There's an old screen door that I'm thinking of; solid wood until about halfway down, chipped green paint with a white border surrounding the transparent screen. It's the colour scheme of my childhood. I love the sound of that screen door. It slams into itself so violently and suddenly only to wind gently closed behind me; that perfectly slow squeak letting me know the world is outside and I am not.

I visit the ritualistic memory of opening and closing this door far more than I ever did in real life. I often wonder how it's possible that a moment can be so informative years later and so null at the time of action. In reality, this door wasn't walked through nearly as frequently as many of the others that opened and closed on my childhood, though for some reason it seems to have a certain set of extensively pleasant sensations attached to it.

There was a door knocker, shaped like a red wood pecker,to the right of the door and an faded pink plastic hummingbird feeder to the left. The little, yellow plastic flowers that drew the beautiful birds' attention never faded. I used to give the woodpecker a quick peck before entering, and without fail my first sight upon entering the old, linoleum floored cottage was a tub of Cool Whip. It was so exotic to me. My grandmother didn't use Cool Whip, but my cousin's grandmother certainly did. Cool Whip on berries, Cool Whip on graham crackers and frozen Cool Whip instead of ice cream. My Great Aunt Lucille had endless different recipes surrounding her favourite product, each one more delicious than the last.

There's a distinct difference between my cousin's grandmother's house and my own grandmother's house. My grandmother's house was as welcome as my own, with an added novelty of impending spoils. Physical familiarity abounds in memories of my Grandmother's house, but entering Aunt Lucille's cottage was always filled with a particular amount of excited trepidation. I was always welcome, but hers were not a set of legs I would cling to in the supermarket in the absence of my mother's.

So dutifully, like a child who has been sent to finishing school, I would stand just inside the frame of the sprung screen door, listen for the familiar squeak behind me and wait for the invitation to sit down. those steel and leather chairs that were so iconic of her time, seemed like a throne to me and the rest of my cousins. If you caught Aunt Lucille alone, you'd have the privilege of parking your too small bottom on that so plush seat. It was almost as good as the impending treat. Craning around to see what she was busying herself with at the sink, I would sheepishly accept her offer of a 'snack, dear?' And so would begin what I now recognise as an easy to anticipate and very welcome exchange between my dear Aunt Lucille and my then smaller, barefoot self.

The Cool Whip and berries would be placed in front of me, teaspoon beside the bowl. Her hand would light my shoulder briefly and then she'd be sitting next to me, chin on hand, smiling. "The worries of the world today, my wee Columbus?" she'd ask. And more often than not, I'd detail her, mouth full of fresh blueberries and that heavenly kraft product, of the most recent adventures I'd tagged along on. The snack was not self-replenishing, nor was it particularly heavy on in portion, but I always took my time with it, listening for the low whir of the hummingbird's wings or the too familiar smell of Uncle Eph's afternoon cigar. When my bowl was empty, she'd uncross her legs, smooth her skirt and look at her hands. "Well I just don't know how I'd pass the time without you," she'd say. And to be honest, I truly believed her.

Years later, I now know that the Cool Whip visit to Aunt Lucille's was of course not a unique experience, though that certainly does not diminish its formative importance. Today, when we speak of our glamorous and ever-domesticated Aunt Lucille, all 23 of us are immediately reminded of the quiet, shaded summer afternoons spent in her kitchen. Eating Cool Whip and solving the mysteries of the world.

Magnolia

I saw a blossoming Magnolia tree just the other day when I was on the bus. I had this urge to write about it, but only got this far...

My parents had a magnolia tree, the kind that stretched up and above the other trees. When I held the petals in the palm of my hand, they’d reach from the tip of my middle finger down to the base of my palm, the sides ballooning out like a moon that couldn’t reach it’s full symmetry. In the spring the tree would shed it’s blossoms and they’d litter the red, cracked bricks. Sometimes when I’d come home at 2:30 in the morning, the rolling bricks would heave under my feet, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was a red sea I was navigating, or just my parents front drive way. The petals became slippery underfoot. The night dew mixed with the plump petals were like a death-trap to anyone who had impaired judgement, and even those who didn’t were often caught off guard with a sudden need to regain balance after having trod on one of the fallen beauties. They were dangerous, but my god they were beautiful.

Home is where the heart is..?

It's tough, being blessed. Having so many things at your disposal you simply don't know what to do with them. Too many clothes, too many accessories, too many boys, too many friends. But what about when you have too many homes? Impossible? Nope. TCameron always said that I was a citizen of the world. She's not far off... I was born in St Louis Park, Minneapolis, Minnesota. I moved to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada when I was 19 months old and at 8 years and 6 months I followed my Old Man's dollar honing skills yet again and wound up in The Land Down Under, Melbourne, Australia. I've lived there for 11 years and this year is the first time I've solidly considered it 'home'. Oh, I also posess a New Zealand passport. Go figure.

So what made me turn around and decide that Oz was home? Good question, I've been asking myself the same thing since my arrival in Winnipeg, 4 days ago. Usually I'm struck with a nostaligia that runs so deep I have to take a load off my feet. But this year, it took me 4 days before I wanted to walk the old haunts, and explore my childhood stomping grounds. Granted this morning, when I did finally hit the pavement in search of memories, I was welcomed by 2 hours of self indulgent smiling. But even still, I feel like a visitor here.

My family are here, my memories are here and if I wanted to get all yogi on you, I'd tell you that this is where my soul comes to rest. This place, with the sprawling front lawns that are greener than a hippy's thumb, is where I am most at ease. Then why isn't it home? Recently, just before my departure and our separation, I said to a special boy 'I am pretty excited to go home'. He frowned, and furrowing his brow said, 'You can't go home. You can go back, but home is wherever I am.' Did the twenty-something-year-old have a bit of wisdom in his whinge? I think maybe he did. Come July 15 he'll be in this haven with me, and I daresay my sense of 'home' will be restored.

But until then, I guess my home is a roaming one, and is most definitely where the heart is.

Excerpt

People always paint their first memories as smiles; parents tell children their first word was something cheerful, something bright, like the word ‘truck’. Usually the memory is punctuated with enthusiasm.. ‘truck! You would say, truck!’. I have two memories from my very early childhood, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure which came first. They’re both alarmingly clear. In one, I am in TCameron’s arms at the front door of a brown house with brown trim. It’s overcast, and the door is opened by a heavy set woman in jeans and a white flannelette shirt. This woman isn’t fat or anything, she’s just heavy set, you know? Big boned, as my grandma would say. There was no other way to put it, this woman was a big person. Anyway, she smelt like smoke and so did the house she was standing in. My mother was wearing a trench coat and her hair was down. There was a tortoiseshell clip in her hair that matched the buttons on her coat. She began to hand me over to this woman, who was meant to take care of me for the day, I remember understanding that. But I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want my mother to drop me off in the dank, smoky house, where the lighting felt like a shitty old diner. I wanted to stay with my mother. So I was screaming and crying and clawing at the tortoise shell buttons on my mother’s trench coat, and I remember crying, like heavy crying; those big old baby alligator tears falling down my cheeks. And just as one dropped onto my mother’s coat, it started to rain. The big stuff, cats and dogs, you know? And before I knew it, the smoking lady had me in her arms and didn’t say a thing, just took me into the kitchen and plonked me down in the booth that sat around her kitchen table. There were two other kids there, a boy and a girl. The girl gave me some of the shitty home made play dough that was in front of her, and the boy gave me some of his apple juice. Eventually I forgot my mother and I stopped crying. I think I was about 2 years old.

I have these moments, you know? These crazy moments of clarity where I can breathe so freely, because I realize my insignificance in the grand scheme of things. Usually these moments rock my world, like righteously. I cant help but smile and sometimes I even laugh. Like today. I was driving home from the beach, and the grass outside my window was so green, and my Wayfarers made the sky look the most perfect blue and my legs were brown and my fingers had all the right rings on them. Good music was playing and I was hit by a moment of absolute certainty. It was almost as if my confidence was concentrated for 37.5 seconds, you know? I could have done anything in that moment. It’s not like I was superhuman or anything, it was just a moment of pure confidence; everything would work out. Like I said, these moments rock my world… righteously.

 

Numero Uno

I like the feeling of no one bothering me; of saying things out loud and then laughing a short moment later, knowing no one can hear. I like that feeling of walking along in a crowd, headphones in, wondering what people are thinking of me. I like that I do my best thinking on the toilet, or in the shower, that I talk to myself and that every so often I laugh openly at my own joke on public transport. Obviously I like spending time on my own.. So shoot me! 

It's easy to go along with social obligations, attending this dinner and organizing that coffee date. But I'll share a bit of the ol' KCameron's secret guide book to staving off the W.M.'s... Just Say No. Seriously, who the hell wants to be busy every night of the week? (I swear to God, if you've just raised your hand...) Granted that some people 'are just social butterflies' ... but honestly? I would rather die than not have my down time. That's right, I would die. I would just die, (hyperbole intended).

 

Getting caught up in social obligation is one of the most deadly traps around our socially driven, driveling society. You can't say no to one dinner date if you've said yes to another, because God forbid Susie might hear you broke bread with Jackson instead of her... Sound familiar? That's because everyone today thinks that sharing time between friends is what you're supposed to do with evenings after work and or study. Wrong. Incorrect. Not true. What you're meant to do is go home, chuck on the God damn relaxing Norah Jones (don't kid yourself, we all love her) and just breathe easy for a moment or two. And after a glass of wine, or maybe three or four, figure out who you want to have a yarn with and do exactly that!

Trust me, if I'd rather go bra shopping and pick up a Merlot that just happened to be on special, instead of joining a gaggle of girls for dinner, I will do exactly that. And I'll tell them, too. Sometimes the best thing to say when the dreaded social obligation comes up is to tell the truth. 'No thanks, I don't want to.' 

Take a little time for Numero Uno. After all, we all need a little TLC from the quiet voice within. 

Wouldn't it be nice, to be True Blue?

True Blue, One and Only, Right as Rain, Sure as Sally. It always seems to me like the people who have it all figured out, are the people who can successfully apply these catch phrases to their lives. My Mother once said with an almost too wistful look on her face 'it's nice to be true blue, isn't it?' .... Sorry Mother, wouldn't know. But mind you, I wouldn't have picked the ol' TCameron for much of a true blue gal herself.

In a world that is constantly changing and rearranging, the only thing I seem to be certain of is uncertainty. There is no dappled, discredited unknown in my eyes. The only thing I know is the fact that I am AOK with pulling a blank slate. Seasons come and go, interests pass and fade away, talents get ignored and somewhere along the way relationships get built and fall by the wayside. Cynic? Who, me? Until recently I would have pegged myself as the disdainfully sober old man who only raised his head when he heard someone bitching and moaning about the old ball and chain. 'Relationships? Co-dependency? HA.' I would have said, had you asked me this time last year. But it's that time this year, and everyone knows that the Winter Messes are just around the corner. Who's to say that the Winter Messes can't be greeted with a good old case of the Winter Warms? A few couch cuddles. A couple hand brushes here and there, (God forbid I actually hold the thing.) Maybe this season it's time to greet the old with the new, and find something slightly more reasoned... 

Until I know for certain, I'll be calling myself Pallid Blue. Congratulations, Mother. It certainly is a step up from Charcoal Grey.

Lullaby

Eyelids lull,

Lashes soft as pussy willows.

 

Heart as fervent as it is certain

This is life.

This is purpose.

 

Wild brothers,

I, my rebel’s keep.

Winter Messes

Winter Messes, that's what I call them. The times where the sky is dark and the clothing is clinging and all you want to do is sit with a 3/4 full latte and a cigarette and have a royal bitch. About life. About the world. Depending on the trending topics on twitter, maybe CNN's latest grab at global warming.. or oh, I'm sorry, 'climate change'.

Winter messes, everyone knows them, and everyone becomes them. But come Spring, Summer and the early months of Autumn, I find myself looking back on the Winter Messes with some sort of sordid fondness. It wasn't so bad, sitting in the reclusive cafe with my best friend discussing the ins and outs of our lives. And the imagined community that we experienced between the first sip of the latte and the last drag of the cigarette seemed more comfortable than any relationship I had previously experienced. Things get messy, and I get messier. But at the end of the warmer months, I find myself begging back that messy haired, slightly sordid gal that darts through the darker months like they're back streets from her home town... Sans cigarette, of course. 

The Constant Student

When the sky is that color, we sit.

And old men do not deter the purity of our exchange.

Long black and flat white;

We match.

You over there and me over here.

Spinning, I grin, and from what I can see

You’re lost and found.

Gloria!

Exelcis!

Deo!

And there I am,

Learning everything.