I believe we have entered another shallow phase of humanity. The twenty-first century is an incredibly amazing age of technological advancements, yet, at the cost of human intimacy and integrity, it would seem.
Since I am now living in virtual poverty, I do not own a mobile phone of any kind: no iPhone, Blackberry, Ipad, or android device, and my one 'joy toy', my mp3 player was a gift, bought on sale. However, communicating has always been my thing. These days, attempting to communicate almost takes the place of the full-time job I DON'T have. Though, I'm not strictly blaming it on the advent of the electronic gizmo or an increasing reliance on texting and such. The faster life gets the less time people have to spend on details. Rather, the rush of The Race does not promote taking more time out to be thorough. The more work, spousal, and parenting demands, the less time left to nurture our better selves. For sure, these days it is easier to go with the flow, follow the leader - than stand firmly on the ground of one's own deepest held beliefs. It is easier to go through the motions than actually say what we mean, or follow through.
Recent months on Twitter, & Facebook (to a lesser degree, since I don't spend as much time there), has reminded me, and magnified the problem with accepting people & their word at face value. This is a BIG problem for me as I am so vulnerable right now - also, a problem as it is my nature to first believe a new acquaintance, to trust & embrace them.
Eleven years ago I returned to the HRM (Halifax Regional Municipality), in Nova Scotia, Canada - where I was born and raised, and first left at age eighteen. Even as a young child I despised the small-minded ways & 'local-thinking' of the Atlantic, East Coast region of Canada. From what I could see, there always seemed to be culture envy of places like Toronto, New York, London, England and any progressive place usually prefaced by words like 'cosmopolitan', 'metropolis' and the like. The local news broadcasts often seemed to make monsters of the big cities while giving the quiet message: 'This is the better place to be ... better because those crazy big city things don't happen here. We're special.' Well, honestly, I did not buy it then and I still don't. The slow-pace of Atlantic Canada seems a perfect fit for many, but simply has not been a good fit for this acting, singing, writing, drawing, creative person - the once little kid with BIG dreams. I hate it here. I do NOT fit in nor have I ever. I can appreciate the scenic beauty, especially in the warmer seasons, but it JUST IS NOT FOR ME! Having to return here after a reversal of fortune in Toronto, where I had lived for sixteen years was one of the last things I ever wanted to do! Yet, sadly, I had no choice.
In 1999 I was fighting for my life in Toronto in many ways. Having quit a dead-end office job for a small but internationally profiled corporation in the book publishing field maybe two years earlier, finally, I was attempting to make a go of it with my creative gifts, & working for myself. (An earlier job in arts funding had prepared me, up-close, for what to expect in the struggle.) As the '90s were drawing to an end, so too were the golden opportunities that previously had seemed to appear out of nowhere, in some cases, just in time! Leaving the publishing gig was not what seemed to signify the begging of a painful downward spiral, though. It was perhaps, a rental dispute with the property manager of my twenty-first floor, downtown apartment, which happened about a year after leaving the job. "My money situation has changed. Will I be able to pay my rent twice monthly instead of the one bulk sum monthly payments I have made up til now?' This was my question to the young representative of the building's property management office. 'Not a problem,' was the final answer, and the big mistake that would rear its ugly head about one year down the line, was y not getting that in writing. Later on the verbal agreement was denied by the building, I had to fight them, canvass city councilors, & finally, appear before the provincial rental tribunal to speak my piece - all to no avail. I had to move! For some reason, my rent divided in two was non-acceptable now. Eviction notices under my door almost daily from the property management were now a common thing. Having lived through some extremely tough situations in the '80s, the rental tribunal experience of the late '90s still stands out as one of the most awful experiences of my life thus far. Why? It seemed a formality only - a lot of set-up for a very brief, maybe fifteen minutes to state my case and then be basically told my one small voice against the corporate world was one falling on deaf ears. Humiliating! I recall feeling as though I were shrinking before the tribunal, like Fred, when made to feel small in a particular episode of 'The Flintstones'.
Now I had a very short amount of time to secure shared living conditions. Frantically looking through the two major Toronto newspapers resulted in interesting telephone conversations at best, and quick viewings of shady spots with even shadier people who had simply lied about either their accommodations or themselves, or BOTH! My brother had agreed to take what he could of my apartment belongings and put them in storage in the basement of the apartment where he and his wife lived at the entry to Scarborough. Literally, in the eleventh hour, I returned a call I had missed while out. The guy sounded interesting. Too good to be true, but INTERESTING. 'You can come and see the room now, if you want,' he said in what sounded like a slight accent of some sort. Now? Ha! How did I even know there was this huge building, a three-five minute walk from where I was living, if one used the back street and not the main road? With all of my daily walking, that simply was not the direction I went.
So, there I was between 11pm & midnight, hurrying to see this person and his apartment, with daily notices from 'The Sheriff' to remove me from the premises that had been my home, my retreat for four years on my mind. Who knew what lied ahead?
Well, when a tall, incredibly physically fit, Black Trinidadian guy opened the door after much barking from his mutt of a dog, donning nothing but tight white boxer-briefs, I suppose you could guess the rest of the story ... &, sadly, you'd be WRONG!
I suppose I was being tested somehow, but the fitness trainer & chef who seemed genuinely impressed with me and my 'intellect' & spirituality - in one of those moments that seemed like fate, became my roommate only. Mostly it was me and the dog there, as he was often away, working, or at his unseen, older boyfriend's place. I got the bedroom. His bed was behind a divider, a little annex he made on the other side of the kitchen. This apartment was twenty-one floors up too, like the place I had just vacated. Looking back now, I see that my emotional state at the time, quite intense, prevented me from seeing an opportunity for friendship that was there. Also, running into this good(?) guy a couple of years later, it was clear that he REALLY liked me! I had not responded to the signals he was sending out when he shared living quarters ... Uhm. Okay ... Really?!! ('Duh me!' is all I can say. THIS could be a whole OTHER story.)
Living with the motorcycle-driving, complimenting, super-fit, steroid-taking, ab guy & his dog only lasted 2 months though. 'I'm moving into my friends basement apartment,' he told me, and there was maybe the official 'fight to stay alive' beginnings of my late '90s time in Toronto.
Friends had been disappearing since the end of my access to a multitude of books from over thirty different publishers around the world ... free books! 'Would I be able to stay with you for a little while ...?' was ALWAYS met with: ' Sorry, I can't help right now ...' & those whom I had once called 'friends' became 'so called friends'. Those whom I had helped in their tight situations ALL had turned away.
Nobody knows you when you're down and out.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
