community has become a large part of my life. I am talking about the Myspace General Music Forum.

I guess I fell into it shortly after creating my band and my personal profiles. Aware, thanks to halifaxlocals, of the possibilty and functionality of online communities, I explored the forums on myspace, and I can't remember what it was, exactly, that pulled me in, but I'm pretty sure it was Beej, and The Chucky Danger Band.

There are few things I enjoy more than geeking out about music, and working in a record store, as I did at the time, I felt fairly knowledgeable about current music, especially Canadian music. Beej was a poster from just outside of Toronto who championed many of the bands I adored, and he was also a total jerk about them. He was a bully. He was unwaveringly devoted to his personal aesthetics and played a very loud and often cruel antagonist to anyone with differing ideas about good music. I think I sort of liked that. At least I found it somewhat refreshing in contrast to the incredibly inclusive atmosphere on halifaxlocals, where nobody is ever critical of local artists, with the notable exception of Bill Kidney.

The Chucky Danger Band had just taken home some awards during the East Coast Music Awards, and I resented this. I thought they were a terrible, completely uninspired band, and that there were so many other Atlantic Canadian artists much more deserving of recognition. The Chucky Danger Band decided to spam the General Music forum, and I sort of laid into them. It's not really like me. But Beej thought it was great. And there was and remains something in me - and I think this is pretty shameful - that really, desperately, just wants to be liked, by those intimidating figures with the confidence to let you know when they don't. It's like winning a prize. And I'll tell you, it hurt, when it seemed like he didn't anymore.

But that was just my in. There were a lot of neat people who posted in the general forum, of all ages and from everywhere around the world. Elias and Paul and Matthew and Amalia were all still in high school I think. I had a soft spot for Elias, who was occasionally sentimental and revealing in the midst of his posts about dark and harsh music. He seemed really innocent, and really vulnerable, and I remember occasions where reading the way he expressed himself would bring me right back to the way I felt when I was in high school. Disco and Bedbeats were the NICEST, most inclusive and mature people ever, without being too saccharine; still able to be clever and funny at nobody's expense. Except perhaps at the expense of the Acoustic forum. That night that Bedbeats, Johnny Rubber Maids, myself and surely some others tore into their "What's your favourite chord?" thread was one of my favourite times on the internet ever. Steve Zissou was incredibly cool, in sensibility and taste and expression. Philip and norm were older than everyone else, and they seemed older too; less concerned with hipness. There were some serious snobs in there, for sure, but almost everyone seemed very genuine.

I found out about a lot of new music through that forum. It was great. It seemed that the biggest band then, the most universally appreciated, was a band called Oh No! Oh My! And I liked them so much that I got in touch with the band and arranged to sell their cds on consignment at Sam the Record Man. I played them for my real life friends and we managed to sell out of the five cds they had sent within a week.

Then I left the forum for a long time. Several years. I guess I got more involved in real life. I was drinking a lot, and I had a very active social life that revolved around my favourite bar. It was probably some perceived sleight, though, or something that made me feel unliked, that mostly did it. I really can't remember, but I know how sensitive I am.

I have been an active participant in this community for several (nine?) months now, much longer even than the first time I stuck around. My participation in halifaxlocals had slowed down a great deal, but it has always been a constant. It's a different beast. It feels like myspace is dying. I mean, anyone could tell you that, but to look at it from the inside, it's a different thing, and I wanted to write about it, while it's fresh, and still something that I engage with.

The Myspace General Music Forum has a history. You still hear talk about what it was like back before the forum split. By this they mean that there used to be one music forum that was just called "General" until one day after logging in they discovered that it had mutated into a number of different subforums that divided genres and people who preferred metal to, say, electronic music. It feels like a mythology, and it always makes me think of that Sonic Youth show at NSCAD, back in the 80's, that comes up on halifaxlocals every so often. Where they played to something like ten people. Nobody was there, but everybody wants to claim it. Of course halifaxlocals has its own history too, its "guest book," sloan.net.

Then facebook came along and social networking moved over there. Then myspace stopped allowing links to outside sites for fear of copyright infringements, so general forum users were unable to share the music they loved. Which was the point. Threads and threads, every day, about brand new music, top ten lists, it used to be a music nerd's paradise.

Now it's like a wasteland; so slow, and much less empassioned.

On the internet, as in life, I am a creature of habit. I like familiarity. I like comfort. I like substance and understatement and honesty and beautiful, affecting, genuine things and people and spaces. I also like being liked. And I have thought many times about writing something about myspace, using oh no! oh my! But now, maybe, it feels like it's close to being time to go, again. Some comment by a poster I really like but never quite know how to take upset me a bit yesterday, and I had to ask myself why, and what I feel like I've invested in this and what I feel my returns are. I feel coolness and reception and I react to kindness and insularity and dismissiveness like in real life. Posters are people even when they're just represented by some words they've typed and words of course aren't the always-all-the-time-truth. It's harder to recognise sarcasm or teasing without gestures and facial expressions. And I err myself on both sides; I find myself overly apologetic or agreeable or else off-handed. And what I really want, everywhere, is a genuine connection, but what I end up striving for is just being liked, even by bullies I don't even like myself.

I have some forum "friends" on facebook now, which is neat. And I'm sending some Christmas cds out to some of them, which is also neat. I like that connections in an online forum can extend into the world at large, because connections, however and wherever you may find them are what it's all about. That and the music. But mostly I feel my time slipping away from me. I would rather be out there than in here if I am not being affected or active.

I thought I'd be much more specific about people and my involvement this time around, but it feels too weird and perhaps rude to be too analytical about other people when it's present. The new format is glitchy they say, I'll see, and so they're making virtual suicide pacts, trying to get banned, and just
falling
away.

I didn't think this entry would trun out to be so depressing.

*Beej wrote a song about the myspace general music forum several years ago.
*Doug Mason has a great song about halifaxlocals called "locals culture."

I Love You All The Time - Oh No Oh My

**I have decided not to type out the lyrics this time because I think they're kind of silly, and not relevant, but it's a really great song! Much loved by the Myspace General Music forum circa 2006

Gorgeous Morning

I feel a little weird writing about Tanya Davis, though this blog entry is something that has been rolling around in my brain for years now, in bits and pieces. I feel weird because I know her – not at all well, only very peripherally – and I find her writing so emotionally and personally affecting that I actually feel sort of strange and bare when I run into her in Halifax. I don’t know of another songwriter who is so vulnerable in her writing, and I don’t know of another songwriter who speaks to me in quite the same way.

I was introduced to Tanya Davis’ music when I worked at Sam the Record Man. She brought in a copy of the recently released cd, “Make a List,” to be sold on consignment there. My friend and co-worker Jonathan suggested I listen to it; he thought I’d like her. “She calls these song-poems,” he said, rolling his eyes, and then he quickly added, “But it’s really good!”

And I couldn’t get enough. On days when I was confined to the third floor I would sit there and replay that cd for hours. I’d never heard anyone speak about loneliness that way. There was hope, too, and constant lists, so many lists, of reasons to do what you do, things you should be doing, ways that people can be known, ways in which they aren’t enough, all of the dark and light little corners of human experience seemed to there, spoken and sung in this fragile, honest little voice. It was truly revolutionary for me. It used to make me think about the excitement with which Jon Landau had famously declared, “I saw rock and roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen.” There was that same experience for me and I remembered why I loved music so much, why I felt such a connection to certain artists and songs. Sure, there’s nothing new about what Tanya Davis has to say. What’s new is that she says it with such earnestness, with such a lack of pretension or self-censorship that it feels so remarkably different from anything that anyone else is saying.

Tanya Davis has been getting a lot of attention lately, and this makes me very happy. The Andrea Dorfman-directed video for her poem, “How to be Alone” has been everywhere on the internet, and viewed/heard and enjoyed by bigshots like Roger freakin’ Ebert, even! This is not a sad poem and it is not about being lonely, despite what some critics have seen in it. But a lot of what she writes is about about being lonely, and about being sad, and I believe she does an excellent service for humankind by articulating these experiences so unself-consciously.

It is hard to pick, but I picked gorgeous morning, for “It wasn’t worth those happy breakfasts that I missed.” Truth.



Gorgeous Morning - Tanya Davis

some of the people thought that I was crazy
for leaving all that
but they didn't see me at seven in the morning
in the months before i left

within a few minutes of opening my eyes
there was the dread of the day
sitting by my bed waiting for me to rise
and pretend like everything was okay

and it makes for bad digestion when you are crying onto your toast
and if that's how breakfast goes you know you're in for it
but i had no intentions then, go to work and come back home
my feet heavy and slow every minute of it

i could be a person climbing up the ladder
and checking the right boxes
moving through the brackets higher and higher
with more gains than losses

and i could have a cottage in a pretty spot
and make it there twice a year
all the other months in the city with my job
and my money and my tears

the glory of the morning did fade and dim
where once it was my best love and i was so grateful for it
but those days working with no passion did change all of this
and it wasn't worth the happy breakfasts that i missed

so on one gorgeous morning i told them i was leaving
and it was so relieving to say it out
and i worked hard all afternoon and the weeks before the leaving
until finally one evening was my last walk out

Claire

"Who the hell are the Howl Brothers?" I stared at the round piece of vinyl, knowing there was some kind of joke I wasn't in on. It was one of the first Rheostatics shows I ever went to, maybe my third or fourth, and as we made our way into the Bathurst Street Theatre we were all handed a recording of the Howl Brothers' song "Torque Torque." I don't remember how I learned the identity of the Howl Brothers - whether it was during the band's performance or shortly thereafter - but I soon learned that they were a fictional band created by the author of the novel Whale Music, and that The Howl Brothers actually were Rheostatics, and that this song was to be included in the upcoming film, Whale Music.

I did know about the book in a vague way. I knew that its author was a Canadian by the name of Paul Quarrington, and that the novel had been the inspiration for the Rheostatics album of the same name. I was very familiar with the album. It was, and remains, a favourite, and even by then I had listened to it so many times that I had committed each lyric to memory, sat in anticipation of the beginning of each consecutive song, was all set to switch to side "b" at exactly the right moment.

I went to that Bathurst Street Theatre show with a friend of mine from SEE School, a friend who was a million times cooler than I was. The drummer for Barenaked Ladies, Tyler Stewart, was sitting a few rows away from us, and I wanted to say something to him, to acknowledge his significance, here, because it was Tyler Stewart who brought me to Rheostatics.

I was a big Barenaked Ladies fan for a short little while. In grade eleven, when Derek worked at the Rogers Video at Dundas and Royal York, Adam and Jill and Maryan and Nicole and myself and/or whomever else was available would visit him there on slow nights, and we'd bop around the video store to that infamous yellow cassette. Everyone had a copy of that Barenaked Ladies tape. It was everywhere, along with the baseball caps. I wore my bright red barenaked cap with frequency and pride. They were also on tv a lot, and I swear, every single time I saw Barenaked Ladies on television, I saw Tyler Stewart wearing a Melville t-shirt. After a little investigation I learned this was the name of a Rheostatics album. And it's because of Tyler Stewart that I found myself at Sam's on Yonge street purchasing a copy of their brand new album, Whale Music. I had no idea what Rheostatics sounded like.

The rest is history. It's amazing, all of the things I could and will and have said about this band and their significance to me. It's frankly astonishing that this is the first blog entry I've devoted to them. Although I have written a song, an academic paper, and a facebook "note" that reads like a blog entry, back before I started this thing.

I did speak to Tyler Stewart that night, and I said "Thank you for introducing me to Rheostatics." That probably wasn't very cool, I certainly should have said something about his own band, even though I was totally over them by then. It would have been polite. He was nevertheless very kind to me, and told me I was welcome. I think he seemed really glad to have introduced a new fan.

***

Several years ago Rheostatics played a show at Reflections. It was very poorly attended, but I was there, of course, and with me was my friend Claire, who had never heard the band before.

Claire played cello with me. We used to be a folk duo called nate and marcel, and this Rheostatics show took place not long after Claire and I returned from a brief and whimsical tour we had gone on in southern Ontario. What was initially just a trip home I was to have taken with my father and his partner (now wife!) Susan, became a hastily-planned tour, with Claire and her enormous stringed instrument joining our party of three.

One of the funnest things about that trip was listening to music in the car. I had made many mixed tapes in anticipation, and collected all of my old, tried and true favourite mixes as well. The car stereo didn't work, but we brought along a tiny battery-operated cassette player that we managed to position atop of the cello in a way that ensured that it only ever fell over when we had to exit the highway.

Claire didn't know a thing about popular music. I was astonished when she had to ask me who was singing "Like a Rolling Stone." Though I suppose it all evened out when she laughed at my mispronunciation of Haydn. But she was the best to play new songs for! She really listened, and she loved hearing all of these new musicians. I got to play her all of my favourites.

Claire brought that same enthusiasm with her to that Rheostatics show. I don't know if she ever followed up with them, ever purchased any of their albums and listened to them at home, but she sure had a great time at that concert. Being an "Amelia," perhaps it is especially exciting to hear my name referenced, but I know it was also pretty cool for "Claire." I wish I had as cool a song with my name. It was so much fun showing this band to her, because a Rheostatics show is like driving through my old neighbourhood, for me. And where I live, with all of these great people I'd sometimes like to explain myself better to, we are so far away from my childhood homes. It sounds silly to say it, I guess, but there are things about my relationship with this band that are defining.

I read Whale Music. I read it in a basement apartment on Woodbine avenue in the year 2000. I liked it a lot. I thought it was well-written and funny, and I devoured it pretty quickly. It certainly didn't affect me in a significant way, though, not the book itself. But it goes like this: Paul Quarrington wrote a book about a fictional band called the Howl Brothers, loosely based on The Beach Boys. Rheostatics, inspired by this novel, named an album after it. When the movie Whale Music came out, Rheostatics were asked to do the soundtrack. Among other compositions was the song "Claire." The lyrics had already been partly written by Paul Quarrington. I took my friend Claire to see them play and she thought it was so cool that such a great band had a song called "Claire."

Paul Quarrington passed away this morning, and I am especially sorry for all of the people whose lives were directly touched by him, but I am also sorry for all of the people who didn't even know he was here. He really, really made a difference. Rest in Peace.

Claire - Rheostatics and Paul Quarrington

Purify me.
Purify me Claire.
Let me see you save a mind that isn't there.
Purify me.
Clarify me, Claire.

Liquify me.
Liquify these walls.
Let me see them gushin like Niagara Falls.
Liquify me.
Vapourize me, Claire.

Purify me.
Purify me Claire.
Let me see you save a soul that is impaired.
Purify me.
Clarify me, Claire.

Claire confide in me.

Happy Christmas (War Is Over)

I just learned that Shaved Fish was released a month before I was born. So I guess it's no wonder that John Lennon's "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)" feels like it's been with me all my life.

There was a time before it felt like Christmas music was an enormous part of my life; before I could spend hours debating the best version of "Jingle Bells." (I still don't have a definitive answer to this, although Crash Test Dummies and Barenaked Ladies are both surprisingly good contenders.) But there was never a time that Christmas music was not a part of my life. It just used to be less like a favourite t-shirt and more like a dependably warm but unremarkable afghan.

There are a few exceptional songs, though, that stood out, for whatever reason, and that don't have to do with my life After Christmas Music but that resonate with me so much because of my exposure to them as a kid, surrounded by my family. 'Cause family is ultimately what Christmas is about.

I used to play this song every year, pulling out the cassette and placing it in the big black dual cassette player/record player/radio that was our stereo for as long as I can remember. Every Christmas morning, it was the song that I wanted to hear. I know I used to do this, because I remember remembering this. But when I think about this song, I'm not transported back to my home on Edgevalley drive, where I spent 11 Christmases, but to the house on Stoneham, where I only spent one.

Mom said to me once, "I was so proud of that house." She was talking about the way that things go, and about how sometimes you can be prepared to embrace what you get because you get what you need, and that's all that you were asking for anyway, and then be so ecstatically, wonderfully surprised by the fantastically rich, double chocolate cream cheese icing on the cake. She told me she didn't think she'd ever meet anyone, that it wasn't in her plan. She just wanted to be able to afford a modest home for herself and her kids and to have her independence. And she got it. The icing is a whole other story. A really great one.

My parents separated during the summer after my second year of university, that first time around, that time I dropped out, not really knowing why I was there in the first place except that it - university - seemed to be the thing to do. Their separation was hard on my dad. Really, really hard. It was hard on all of us in different ways, but for Mom it was also incredibly freeing.

I loved my Dad a lot, but he sure did stress me out. He was angry, incredibly self-involved, unpredictable. I suffered from the worst tension headaches as a teenager, and I'm convinced their virtual abandonment was not so incidentally related to my father's absence. [Let me say here, for the record: My Dad's changed a whole lot. And my Dad is a million times happier now than he was then. And although he had a rough go of it for a number of years I doubt that he regrets much of it because of how he can appreciate what he has now, largely because of it.]

The year I lived on Stoneham I worked at Chapters. It was great. Sometimes I think it was the best year of my life. I've never read so many books. I was surrounded by family, and friends from high school, and new friends I made at the bookstore. I felt like I belonged there, with my new bookstore friends; I've never felt so secure within an extended social group. Nearly every night we'd gather at Hemingway's, the bar across the street, after work to talk about ourselves and books and where we were going. I felt well-liked, and confident, for the most part. I had all this disposable income. And I felt hopeful. I don't know why, with all of that awesome stuff around me, I got it into my head that I should be somewhere else, but maybe it is exactly for that reason: It is very difficult to make a major life change when you don't feel supported or good about yourself. I decided to move to Halifax, a city I'd never even seen.

My favourite thing about that year, though, was getting to spend it with my mom. I got to see her happy and herself. It was like an enormous weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, and she knew that she was going to be okay. We had a lot of fun, spending time together as adults; having coffee together in the morning, watching and laughing about "Days of Our Lives" on occasional, lucky free afternoons. And we really talked. She helped my fragile, twenty-year-old heart when it got bruised. She picked my up from Katherine's house all the way in Rexdale! And she always kept the porch light on for me.

Shaved Fish is my Dad's cassette, but it got left behind, like lots of his stuff. My mom probably still has it in the same drawer in that enourmous black cassette holder that's always been there, except somewhere else.

On Christmas, on Stoneham, I remember running downstairs in the morning, fast-forwarding side b to the very last song and hitting "play." I felt like a kid and I still feel like a kid to hear it. It is mine and dad's and mom's and home no matter, wherever, I go. And that year, it felt especially joyful. Happy Christmas. War is Over.

Happy Christmas (War Is Over) - John Lennon

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
A new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear

And so this is Christmas
(War is Over, if you want it, war is over now)
For weak and for strong
The rich and the poor ones
The road is so long
So happy Christmas
For black and for white
For yellow and red ones
Let's stop all the fight

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear

And so this is Christmas
(War is over, if you want it, war is over now)
And what have we done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
And we hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
War is over, if you want it
War is over now

Merry Christmas

Ballad of the Devil's Backbone Tavern

Several years ago I came to the sad conclusion that I probably wasn't really a writer. I mean, it's something I'll always do. I'll always write little songs and stories, but I don't actually have what it really, really takes. Confidence, nerve, and above all: Commitment. I won't quit my day job, and there aren't enough hours to do it any other way. I won't be miserable. I mean, I still work in a bookstore; not a government office. And I would be miserable and not quite myself if I wasn't compelled to embrace the bursts of inspiration that arrive happily and unbidden. Nothing is more satisfying than saying it how I mean to.

But there are brave souls in this world who have the confidence, nerve and commitment that I lack. And I would be far worse off if I didn't have them to read and to listen to. I can't even imagine the person I would be.

I have a lot of friends who make music in Halifax, and most of them do this in their spare time. Like a hobby, I guess I mean. Songwriting seems of a different order than most "hobbies" but maybe I only think this because I don't feel compelled to play hockey or knit sweaters the way I feel compelled to write songs. Maybe it's actually all the same. For those of us who don't abandon our day jobs.

But there are those few people who make it their livelihoods, and I can't give them enough respect for that. Like the two fantastic people who rolled into town last night to play a show at the Seahorse Tavern Not nearly enough people were there. Or, at least, there to see them.

The first time I saw Paul MacLeod and Lucas Stagg perform, I was working the door at Ginger's Tavern. I knew nothing about them, but judging a show by its poster, I already suspected it would be good.

Ginger's did not have a regular or walk-in crowd, and being one of many venues in a city that supports so many locally revered band and their fan bases, crowds were always hard to come by for a couple of unknowns from Ontario. But Paul MacLeod shouldn't have been an unknown. His impressive resume includes collaborations with members of Rheostatics, an album produced by Hawksley Workman, and a long stint as a member of The Skydiggers. It still amazes me that I had no idea who he was.

I liked them both so much before they even picked up their guitars. Both Lucas and Paul are genuine, interesting, entertaining people and conversationalists, who always maintain their positive outlooks and their curiosity about new people and places. I went downstairs and tried to convince friends and regulars to shell out the measly five dollar cover charge, eventually finding only two recruits. But being the professionals that they are, they nevertheless played their hearts out to the three paying members of their audience, and to myself at the door and Myndi at the bar. It could have been - should have been? - a disheartening experience for them, but they were obviously having a blast. Their tiny audience sure was appreciative.

I came really close to drinking that night. It was one of the two most tempting evenings I spent around alcohol since I quit, and I can remember so clearly my inner struggle. Because it was about - as was the other occasion - the best things about drinking. The way that it can - in early stages at least - foster community and comaraderie, make conversation easier, looser, the way beer can be both relaxing and celebratory. And it was about music and bars and I don't know that that romantising I do will ever quit. But I had a great time anyway, and without the regret that would surely have followed.

They came back a few months later and played three shows in town. I went out to their shows at Gus' and the Seahorse alone, but I convinced a few of my friends to come out to the matinee at the Carleton. Because, I suspect, that show was the free one. And I can't really begrudge people for that. It's hard to get excited about performers you've never heard before. So it's a leap of faith to see someone new, and despite recommendations, money is always an issue, and besides, there are always other, safer, shows going on.

But I kind of worried they'd never come back. A selfish worry, because I like hearing them play so much, and I like hanging out with them, too.

A few days ago their car broke down a couple of hours outside of Montreal, leaving them stranded, with expensive repairs to take care of, and forcing them to miss a couple of their shows. My anxious self would not have done well in this situation. I don't pretend to know Lucas or Paul particularly well, and surely they have moments or days where they consider packing it in for a greater level of security or stability. But it seems to me that more often than not, they consider themselves very fortunate to be able to do what it is they love to do. I would think it would be hard, to come out this way every few months, across such long expanses of highway and trees and sparsely populated communities, to play for only marginally larger audiences each time. But I guess that is how it's done. And I guess it is infinitely better than most things that people do to get by.

I should have probably used a song by Paul MacLeod or Lucas Stagg for this entry, but Todd Snider - he says it all right here, way better than I just did.

Ballad of the Devil's Backbone Tavern - Todd Snider

Old Miss Virgy tended bar at this shack out in the hills
It never made her any money, boys, but paid off all of her bills
Now she must have been 80 years old but her heart was warm
And her beer was cold
She gave away more than she ever sold
Smiling all the time

I used to sing off in the corner every Friday night
To a loud crowd of cowboys, bikers and bar room fights
They were drinking beer, carrying on, not a one of them listening to one of my songs
But old Miss Virgy sang along
She said she knew 'em all by heart

And then one night after closing she poured me another beer
She said "Come on over and sit down you little shit
I got something you need to hear"
She said "Life ain't easy getting through, everybody's gonna make things tough on you
But I can tell you right now if you dig what you do, they will never get you down"

She said life's too short to worry
Life's too long to wait
Too short not to love everybody
Life's too long to hate
I meet a lot of men who haggle and finagle all the time
Trying to save a nickel or make a dime
Not me, no sireee, I ain't got the time

Now I ain't seen Ol' Virgy in must have been about ten years
I've been bumming around this country singing my songs for tips and beers
Now the nights are long
The driving's tough
Hotels stink, and the pay sucks
But I can't dig what I do enough, so it never gets be down

I say life's too short to worry
Life's too long to wait
Too short not to love everybody
Life's too long to hate
I meet a lot of men who haggle and finagle all the time
Trying to save a nickel or make a dime
Not me, no sireee, I ain't got the time

Son of a Rudderless Boat

I just got back from Ontario. I always leave that province with a little bit more inspiration, a heart that's a little fuller, and some more direction than I had when I arrived. After the sun came down somewhere in eastern Quebec, I tried to help keep the drivers - my father, his wife Susan - awake and motivated by talking and asking questions. We talked a lot, Dad and I, about leaving there to live here. We bitched about the cold, materialist certainty of grey, brick-buildinged Toronto, but we also talked about the smaller places in Ontario and in Toronto itself. Home in all of its personal enormity, as well as possibility in the immediate familiarity of towns and cities and neighbourhoods we could live, if we had to, for some crazy reason, leave this coast. The people we miss because they make us miss them so, because they love us and we love them so.

My dad parroted the old cliche, "Blood is thicker than water." But you know, you get older, it's true.

Watching people get old from afar is weird. Missing the years in between exploring the woods, climbing rock piles on sturdy legs, taking the boat out on the bay, and the slow and cautious, precious steps in smaller rooms than ever imagined.

I am so lucky to have had a relationship with all four of my grandparents. Certainly luckier than most. Even my grandmother - my active, playful grandmother - who died of cancer far too young, at 61, when I was 12 or 13, is someone of whom I have countless fond, funny, sweet memories. And maybe it is only because her absence allows me to romanticise our relationship, but that was probably around the time I stopped feeling particularly close with any of my parents' parents. I suspect it's more likely, though, that being a teenager had as much to do with that. And then moving three provinces away when I was in my early twenties.

Sean and I used to do this thing, when we were together, when one of us got back from a trip somewhere, where the returning person would be asked to state his or her favourite moment. And I know I should, you would think I would, say: Ted and Hayley's wedding, of course. Ted and Hayley's wedding was beautiful, perfect, a darn good time in every way imaginable. But I've got to give the Favourite Moment Award to the only time I cried during my trip to Ontario.

I have and always have had a different relationship with my mother's parents than I do with my father's parents. Neither relationship is more or less significant, just different, because of who they are and who I am.

For a lot of years I don't think I felt at all close to Granddad, my father's father. Neither he nor my father are the best at keeping in touch, and I saw far less of him after his wife passed away. And besides, Grandma and Grandpa - my mother's parents - had the cottage. We'd spend week-ends and even weeks at a time there, with them, every summer. But I really don't think it's just circumstance and proximity. It's my Granddad, too, and I think I have finally pinpointed it. Granddad talks to everyone, young and old, without reserve, without censorship, with criticism and intelligence and honesty. And in turn, I feel that I can speak to him that way. That I would not have to be polite if it were at the expense of being genuine.

My mom's parents, on the other hand, are people I sure as shit wouldn't swear or smoke around. Which is not to say they're especially proper or anything. But when Granddad, a few days ago, requested that I play that song with the line about masturbating, I happily obliged, before imagining Grandma and Grandpa's horror-stricken expressions should I perform the same song for them. Never in a million years.

Grandpa took me fishing on Georgian Bay, taught be how to bait a hook years before I became a vegetarian and had the only fight I remember having with him, which is likely why it seems so particularly painful when I conjure the incident up in my head. Fighting with my grandfather about his going fishing, on the front deck that he built. Self-righteous tree-hugging teenager I was then.

Grandma held me up the window at their condominium in Brantford to watch the trains go by, read me books, sang me songs. She was always singing. Her voice has this integral, soothing, sing-song quality even, so that when I imagine her voice it always sounds like a tune, and which my mother has undoubtedly inherited. These two Sellar women, they have always made me feel safe.

No one knows what people will take from them. They just put themselves out there the best they know how. There are incidents I remember so vividly as speaking so clearly of their individual characters, and all the while they are and were carrying their own histories and relatives who began long, long before I did. It is probably in their sons and daughters that I know them best.

In Burlington, Ontario, my mother and I had a brief visit with Grandma and Grandpa at the retirement building they now reside in, until they or someone else determines that they are no longer capable of residing there alone, without assistance. That time is coming soon. Grandpa moves slowly, Grandma can't remember to take her medication. They don't want to let go, and who can blame them? The visit was less personal than it might have been, because my mother and I brought along an old friend of theirs, who had moved his travel plans around so that he might spend the afternoon with Frank and Jean Sellar before leaving for China. Gerry, this friend, lives in England, and hadn't seen them in twenty years. In the meantime, he had lost his mother (who lived to be 97!), his wife, and, tragically, his youngest son. At 70, Gerry is a good fifteen years younger than my grandparents, but must nevertheless be feeling his age in ways that he didn't a decade ago.

"China!" Grandpa exclaimed. "Aren't you tired?"

"Frank," he said, "Of course I'm tired. But I want to keep going, for as long as I can. Because I know all too well that one day I'll have to stop."

Granddad was in the hospital for two months earlier this year. He was fainting all the time, and no one could figure out how to stop this from happening, and no one wanted him to leave the doctor's constant care. Except for Granddad, who figured that if he was going to die, he would much prefer dying in the comfort of his own home, being able to see Dog Lake from his bedroom window. He and his wife Anna live at the end of a series of unpaved roads, a half hour drive from Kingston, Ontario. Granddad is lucky to be able to afford this financially, and to have a healthy, willing, and able wife to assist him.

He is still fainting all the time. It is such a terrifying struggle to help him down the stairs, even on the lifts that have been installed there, as I witnessed on Friday, when the four of us finally did help him downstairs and into the living room for the first time in two weeks.

But he doesn't seem old at all.

A few months ago, I wrote a song about my grandmother's death. More about my grandfather, really. Outside of the condominium they lived in in Mississauga was a small house that was always locked. Granddad and I would take walks around the grounds - the garden, the fish pond, until we would finally come to that house, and peer into the windows, imagining what it was used for, or who lived there. The first and only time I ever went inside was for the reception that followed my grandmother's funeral, and I sure wished it had remained a mystery.

The song came up in conversation with Anna when she, Dad, Susan and I were sitting around the kitchen table on Friday morning. "You should tell your grandfather about it," she said. And I really, really wanted to, but I just didn't know how appropriate it would be. "It's sad," I said.

And so, "It's sad," I said to Granddad, as I took out my guitar, upstairs in his room, just a few hours before I was to leave this province and these people that I am made of.

But some things are sad. Lots of things are sad. I couldn't get through the song without crying, but I couldn't stop either. Granddad was tearing up. And Anna, too. She was Grandma's best friend. And she is Granddad's wife. And no one, no matter how much they are loved, and needed here on this earth, gets to live forever that way.

It was a moment. I'm so glad I could let my grandfather know how much I love him, and that I could see how much he loves me. And if I have to say good-bye, I'm glad I could say that too.

And then he asked me to play the masturbating song.

Dad and Susan and I outwitted a tornado in Ontario, beat a hurricane in Nova Scotia, driving all night. We told stories about ourselves. My father's voice is so much like his father's.

We opened windows and played cds to stay awake when we ran out of questions, or one or two of us passengers began to fade.

We listened to Kev Corbett's brand new album, "Son of a Rudderless Boat." We heard "The Driving Song," taking the same route, as though it was written for us. And we listened to "Son of a Rudderless Boat," and with new ears I felt light and lucky, and so happy that it was my father up there in front of me, driving me home, persevering, saving us from the storm. "Row hard, in this rudderless boat," I was thinking, as the sun began to rise somewhere in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia.


**I didn't format the lyrics like I usually do, not because I'm lazy, but because I asked Kev to send then to me so that I didn't have to listen over and over and over again and type them out myself (because I'm lazy), and he was happy to oblige, and I like they way they looked, in paragraph form, so I kept them that way.**

Son of a Rudderless Boat - Kev Corbett

Grampa sailed a dory; he fished upon the sea. And though he knew what he was for, he didn’t know just what to be. He lost his arm at a logging camp. And up ‘til he died, he still chopped his own wood. He told me a story ‘bout going out with a new guy in the boat and when they got out on the water new guy just sat there and choked, so back inshore later on Gramp says, b’y, you can haul that fish yourself. We’re all scared out on that water, but next time you can swim, or you can help. He said, gotta work hard, gotta pray hard and just try to keep it strong and if you want to work with me man, gotta pull that weight along ’cause by the Father and by the Son and by the Holy Ghost, by the angels and the saints and by the heavenly host, by the fields of grass that bore me, and the sea that awaits I know I got no control, but I will fear no earthly fate. From the ocean we did come, and to her we shall return. She puts the fire out in us when our souls cease to burn and so to find true love and tend it is your only hope. Just give up the ghost, man. You’re a son of a rudderless boat.

My father tried his hand out as a fisher of men It was at least one job for a papish boy from the steel plant back then but he jumped that ship, I guess, left his robes upon the ground and I, for one, am glad he did, musta seen this gig comin’ round. He’s a student of his time, a renaissance guy to be sure. He lets me hoist myself, but my ears ring with his words: Son, I pray that you grow to be a very gentle man with Respect for those ‘round you and respect for the land ‘cause life don’t owe you another 10 seconds, you already got today but I believe it comes around if you treat the World that way and everything you need to know you learn from watching others fall but you’ll rejoice in their successes if you really heed the call. You’ll choose the high or the low road when life has you by the throat. It’s a choice we all get to make. We’re all sons and daughters of a rudderless boat.

I’m learning to love the Winter. Spring ain’t too far away.

So my paddle hits the water and I’m off among the trees. And I’m just lucky to be here, living like this in times like these I feel the weight of the whole world in all the choices that I make under the gazes of our mothers, and environmental stakes. By my unborn children, by the lepers in the streets, by the world already drowning in pools around our feet, may we come to patch this leaky boat that we’re all here sinking in and stop making up some right to throw the weaker ones in. By the earth and air and fire and water lapping at the shores all our spirits are the same and all our hands are on the oars. May we come to fix this tired old world before we drown in smoke. I’ll do my part. Row hard, in this rudderless boat.