Yoga Thoughts

I was skeptical about the snowstorm they called for today, and here I am, snowed inside on a Sunday afternoon, grateful for small mercies like electricity and new Simpsons lined up tonight. So often we use ‘storm’ and ‘it’s snowing’ interchangeably, but sure enough, there was so much this morning the front door of the building wasn’t opening. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

I’d thought about penciling in some afternoon yoga yesterday, but had some ends to tie up and a meeting, and decided not to try to scrunch it in. I would go next week, prepared. Well, nothing could have prepared us for today’s weather and I’m stuck inside- “staying Om!” I’m wondering how many did make it out, or if it was open at all. With a fresh pot of blueberry tea on the go, I use the snug indoors as a cocoon, and ponder Singles Yoga.

As a writer, nothing makes me happier than putting something down on paper. I love collecting information and expressing it in ways that I hope at best is witty and perceptive and at worst plain yet informative, perfectly functional. The most amazing part of it for me is that I do not know what I am going to learn about next, or delve into more deeply, what frivolous or life altering or sacred or scary things I’ll have to study next. Imagine my delight to touch base with Singles Yoga teacher Vin Maru through Craigslist. He was looking for writers willing to try Singles Yoga.

Singles Yoga is a place where people get together to do yoga and to meet and mingle. Hopefully, like-minded people who care about health and spirituality, will meet friends and possibly romantic connections. They have a really interesting site at www.singlesyoga.com, where you can find out about upcoming events and more about yoga if you are new to it.

It can’t hurt, I think.

I’m not the only Torontonian who is skeptical about ‘singles’ events and clubs. But I’m not the slightest bit skeptical of yoga, which has changed my life, though I’ve really delved in only erratically. One example: yoga has been very important to both the mindset and the discipline of quitting smoking. I’m finally free, and yoga helped get me here. More practically, I am bored by most exercise, but we have to get some. Yoga manages to drift in between difficult, intricate challenges and fluid, relieving stretches. Somehow there is no feeling quite like how you feel after yoga.

Still, I am not without reservations. Though I can’t actually think of a better place to meet somebody, I wonder if it’s a bit too intimate straight off the bat. And I don’t want to feel like Harriet the Spy, scratching cryptic notes while supposedly focusing on my alignment!

But the benefits are clear: it means I’ll spend Saturdays meeting people who are at least marginally concerned with health and positive living. Even better, it seems a harmless way to get over my shyness, which went away for a blessed bit during my roaring 20s, but has returned with vengeance. Plus, I’ll feel terrific afterwards so whatever social situation transpires, my headset will be absolutely optimal.

I love most of all a new experience look forward to meeting some cool friends who have the same idea, and new teachers who will inspire my body and my mind.

Feud of the Gods

I missed what is now old news: Moby’s declaration of love to Eminem, after years of feuding between them over whether or not Moby’s music should be called “techno.” Seems the yappy rapper impressed the lily-livered sage with his anti-Bush rhetoric. I’ve been a fan of Moby’s music for a long time, but spent 2007 hopping around to Eminem and dreaming up ways that we could get together. Eminem used to offend me, too, and now I just can’t get enough of his dynamite. I think Moby is catching on, too, as he ages. Some gods are more theatrical, some more solemn. Each has his place. Britney and Kevin? Elton and Diana? Madonna and the rest? It’s just the feud of the gods.

Now Moby is more famous for his one minute on last week’s Daily Ten than he is for his baldness, unorthodox ethical life, and 20 years of innovative, exquisite music. “I love Eminem, and I decided if I’m gonna have feuds in the future they’re not gonna be with the most successful musician on the planet, who travels with people who have guns.”

Moby was not, of course, the only queer or woman to take offense at Eminem’s fag and bitch jabbery. Whole armies of human rights advocates were up in arms. So was Boy George.

Then again, Boy George and Elton John both made public their distaste for their own mother, The Madonna. Weird. It was just plain bizarre for Elton to poopoo Madonna’s live shows for lip-synching. Consider that if I am naked, dancing aerobically on the roof with acrobats and drummers, flying through the air, I may have to lip-synch here and there. But everyone knows Madonna does all the work that is humanly possible, all the time.

You would also expect a skinny white boy like Eminem to very realistically diss fags the way many cultural groups do- most certainly his demographic. It was refreshing to see Elton John get it right for once and join with Em at those infamous Grammy awards of yesteryear as if to say, “can’t we all just get along?”

I’m the quintessential fruit fly, born that way in my own way, and the view from here is this: Elton John performing with Eminem is building a bridge the way nothing else could be. Props to both parties for showing the truth: that showbiz is just showbiz. You gotta read behind the scenes. Music makes a world where Eminem and Elton can merge audiences in peace. In the Madonna era, we are the champions.

Hilarious that some of these same girls have got too big for their britches. That they dared to lash out publicly at Madonna! Oh, keep it to yourself. I mean, come on, Madonna made a world where I can spend my life in clubs with the fiercest and the finest. I can go to gay church on Sunday and watch Will and Grace with my best friends and their shih tzu Lola. I can drink frosted crantinis and still pick up men, because everyone mingles now like one big happy family. And those crantini girls? They’re a really married couple, because I live in an awesome country that affords my friends to make the same marital complications that I’m allowed. Elton was still in the closet until Madonna let him out. I mean, wow, ELTON JOHN tried to pass himself off as straight- kind of like Jodi Foster. Imagine.

So what was what’s his name? Yes, war is stupid, my silly bear. That’s why Eminem and Madonna put out powerhouse songs like Square Dance and American Life. So what was your sketch, honey? Oh, right- Madonna doesn’t do her own accounts and she should have dissed Eminem for saying ‘fag’ instead of giving torch to free speech.

Since when do we only hear what we want to hear? How little can we then know about human nature and behaviour? Besides, Georgia you’re a big girl now. You’re allowed to walk on the streets with those eyebrows without getting killed.

Here’s the deal: whatever our special subgroup, whatever our unique identity markers, we’re going to have to endure some blatantly irritating stories and insinuations, but we also get to tell ours. We MUST fight to keep free speech, not fight to censor the speech of someone we don’t like. It riles me up how much we take for granted: it wasn’t too long ago that I could not vote because of my pretty little head. I don’t have to be married or live as a man in order to paint. I might hear “bitch!” as I walk down the street. Bring it on. But don’t send me to a country where I would go to jail for showing my ankles. Come on, George, you should be going up to the guy and asking if he wants to talk about it, for crying out loud. Do you think there are ghetto kids home in from the streets, crying because Tupac said nigger?

The thing is, ladies, we need Madonna to remind us, like the great Mother that she is to all, that though gay music is indeed among her inspirations, the rest of the world is still breeder. And in that world is also eroticism, and oppression, and sorrow, and beauty, and those worlds must also tell their stories. I’m very happy to be among the shiniest gems in this city, but at some point I am also one of those fine breeder specimens (with a twist, of course!) with unique needs and stories of my own.

The point is, Georgie Girl, Eminem and Madonna are both a zillion trillion kabatetrillion times more spectacular, creative, talented, smart, and more adept at perceiving the world around them than you will ever be. Yeah, it was a blow to me as well, and I just had to accept that I will never be as celebrated as Madonna! And as soon as I understood that we have to have teachers, the easier it got for me to be humble. What could we learn if we were at the top of our game? Even Madonna learns, gleans, muses over and mulls. She knows she is not the only player in showbiz, even if she is the Lady Messiah.

Besides, if I were relegated to a life of nothing but the Pet Shop Boys and Erasure, I’d shoot myself in the eye. Don’t get me wrong, I believe the Pet Shop Boys are underrated and love their glossy, detached sardonicism. And Erasure is so happy and angelic, a true flame of positive energy making. But once in a while I’m going to have to mate. And when that happens, it’s either smoldering with Nina Simone’s blues, or Led Zeppelin maxed up on volume, or, well, Madonna’s Bedtime Stories.

I knew Moby was smart enough to come around, and that he’d come to agree to disagree and offer his respect. I’m not saying you have to love Eminem just because I suddenly do. I was very much of that mindset that I couldn’t tolerate the word ‘bitch’ and hence, I missed out on a lot. Then I figured it out. I do not have to endorse a certain headset toward any group just because I am capable of listening to elements of those groups through their cultural markers like music, film, art. But I sure as hell have to give props where props are due, and allow you space and audience to say your piece, so that I can also have mine.

Sigh- the last man I seriously considered running away with, the rippling army brat slash firefighter- expressed some surprise that someone of my awesome intellectual fortitude would give a flying flick about what Paris was wearing and whether Eminem’s 20 year relationship with his foster sister/wife was going to last.

Well, I wasn’t going to go anywhere if I wasn’t allowed to read my magazines! Most people are a little embarrassed about their celebrity fixations, perhaps guilty because they cannot name a dozen Nobel or Pulitzer winners. But I’m not ashamed. Guerrilla scholar and intelligence of the world, Camille Paglia, is also very candid about her worship of various icons, including Madonna.

By following the triumphs and tragedies of our stage and screen, we are merely re-enacting the great loves and the great feuds of the gods. Like Dionysus and Isis and Ganesh and Pan, like Medusa and Imanja and Thor- our pantheon is rife with vanities, insanities, jealousies, scandals, affairs, murders, adventures, broken hearts. Human beings have a profound need to deduce their world through the scandalous sagas of the gods and goddesses.

Ancient or modern, we do now and always will weave our stories within theirs. Moby and Eminem are just classical archetypes, finding their places after a dramatic rift. The escapades and sagas of the immortals are exactly the theatres we’re re-enacting. Academics can snivel at me, and turn into their soulless diagrams of the epoch of Horus or Tristan and Isolde.

But we live our life in archetypes, and today’s paparazzi zeitgeist is no exception.

November 2007
Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
www.literaryaddict.wordpress.com
www.thegirlcanwrite.wordpress.com
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Zoe’s Christmas Carol

I always fall for the bad boys, much to the chagrin of family and friends. Whenever it happens, they bite their lip and think, here we go again. Every since John Bender mesmerized me during The Breakfast Club’s detention, my heart has belonged to the underdog, the prisoner, the roughneck with the heart of gold. But I’m not alone, of course- many ladies of much higher stature than I can hope to attain love the bad boy, too, from Danielle Steel to Lady Diana. Even Grace leaves Will briefly to date a prisoner who melts her heart.

Well, thank God it wasn’t the Don Jail this time where I fell in love. Leo was in a different kind of prison, not far down the street, at the Toronto Humane Society. Quite possibly the ugliest of all the cats there awaiting a home, he had my heart instantly. Scruffy and ripped up, this wild thing was not laying contentedly inside his litter box like the others. He was desperate to get out of the cage, and his distress was palpable. Just as I was considering letting this home wrecker wreak havoc in the life of my three once-orphaned pampered felines, Mr. Once-Were-Warriors looked me straight in the eye through a menacing hiss. That’s when I saw he was missing an eye. A wave or revulsion went through me, as if he was a living piece of taxidermy. The concave dent of the face where an eye should have been looked sore and probably was, once, and I wanted to take the pain poor Cyclops had living in those alleys and give him a place of fluffy towels and endless tins of tuna.

But alas, half my life is already spent changing the litter box and looking after Bert’s lesion-producing skin condition and cleaning cat hair out of my keyboard. I can’t have another cat, and certainly not a boy of this ilk, one whose brute appeal will be short lived. Leo, however, would be great for a garage mechanic with a grouchy disposition, slinking around tools and catching mice. He’d be fine for a lonely old lady with a garden, who is also half blind, and just hopes for some porch companionship and wants to scare the neighbourhood rottweilers away.

I wasn’t here to adopt, anyhow. It was my friend Miss Mel who decided to expand her family by rescuing an adult cat in need. For 13 years, it was her and her own Leo, a cheery, loyal redhead of a dog, nothing like the cantankerous old cat I fell for. Leo’s getting on in years and Mel thought he would relish the company of a friendly and comedic cat, a pal he could tell jokes with and wile away the late afternoon hours in the sunny window. After quickly perusing the endless cages of cats, she decided to adopt 32 of them, but I told her the legal limit is six. I’m not entirely sure on that figure- it may be a by-law I read once and now quote with feigned authority. Regardless, you have to pick just one, I told her.

It was a hard decision- each abandoned kitty, whether cheery and personable or aloof and catty, had its charms. The needier ones pulled our heartstrings, but Mel had to eliminate from the selection any with major diseases. While willing to take on any necessary vet bills, she’s just not equipped to fund more serious and known disabilities. There are many cats with feline AIDS- please consider adopting one if you do not own other pets and can afford some extra care. Mel also eliminated the cutesy kittens: reasoning that they are more easily adoptable, and that she’d like to rescue an older cat as companion to her older dog.

The happy ending for Ned is just wonderful. He’s a bumpy looking orange and white boy who didn’t even go haywire upon entering his new apartment. He immediately let Leo the Dog know who would rule the roost from here on in, and promptly lay down on the couch in a little ball after eating, posing for the photographs of the new addition. One happy ending.

But this story is not really about Ned and how lucky he was. It’s about the other Leo who got left behind, and Ned’s next-door cellmate. It’s about Little Elvis, whom we almost chose, and the tiny little black and white girl with the crazy long hair on her paws. It’s about the giant grey and white feller with the swollen face and difficult breathing, and the sassy little bundle of orange stripes who purred so loud we could hear her over the din of mewing beasts down the row. The story is this: FIX YOUR BLOODY PETS. The story is this: DON’T LET YOUR PET WANDER AROUND IMPREGNATING OTHER PETS.

The Toronto Humane Society takes in nearly ten thousand pets every year. Most are cats and dogs, but they also have adoption programs for birds and reptiles! They care for wild animals if injured, and return them to their habitat, if appropriate. Only a very small percentage- usually less than 15%- of animals are put out of their misery. “We will only euthanise an animal that is severely ill – with no chance of recovery – or extremely aggressive with people and other animals. We never euthanise animals based on space constraints or because the animal has been here too long,” they state online.

The Humane Society began in the late 1800s in defense of children and animals. In February 1887, a fellow named John Kelso presented some ideas to the Canadian Institute about rescuing children from abusive homes and workhorses from inhumane conditions. The term Humane Society was chosen to be broad enough to encourage humane treatment of all living beings. Children’s Aid societies and other philanthropies proceeded, and the Humane Society eventually became the animal rescue and care we know of today.

So what can you do? And why should you, when children are starving and soldiers are missing limbs? Well, my friend, if you are buying artificial legs for soldiers, land mine victims, and other amputees, and you are funding food and medicine for Darfur refugees, you are exempt from Toronto’s pet problem: unless, of course, your pet is not neutered. Then get he to a neuteree!

If you are not yet sharing your savings with Haitian hospitals, homeless Vancouver addicts, or AIDS orphans at home or afar, then please help Leo, Ned, and Fido this year. Like me, you may not be in a position to adopt, but you can still help. Here’s how:

FIRST THINGS FIRST. Spay your pet. You can wax philosophical over the morality of whether your pet can consent to a monk’s life if and when you can afford to pay the vet bills, food bills, and housing for each and every stray animal in the world. Until then, shut up and head to the cutting board.

SECOND THINGS FIRST. As an act of charity, and animal defense, pay for your neighbour/friend/wayward brother to neuter his or her pet. Some annoying friends do not neuter. Some loving homes took an orphan and share their food but do not have an extra cent to neuter. Some are irresponsible and should be neutered themselves until they are capable of seeing the need. That’s for the Big Guy to sort out. But you can help by taking matters into your own hands.

Adopt a pet. If you are flush, take one of the pets who need more medical attention. Adopt an older pet. Adopt an older pet for an old lady friend you have (make sure it’s fine with her first!) Let your Auntie look after the pet she can’t afford but would love, and you pay the vet bills and food. This way, even if you can’t have a pet, due to allergies or lifestyle or whatever, you can help a pet and a human at the same time. Many shut-ins would love some companionship but can’t afford to adopt. Help them.

If you can’t adopt because you are moving to Taiwan to teach English next year, you can FOSTER PARENT. Through the humane society, you can temporarily provide love and shelter. This is hard on the heart when you fall in love with a pet, and it is heroic.

You can’t adopt because you have six pets already, or because you work long hours and your condo is too small for a dog. Fair enough. You can DONATE money to the humane society. Why not give up that silvery holiday blouse and donate the money, which will help neuter, feed, or provide medical care or shelter to all kinds of creatures? Stay in and have rum and eggnog at home for one party. Send over what you save on fancy martinis and greedier party splurges- you know I’m talking about that exorbitantly-priced baggie that you don’t effing need. Then you’ll feel extra festive at the next party, and really enjoy it instead of pretending to.

Don’t know what to get those nieces and nephews who are drowning in junk? Give the gift of philanthropy. You can make a donation in their name, and commit to working with them over the next year on a schedule and budget that they can contribute to. Kids love critters, and you can give your time by taking them down to see the unloved cats and dogs. This will help them love and care for their own pets more responsibly, and be eager to help share their allowance for a good cause.

Finally, you can donate IN MEMORY of a loved one who has died. Perhaps Uncle Frank was a real dog lover before that fateful snowy night when he drove over a bridge. Your beloved daughter loved animals before she tragically developed leukemia. Donating in memory of an animal lover is a wonderful way to keep their warmth with us, and to do something about the things we can change. We can’t bring our loved one back. But we can pay it forward.

Over Thanksgiving when my beautiful sister Zoë Nickerson tragically passed away, I wanted to bring her back so badly that I’ve been sick ever since. I dreamed of being a millionaire and setting up the Zoë Nickerson Centre for Fibromyalgia Research or any elaborate, outlandish project that would bring her spirit back to earth where I think it belongs, though perhaps Zoë or God don’t agree. I can’t do any of that, and it was killing me. But yesterday as I fell madly in love with a cat with one eye, I thought of Zoë, who had a similar penchant for heartbreaking hotties. That said, the love of her life was a giant boxer named Eva who thought she was a cat, and would climb accordingly onto your lap, though she weighed more than you do. This year, for Eva, I’m donating a day’s wages to the Toronto Humane Society in memory of Zoë Nickerson.

We can’t change the world, not really. The mittens I’m taking to the mitten tree at church will keep one kid’s hands warm this winter, but will not solve the hunger and homelessness of the millions. One cause seems like it’s not even worth bothering for- why build a house for someone when another flood is coming? Why give mittens when some kids need a new liver? Why help refugees when another war is coming? Why visit a lonely old lady when the old folks’ homes are busting at the seams? Why bother donating to cancer research when diabetes and depression take the lives of millions? Why advocate against violence or for mental health patients or against torture in Slovenia or for local food drives or against carbon emissions when there are more than six billion people clamouring for some need?

Because God commanded it. Because you cannot change the world but you can most certainly provide one child with mittens or one Fido with dinner.

Because you can, that’s why.

www.thegirlcanwrite.net