Waving Not Drowning

Living in between the lines Kaleigh gets lost. She's always been directionally challenged, lacking any internal compass. Some would say morally as well. Free spirited. Impulsive. A simple walk round the block can end up with her miles from home, an unexpected urban adventure. Somewhere along the line it became her credo, with a little help from Chet Baker: Let's Get Lost. Her inability to stay the course defines her. Lost jobs, failed marriages, wandering eyes. Gets her in trouble time and time again. Fall down six times get up seven, preferably facing the opposite way, in someone else's sphere. Eventually she'll get so turned around, mired in the maze of wanderlustful reactionary decisions that she will find herself down under, so far from home that the road back disappears. Paths erode. Life alters course randomly in unexpected, unanticipated ways. Middle age set in and Kaleigh's stuck in stasis spinning in circles, no longer impelled by a desire to explore. Life,...

The table is set for ten. It's tight but they find a way. A few minutes of musical chairs, some cross table rearranging and voila, everyone is met. They celebrate earlier than others simply because it's easier to get the gang together outside regular hours. A rag tag group of self employed creatives, two single parents, a writer, one city councillor, two real estate agents and a landscaper. It's the tenth anniversary of their first official gathering. Some years they're a few shy of the whole lot but not this year. Chris and Carla swapped weekends with their respective exes and Donny, Jim and Shawna rearranged their family and work plans to make this fly. Ten years is a big deal. They were so young when they first met, at least that's how they see it. A decade of accountability to each other, through hell and high water, marriages, divorce, births, death, career changes and relapse. The amazing thing is that they've stayed together. A splinter group that evolved...

They set up a skype date so they could discuss their next move. With the time change and opposite schedules getting an actual conversation happening was more convoluted than string theory. So ridiculously complicated. By the time Alistair is home from work Zara is fast asleep. On days when Z is up at the crack of dawn, it's 3 am Al's time but he's either a few glasses into his wine and poring over a script or exhausted and too stressed to sleep. God forbid he's entertaining company.  It took a while but Z knows nothing good comes from late night-early morning texting or phone calls. If he's up and sees her online he can call her, thank you very much. The last thing she needs is to skype him and see some other woman tangled up in his sheets over his shoulder. Sheets she bought and broke in with him on Easter weekend last spring. What a difference four months makes. His contract got picked up and the work is pouring in. It's biblical in scope. Work begets work beg...

Maybe he won't call. Maybe the phones are down. Across the city. The country maybe, because he could be anywhere. Asia, Africa, Antarctica. Some continent beginning with an A. Like Americas. Do they all begin with A? Why aren't there more variations on a theme? Who decides this stuff? Hank would know. Hank knows everything. Names of capital cities, solutions to quadratic equations, how to peel a mango with your teeth without getting all the stringy bits caught up in the space between them. Especially the front two. Hank can rewire a broken lamp, drive a double clutch long haul trailer, climb microwave towers and install sattelite dishes for radiowave transmission and speak fluent American Sign Language. He makes stellar profiteroles, too. Hank's a truth teller. The truth according to Hank. Hanks speaks truth to power and damn the torpedoes, screw the consequences, he will be heard. That's what makes Ziggy nervous. More often than not, Ziggy has to clean up after Hank. S...

"How do you fight with a girl, huh? Tell me, cause it ain't right, you being like that with her. It's different, you know. I wouldn't take it, no way, that's straight up wrong is what that is. You need to shake your head, that's what you need, bro. No way you treat a girl like that. How you think she feels, hmm? You treat your sister that way, defensive and downright mean? Yeah, you're mean, bro. You dismiss her and don't respond. You disengage. That's fine with me- I get it, you know? But to her? No. Passive aggressive and you call her out on it? Pfffft, come on. I mean, I've listened to you go on and on for the last what, 8, 9 months- but this anger, man. You have some spooky anger issues in play and honestly- I love you, man, you know I do- you need to check that because the two of you make each other crazy and she's a good woman, dude. You know that. But you shut her down and check out and then you play with her, always play. Enough with...

"How can you do that? How can you go and do that? I don't- I can't." Daphne is sputtering now, apoplectic with rage and despair. "I mean, really. Really!?! You ate the last piece of my cake . My BIRTHDAY cake. MINE. I saved that piece specifically- you ate the corner piece with my name written on it, how could you possibly think that was meant for YOU?" Daphne collapses onto the stool at the island, exhausted. She's spent every last ounce of her energy and the full weight of the loss is hitting her hard. She has been dreaming about this cake all day. All week. She had portioned it out so that come Friday she could indulge, finally, in the best part of the entire last year. A custom four tiered coconut banana dark chocolate layer cake with a hint of mocha and edible flowers. Edible flowers, for crying out loud! Pink and purple and yellow, her favourite colours. She had searched high and low for the right bakery to make it exactly the way she envisioned it...

She crossed the street and there he was. All dressed up, here on business, out with work, doing his thing, glad handing, networking, seeing and being seen. All the way from the other side of the country, he appears. No note, no text, no call. It was last minute, he says. I had no plans until I had plans. Plans that glaringly lacked inclusion of her on any level. They're not friends. Barely acquaintances. They were lovers; complicated emotionally, different levels of involvement and ability, desire to engage. She says hello. He's affable, his polite self, distant and guarded but never leads the conversation, remains firmly in response mode so in effect, unaccountable. Controlling, in his way. Wouldn't want to get emotional. Doesn't offer himself up nor make an effort to make time or space for her while he's here. Clear as a bell. She gathered he wasn't planning a call, she says. He counters with I figured you'd gather that. He offers up aphorisms of do yourse...

Another trip round the sun. Three hundred sixty five days, couple of blue moons, handful of seasons, myriad of cells sloughed off, regenerated and she's still here. One year older, arguably wiser, certainly more experienced with this thing called Life and all that entails. Every moment of every day carries within it the pure potential to swing wildly in or out of her favour so she's been practicing choice, adaptation, engagement, disentanglement, acceptance, forgiveness, righteous indignation, compassion, kindness and outright fear and anger wrapped in a bottomless pit of Now What? One more year, one more ring around the trunk. Roots grow deeper, sails bellow out a bit deeper and black and white becomes a tenuous shade of grey more often than not. The what ifs, the shoulda woulda coulda's mean something different now. That surprises her. Expect the unexpected. Better yet, lose all expectation. Investments are larger, losses are greater and the highs failed to manifest in an...

It's a long walk up the property back to the kitchen from the boathouse. Adam feels every step pulling on the back of his calves. Ten years they've been here, long enough for the cottage to become their second home. He never saw himself as a guy with a cottage. A guy with a rich wife, 2 kids, a summer home, a winter chalet and four luxury vehicles. But here he is. For now. The divorce is finalized in October. It's been a long time coming. Caroline separated years ago. Separate vacations, separate beds. Separate bank accounts. Hard blow to his ego, being a secondary bread winner. Intoxicating at first, being well tended. Having a sugar momma. Meant he could write all day. Play his guitar, do yoga, make movies. Then the kids. The shift in focus. Work dropped off and suddenly he's Mr Mom. No more all night jam sessions, spontaneous dates with Geoff and Gord. Or Caroline. There are expectations that come with marrying money. Accountability. Towing the party line. Commitment...

Charlie always says no. Confidently but not with so much force as to raise any flags. Direct, make eye contact, no embellishing, then move on. Sometimes the interviewer will elaborate, a subtle attempt to casually redirect, asking the same question with other language to provoke a different response. Charlie's been at this for a while, she knows the drill, sees it coming miles before the neural synapses have even fired in the doctor or nurse or social worker or psychiatrist sitting in front of her. On a third attempt to question her once, the triage nurse started speaking uncomfortably loud and very slowly, as if Charlie was either deaf, mentally challenged, a foreign student or all three. Maybe it was the hapi coat and chopsticks in her crazy dreadlocked hair, who knows. Her asian phase has long passed. Regardless, the blue eyes, fierce red hair and freckles should've been a dead giveaway. The problem with a technologically advanced medical system in the largest city in the co...

Two more steps and he'll make the couch. Three if he shuffles. This pain, this never ending intense ache deep in his bones, radiating like a searing beacon of Hey Stupid, Way To Go. Feet. Dang. So many small bones, all jammed up, tight together, a perfect symmetry when everyone gets along but one unexpected twist and fall and bam, thanks for playing but this is where you get off. Such bad timing. Eight weeks of work coming up after a blissful, recuperative month off; now he has to figure out how to shuffle gracefully in a hidden cast on camera while pretending to be grounded, solid, whole. Easy peasy. Ha! And the itching, oy. The chopsticks and wooden spoons and modified backscratchers jammed down the cast. Inflate, deflate, elevate, ice, compress, release, oh my god why did this have to happen NOW? Sigh. Ah well, a hitch in his giddy up, a tilt in his hips, an even slower, purposeful gait. S'alright, s'allll good, what evaaaaah. This will wind it's way into the myriad ...

Harry can feel himself breaking. It's the difference between comfortable and barely getting by. To anyone else it's a nominal amount but to Harry, it's an entire month's living expenses. To watch his security slip through his fingers like grains of salt paralyzes him with despair. He's in stasis. Unable to move forward and unwilling to go back. Going back will kill him. Literally. Six months on parole, 12 months sober. Going back is not an option. Maria would leave for good, taking Troy and Draven with her. The old habits would creep back in and thread their way through him, opening up old veins, worn out pathways, reigniting a long dormant fire that would eat him alive. Immolate him and everything he's fought so hard for. Eight hundred dollars. Gone. For him to make that kind of cash in three days would require an immense amount of backbreaking work or dumb luck. Harry doesn't believe in luck. Or lotteries, or prayer, or affirmations. He believes in getting...

How could you do this to me- how could you? Don't just stand there looking down on me, with your mouth agape, like a fish dry drowning. You have irrevocably changed my life, you know that, right? You've killed me. I'm sure of it. I'm lying here crumpled, broken. I can't move my legs. I have no feeling from my belly down. This is terrifying. What have you done, what have you done to me? How did you not see me, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.  This hurts, you know. I know you can't hear me, I realize this now. But I am doing my best to stare at you through my half closed eyelids in this state of semi consciousness. I am trying to intuit this information to you through my slowly fading spirit. Every iota of my being is focused on trying to move, to speak, to scream or burble, any sound will do. The pain. Oh this is ridiculously painful and numbing at the same time. I was right there, beside you, behind you, ahead of you, in your rearview, your sideview, your windshiel...

Greta is not looking forward to this conversation but it is happening whether she likes it or not. The mere thought of confrontation gives her all-over hives. That nauseating gut-drop where you feel like your insides are falling out through your pelvis? Yeah, that's what she is feeling right now, like she's nearing the top of the 90 degree drop on one of those insane new fangled roller coasters that are designed to scare the living shit out of you. In through her  nose, out through her nose. Deep cleansing breaths. Dammit, where's the tequila? I mean, really, that's what I need, she thinks. No, no, this is a time to stay stone cold sober and focus on what I want and how to impart that information without getting inappropriately personal or ringing big old bells that cannot be un rung. Un rung? Huh. Is that even a word? Okay, okay....Greta continues with the pep talk, the interior monologue of a varsity cheerleader, channeling her best Deepak Tony Iyanla Mandela Rumi sel...

If you ask Lena, she'll tell you: she sets hard boundaries. That means saying no and sticking to it. A resolution that has come about after too many years of being the yes-man to everyone. Lena is the gal you count on to get things done, any day, any time, any where. Fast, efficient and with absolute discretion, like no other personal concierge you'd ever meet. Consistently on point. Lena is extraordinary at whatever she sets her mind to. Regardless of whether or not she wants to do said task or is actually engaged or fulfilled in any way, be it emotionally, intellectually, or socially. She's a  a woman of action, who sits in the eye of the storm and finds clarity, calmness and resolution, at any cost. Which is why Lena's personal life is an abject failure. Eight months ago a sudden call found her halfway round the globe on what should have been her 3 year anniversary with Tye. Oh, Tye. He just can't seem to finish anything he starts. A mess of ideas and projects an...

Mickey and Mark are identical twins, born into a family of ancient parents. A last ditch attempt at conception and they hit it out of the park, a real two for one special. Mickey and Mark are impossible to tell apart, even their parents confuse the two, hence the colour coded wardrobe. Red for Mickey, blue for Mark. Matching, of course, throughout their childhood but even now as adults they find themselves more often than not wearing the same outifts by happenstance. Perhaps it's that secret twin ESP spidey sense that they are rumoured to share. Regardless, Mickey and Mark are wearing the same skinny tobacco coloured chinos, Tom's slip-ons with a white t shirt under a casually wrinkled shirt. Together they are a mirror image walking side by each down the corridor, past cubicle after cubicle. They work together at McCann and McCann, a marketing firm specializing in on site bilboards and placards, primarily on University campuses and in pubs. Occasionally one twin covers for the ...

On the first, third and fourth Tuesdays of every month Tracey finds herself in a familiar church basement meeting hall, sitting on a dented metal fold out chair, sipping on lousy but free percolated coffee from a styrofoam cup, topped up with two cubes of processed white sugar. On special days, like an anniversary or someone feeling generous, there are fresh doughnuts or a bundt cake instead of the usual variety of bulk store no-name cookies, like those weird ones with the stripes of black and white icing. Tracey avoids those unless all of the arrowroots and maple cream filled leaf ones are gone. Tracey never intended to make this a regular thing; it started 8 months ago when she saw the sign leading down the stairs on the way out of the bathroom. St Stephen's is on her ride home after Pilates class. She had to pee so badly that she stopped to use the church facilities. It was past dinner time, so when she smelled the coffee and freshly baked lemon loaf- it was a one year chip day ...

Not being able to see the forest for the trees. That phrase keeps spinning round and round Althea's head. She's too far in, too invested, and completely lacking perspective. Five long years of her life, her life's work, culminating in what, exactly? What is this project anymore? A piece? A presentation?An exhibit? A clusterfuck of masturbatory half assed Pollack wanna be, lost in translation, pseudo interpretive canvases or something resembling canvasses that are supposed to represent what, exactly? Exhale, just step back, go for a walk....this is her mantra. Althea owns more running shoes now than she did when she was a child in that other country, miles away from anything resembling civilization. The hours and days and months of her life spent walking, running, skipping, crawling through back roads and abandoned trails gave birth to this mess displayed in front of her now. Two days til vernissage, a week til opening and she wants to set it on fire. Burn this. Walk away. H...

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ...

Perspective is a choice. It doesn't matter how many times she tells herself this, how many affirmations she tapes to the wall next to the bathroom sink, her sense of perspective left the building long ago. She's been in the weeds for months. A dark, black hole of despair curdled with anger and deep, bewildering sadness. A slow processor. Jessie's friends are tired and wary. Let it go, move on, you're better off. Breathe. As if. Suddenly single with 2 small kids after thirteen years as Someone's Person rocked her sense of self, shattering her foundation. Pat didn't love her. He was playing at marriage with kids. He felt nothing but disappointment. Jess could fill tomes dedicated to disappointment, entire libraries. Risperdal took the edge off but she couldn't be high and keep it together for the girls. Grandparents, daycare, long runs on the seawall, primal screams in old growth forest, these consume her. She is too late. She missed her chance. Moments of sel...