Revised Bucket List

While walking home from work the other day, I ran into someone I hadn't seen in a year. Once upon a time she was a neighbour in the first apartment I lived in after moving to Saskatoon. We were quick friends that initially bonded in anger over our slumlord's questionable – often illegal – practices, but then came to realize how similar our upbringing and personalities were ("only children" tend to be a breed apart). 

"Deborah - where have you been?" she asked. "I was literally just thinking about you, wondering what you were up to!"

After telling her about my father's unexpected diagnosis, decline and much too early death, she related her own story of losing her mother. Every emotion, every circumstance I've been going through a new commonality between us.

It's funny how life works.

How just the right people seem to enter one's life at just the right time.

There's more to this existence than simple happenstance. There has to be. Coincidence could not possibly be so perfectly, intricately, wondrously orchestrated. Another friend explained it as such: "our souls all have something to learn in this lifetime. Different people help us achieve it…if we open ourselves to the possibility."

No matter how dark my mood or dour my outlook, I've constantly been reminded that I am not alone. These feelings may hold their own validity but they are finite. Under a rock, around the corner or within the fire lies the resolution the soul seeks, unveiled by both angels and devils alike. 

My main goal right now is to outlive my mother. 

As I'm 34-years-old and she's 65-years-old, this should happen without question. In the grand scheme of things though, the choice isn't entirely within my dominion. At the end of my father's life, he questioned living a frugal, healthy lifestyle only to spend his final days at war with his own body. "Eat the cookies." he told me in regards to denying my sweettooth. "Your grandfather did and he's eighty-five. I didn't and I won't make it past sixty-three." 

There are too many external, unpredictable variables when it comes to choosing longevity. It is a wish, a whet desire, unattainable without luck and perhaps a bit of fate. Therefore, I've set my sights on another, less ambitious, measure of success: quality. 

A revised bucket list. Short. Sweet. Challenging but within reach. These are my revised goals in life:  

 1. Climb Mt. Fuji. Airfare purchased. Hotel booked. Nine months to increase lung capacity. 

2. Complete and publish "248 Days", a book I am writing in honour of my father about living with terminal illness. His story needs to be shared with a bigger audience. I will be his conduit.

3. Take my father's remains to Varanasi, India. He always wanted to visit this place. I will ensure that he does. 

4. Learn how to cook at least one dish. It's embarrassing how unacquainted I am with the kitchen.

5. Stop counting the minutes and savour the days. 

6. Visit the Isle of Mann, birthplace of the Clague surname. 

7. Add one more language to my skill set and be able to speak it fluently. I know beginner's French and am now learning Japanese. I want to be able to speak these without cheat sheets though. 

8. Photograph the Skeleton Coast of Africa. 

9. Move to Paris. 

10. Accept that fate doesn't always immediately present itself as positive. 

Small Town Mall

While in Winnipeg over the summer, I learned that a locale from my youth was slated for demolition. Fort Richmond Plaza was a mall near the University of Manitoba servicing the southern suburbs, including my 'hood St. Norbert. Anchor tenants Safeway and Zellers shared space with retailers as diverse as a a jeweller to a Chicken Delight to several hair salons that doubled as social clubs for the elderly. Most of these businesses moved out long, long ago, leaving a building that was nearly vacant for the better part of a decade.  

Despite south Winnipeg becoming a hotbed of development over the years, Fort Richmond Plaza never changed. It's interior bleak; the mall was perpetually stuck in 1983. This is why I liked it. This is why I'll miss it. Walking through those doors was like entering a time machine back to my childhood. I recall my mother buying me my first Barbie there. In high school, this is where the truancy officer would have found me (if they ever bothered to look). 

Prior to its demolition, a security guard granted me access to photograph the abandoned structure. I hope to continue this "Small Town Mall" series in the future, as these former hubs of commerce disappear from the retail landscape. 

Fort Richmond Plaza right before demolition (©Deborah Clague)

Fort Richmond Plaza right before demolition (©Deborah Clague)

A security guard smokes a cigarette while guarding vacant Fort Richmond Plaza (©Deborah Clague)

A security guard smokes a cigarette while guarding vacant Fort Richmond Plaza (©Deborah Clague)

Empty shelves of a recently closed Safeway  (©Deborah Clague)

Empty shelves of a recently closed Safeway  (©Deborah Clague)

Vacant interior of Fort Richmond Plaza (©Deborah Clague)

Vacant interior of Fort Richmond Plaza (©Deborah Clague)

To view more, click here. 

The Trouble With Dreams

A few weeks ago, I experienced a dream that acutely tapped into dormant senses. It involved my father, again, embracing me, again. As he gave me a big bear hug, my head nuzzled tightly into his neck, the musky odour I associated with him from childhood manifested the air. I woke up immediately believing him to be in the room with me. And that's the trouble with dreams; their denial of reality a reminder of how disquieting life can be in comparison. 

As the date of October 26 nears, I've been thinking about how surreal the annum has been. This date - this godforsaken date of wretched despair - is the first commemoration of the worst year of my life. On this date twelve months ago, I was awakened by Monty gallivanting through my condo after returning from an early morning walk with my father who was in town on one of his monthly visits. As I opened my bedroom door, reaching out to take away a squeak toy and playfully scold the furry beast for disturbing my peace, I heard my father ask "are you up?"

At the time, I thought this was strange. Normally he'd be sitting on my couch watching British comedies on a channel I subscribed to primarily for his entertainment. Conversations would surround the long drive in from Winnipeg and the terrible drivers that plague Saskatchewan roads. As per routine, he'd then inquire what I wanted for breakfast. He always had a McDonalds coffee and fruit-and-fiber muffin. The exact change to purchase such lined up on his dresser the evening prior. "Are you up?" seemed like it had an obvious answer; superfluous small talk that didn't need to happen between two people well familiar with each other's habits. I only had about three seconds to ponder this though. When I looked up at my father's face to respond, I could see tears stream down his cheeks.

The first hit. Wounded. 

Then, through a cracked voice that was barely audible, "I have cancer and I have less than a year to live".

The second hit. Fatal. 

He pulled me close and gave me a bear hug, my head nuzzled tightly into his neck where I could feel his tears stream down his face onto mine. 

My father after his first round of radiation (hair loss at treatment site visible in picture at left)

My father after his first round of radiation (hair loss at treatment site visible in picture at left)

Two nights ago, I dreamt of my father again. I can't remember the full context of the narrative, I only recall his voice and the words of wisdom he was passing on. Mirroring my awakened state, I was depressed. Lost. Seeking deeper meaning and a glimpse of nirvana, even if superficial or fleeting. His response was "don't worry. Go ahead and do it."

I awoke.

Do what? 

This advice can pertain to way too many things going on right now, many of which require more substantial therapy than a well-meaning reminder quoting a Bobby McFerrin song. If he's trying to counsel through my subconscious, my father is going to have to be less vague, I thought to myself as I reached for my iPad at 3:23am. 

If there's an upside to insomnia, it's being forced to glimpse a side of the world that one forgets about during regular business hours. In my case, I read Japanese blogs as these are the only ones routinely updated with new content while my timezone – 15 hours behind Tokyo – is in deep REM. I appreciate the attention to detail that is placed on all facets of the culture from art and design to various social graces. Even something as mundane as drinking a latté has been turned into a magical experience, however superficial and fleeting.  

I've been in the early stages of planning a trip to the country since my father died on July 3. In his final weeks, I promised him I would climb Mt. Fuji on his birthday in 2015. I'm not sure why exactly. I just kinda randomly threw it out there. I think I was looking for a grandiose way to express how special he is to me and that I would never, ever forget it using the date as a way to commemorate this love every year eternal.

I resisted booking a ticket though. Mt. Ontake had just erupted, leaving dozens killed. There are predictions that Fuji may do the same. I'm also in shit shape with no motivation whatsoever to better myself. Wheezing up a mountain for two days would probably kill me if lava and ashes didn't. I decided to check aircanada.com though, to see if there was any fluctuation from the $2300.00 single round-trip ticket price that had been listed. 

There was. A thousand dollar difference actually. 

My father, famous for frugality, may have nudged me at that exact moment to "go ahead and do it". To book that ticket. I did. 

I believe what he was really telling me though was "don't worry. Just live."

My dad with two Harajuku girls in Tokyo (2009).

My dad with two Harajuku girls in Tokyo (2009).

What It Is

There's a stack of books sitting on my living room floor. Mostly art and design-related, with a few on the subject of dealing with grief and belief systems pertaining to the afterlife. They've been there since Spring. I only move them when I vacuum. They get upgraded to my bookshelf once read but this can take awhile. 

I have a serious problem buying books and then letting them sit for months (occasionally, years) before I am fully ready to open their covers and immerse myself into their worlds. It's not for lack of interest but rather an abundance of. When reading a good book, I want the moment to linger. I give weight to every sentence. Life to every metaphor. Imagine how long it takes me to get through a truly great book. This is a truly GREAT book: 

It's not a children's book, but every page is lavishly illustrated. 

It's not a how-to manual, although it does provide ample advice and inspiration. 

It's not something to read; it's something to experience. An exploration of life, the creative process and breaking free from monotony. Lynda Barry is an author, artist, mage. 

Highly recommended; buy "What It Is" here. 

Over the Hills and Far Away

The last time I visited a bar, I was 23. I remember the evening vividly. It wasn't my regular haunt; instead, my friends and I found ourselves at a cheesy club in a cheesy hotel near the edge of Winnipeg's cheesy suburbia. That's a lot of fromage.

We hadn't gone drinking and dancing in ages and it seemed like the default thing to do to temporarily eradicate our adult onset ennui. After paying the cover charge and entering the palm tree laden, faux tropical environment, I was quick to note that we didn't fit in. It wasn't even subtle; the fine line between generation next and whatever marketing catchphrase we were defined by was boldly highlighted through fashion, level of enthusiasm and acceptance of irony. I was one of the oldest individuals there. A remnant of history to these "kids". I imagined the girls were all named Britney and the boys were all named Justin (and I probably wasn't far off). We left after 30 minutes.

I'm sure there were bars where everybody would know my name, but I never bothered to seek them out. At 23, I retired from the scene to become a spinster. 

I was too old for this shit. 

On Saturday evening, I emerged from retirement and agreed to hit up a local bar. My decision based on the notice that a Led Zeppelin cover band would be playing. I wasn't particularly enamoured of spending my evening in a confined space surrounded by drunk riff-raff, but I could at least appreciate a good 70s Gibson riff.

The joint – a total dive in an otherwise trendy, gentrified neighbourhood – held a diverse crowd ranging from those who were around to purchase Led Zeppelin IV on eight-track to millennials who may have never even heard of that recording method. I surveyed the landscape feeling like a wallflower narrator in a National Geographic special: observe as the inebriated cougars perform a mating dance, bosom and buttocks on prominent display in the hopes of securing a mate; cautiously heed the cries of the dudes in full biker regalia as they mark their territory with spilt lager. I was the only one there without a visible tattoo.

This place is beer.

I am wine.

And I have aged. 

I can't help feel that no matter where I am, I'd rather be somewhere else. At 23, and now a decade later.

We departed after the second set, partially deaf and craving midnight McDonalds. Upon exiting, I stepped over a puddle of vomit and thought to myself "I am too fuckin' old for this shit." 

Only One Way to Advertise Water

Famous actress? Check.

Famous actress wearing a white tank-top paired with blue jeans? Check. 

Famous actress wearing a white tank-top paired with blue jeans while staring joyfully up at the sky? Check. 

There must only be one way to advertise water (from the September 2014 issue of InStyle Magazine): 


A Still Life

The other day while strolling with Monty along our regular noon-hour route, a vehicle caught my eye. For starters, it was a jalopy, the likes of which aren't really seen in transit anymore. But more importantly, it was the make of car: a Mercury Zephyr. Had never heard of this type of vehicle prior to seeing it stationed on 4th Avenue, the midday autumn sun illuminating its ubiquitous rust in spectacular fashion.

As I studied its long, bulky, aesthetically displeasing exterior, I was immediately brought back to art school. 

"Deborah Clack...Deborah Clack, are you here?"

"Uhm, it's pronounced Clague"

"Clague. Noted…"

Zephyr.

It was the first time this word was introduced to my vocabulary but I didn't let on, choosing instead to feign intellect until I could get to the library and research its meaning. I suspected most of the class would do the same. I also suspected that my instructor used it as part of this introductory Basics of Form, Level I assignment to showcase their own linguistic prowess and intellectual hierarchy over the group of young and inexperienced artsy-fartsy misfits laid out before him. I was eighteen, heading into my third week of classes, and the only insight into creating great art and design I felt I had acquired from Mr. White was how to dress: his all-black attire fitting the stereotype of how someone in the field should present themselves. There was little instruction. Little constructive criticism and feedback. It felt like we were going through the process of being judged fit for inclusion into the magical world of salaried artistic expression, rather than obtaining an actual education.

Welcome to college, I thought to myself.

At least I was learning what a zephyr was. 

Zephyr (noun): a very slight or gentle wind. 

"Deborah Clog...Deborah Clog, are you here?"

"It's Clague, actually. Deborah Clague. Present." 

"Clague" he lowered his voice and wrote something on his notepad. "Noted."

The most important things you will learn in college do not come from instructors, they come from fellow students. These are the people possessing the unbridled passion and vision that will revolutionize the future; their enthusiasm and daring not (yet) waned by post-secondary politics or ego. I realized this early on, tuning out from listening to Mr. White ad-lib lectures relating to former glories and choosing instead to study the work of my peers. We listened intently to each other as processes were described and rationales explained. We mutually fed off each other's earnest ambitions creating a culture of creativity that is often elusive outside of this environment. We wore colour. 

I'm not sure at what point in life one loses this spark.

I worked on the assignment – a visual interpretation of a word using only typography – for days. My sketchbook containing numerous executions, both serif and sans, that eventually evolved into something I felt showcased the subdued puissance of a zephyr. It was the first time I used gouache and I was mesmerized by its opaque velvety texture. It's not a forgiving medium, but trial-and-error is part of the process. There would be a lot of this in college. There's even more in real life. Upon completion, I was proud of my work. 

After nervously presenting the poster I painstakingly crafted, I waited for feedback from my instructor.

All I got was a look that could best be described as a blank stare. And an eventual "D". 

"Deborah Clay-goo…Deborah Clay-goo, are you here?"

"Present".