After Life

Deborah Clague May 1, 2019

On Saturday night, I can normally be found on my couch, in my velvet pyjama bottoms and faded Gudetama t-shirt, using my partner’s chest as a makeshift pillow as we watch nature documentaries on Netflix. The cocoon of our living room offering the solace craved by two introverts after a hectic week. A recent switch in our predictability though—at my unknowing behest—brought this splendour state to a sudden halt as I was confronted with memories that I’ve tried to keep at bay.

It was a simple change. Watching a new program listed in my recommendations list that was written, directed and starring one of my favourite comedians, Ricky Gervais. I assumed it was a comedy, and, at times, it is but ‘After Life’ is moreso an unflinching, uncomfortable, honest portrayal of grief and how it leaves those left behind to grapple uncharted emotions after losing a loved one. As we watched it on this particular Saturday night, I tried my hardest to hide the tears streaming down my face. To somehow cloak how relatable what I saw on screen was to my own reality. My partner knows … but I’ve always felt that until loss this deep happens to one personally, you don’t really understand. His parents are alive and healthy. It’s been five years since my father and best friend passed away in a matter of months after an unexpected terminal cancer diagnosis. And it’s been five years since my mother was hurled into a state of loneliness and depression that I, as an only child, have made my main duty in life to offset. It’s been a lot to shoulder and I feel the weight of it every day.

A scene in episode three really hit a nerve. In it, the main character reflects upon memories of the wife he lost while at one of their favourite places, the beach. The contrast between the love and laughter of the past with the sorrow and sadness of the present was incredibly well-acted. It made me ponder how I would feel, how I might viscerally react, during an upcoming trip to a place my father and I shared so many beautiful memories including our last adventure together just two months before he passed.

For in one week, I would be flying to Paris. It is a place forever intertwined with my own life story. A city that has provided inspiration, enchantment and hope (in addition to maternal family lineage).

I had no idea what this chapter would bring.

But I knew his ghost would be present.

Intertwined locks for both my father and I placed on Pont de l’Archevêché, near Notre-Dame Cathedral visible in background, in 2014 (©Deborah Clague).

Whitney

Deborah Clague February 16, 2019

I grew up in a home in which music provided a near-constant soundtrack to my life. This was thanks to my mother, who grew up during the The Beatles reign and found such enlightenment in the early years of rock-and-roll, in contrast, perhaps defiance, to her strict Catholic upbringing, that she even bestowed me with the name of her favourite song. For her, music was like an aural vitamin; something to take in every day for increased wellbeing. Thus, as a child, the radio was always playing and I quickly adopted the habit—or perhaps it is better worded as “addiction”—of also taking time to appreciate the symphony of sound from the era.

While we didn’t have an extended cable package that included MTV or Much Music (I may have been the only Western kid without this), there was plenty of alternative music programming such as American Bandstand and Solid Gold (!!!) that allowed me a visual glimpse into the voices I heard every day. I was always riveted to the television when they aired. Pop and rock stars held my interest so much more than those made famous from film. The fashion, the attitude, the rebellion all appealed to me even though I was too young to fully understand why (or realize that it was as much theatre and marketing as any movie).

One of the first music videos I recall seeing was “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” by Whitney Houston. Childhood-me, just getting over the wonder of Disney, was completely mesmerized. Even at that age, I could recognize that the voice I was hearing was magical. I also thought the singer was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Whitney, partnered with Michael Jackson, are the musicians who first gave my soul life as a kid. This evolved into becoming a fan of Janet Jackson, Madonna and then, as a teen, Stevie Nicks and Courtney Love, which shows how life’s trajectory may never follow a linear pattern. But even as my tastes morphed into acts that were decidedly less parent-friendly, Whitney was still in the background. Her fame and presence in the lives of a generation solidified as “I Will Always Love You” became the defining anthem for all high school slow-dances in the nineties.

One of the more recent memories I have of Whitney’s music tying into a defining moment of my life happened shortly after I bought my first home, a purchase that represented success and stability for me. The rush of emotion I felt at this major achievement—and commitment—swayed between elation and fear. After all, I was a single career woman with no back-up if things fell to shit. As I settled in and started planning improvements to “make it my own”, the music of my childhood seemed to be the most fitting background noise to bridge the span of time from where I was to where I proudly stood now. Singing along (poorly) to Whitney’s greatest hits while painting my walls with a fresh coat of the hue dubbed “candlelight glow” marked this celebration.

I recently watched the documentary “Whitney” which depicted the incredible highs—and tragic, heartbreaking lows—of this, one of the most iconic voices of the twentieth century. I felt a bit numb as the credits started to roll. As though all the personal memories I associated with her and her music growing up could no longer be appreciated after witnessing the darkness that manifested with her fame.

But there’s more to a life than the end.

And we should take that mirror of how someone’s influence defines us, our life and times, and allow it to be their story, their grace and their power.

Bi-Way

Deborah Clague January 10, 2019

It’s hard to remember the Canadian retail landscape of thirty years ago.

It was a world before Amazon and online shopping.

A world in which Wal-Mart ceased to exist but Zellers stood as a reliable, respectable brick-and-mortar to purchase everything from dish soap to dog food to Zeddy (I had one)—everything, that is, but extensive groceries. Traditional supermarkets still had that role.

Malls were more of a destination too; “retail parks”, basically unenclosed shopping centres that force vehicular reliance rather than pedestrian accessibility, were relatively unheard of. Shopping in the eighties/nineties definitely felt more personal.

The closest shopping centre to my childhood home was reflective of the middle class neighbourhood I grew up in. It contained not just a SAAN, not just a Bargain Harolds, not just a Bi-Way —but all three! These Canadian-owned and operated retailers sold a variety of economical, house-brand goods in a condensed space that could be unkempt but always interesting to rummage through. I miss these places … even though there was a stigma attached to them at the time of my life. In high school, the insult “where’d you get your shirt? Bi-Way?” acted as social cull. I remember my father purchased a pair of tan suede booties for me at the store - shoes that I loved - only to be shamed when wearing them to school the next day. In retrospect, rather than lament my family’s perceived socio-economic status, I really should have questioned how the other kids KNEW I even got them there in the first place.

Because we all shopped there, of course.

Heck, I still shop at Giant Tiger which is the closest thing to these retailers today.

Consumers Distributing also formed habit. Perhaps ahead of it’s time, it has since been called “internet shopping before the internet”. Like other retailers that distributed catalogues to every postal code, retailers like Eaton’s (RIP) and Sears (RIP), Consumers Distributing used this method to showcase their goods; unlike other retailers though, their storefront was pretty barebones. Customers would have to manually fill out a form for the item they wished to purchase and have it brought out from storage at the back (often not knowing if the item they coveted was even in stock). There was a Consumer’s Distributing near the supermarket my family shopped at and my mother would occasionally let me pick out a toy that she would pick up while running this errand. My chances of actually bringing it home were 50/50.

In the decades since stores like this became a memory, the neighbourhood I grew up in has also changed. Reflective of its affordability and openness to diversity, businesses catering to the newly landed immigrant population dot the landscape. There’s even a medium-sized Asian grocery store that carries all the obscure junk food I like to pick up when actually traveling there. This local retail evolution is exciting and brings back the personal touch I so covet. One that can’t be found in Wal-Mart or on the internet.

Now if only they’d bring back Zeddy.

This was apparently a popular song to use in commercials in the eighties:

My Favourite Things of the Year

Deborah Clague December 27, 2018

The times, they are a changing. I’ve been delaying this post because I didn’t feel I had much to contribute, having spent most of the year trying to relive moments from a simpler time and immersing myself into visual work rather than the written word. There’s always the need to record for posterity, though. And thus, this is what defined my year.

Song: I’ve gone through my Apple Music playlists for 2018 and realize that most of my aural pleasures for the past year have been pure nostalgia. Contemporary music just hasn’t managed to seize my attention the way icons of the past have. And so, I list the music of Prince as being my favourite of the year. I’ve been rediscovering his catalogue and missing the era when rock stars were truly rock stars.

My current favourite is “Little Red Corvette”, which still sounds fresh today.

Discover & share this Dancing GIF with everyone you know. GIPHY is how you search, share, discover, and create GIFs.

Book: “Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life” by Anne Lamont left the greatest impression on me. I normally leave books I’ve read in my neighbourhood Little Free Library but this is one I needed to keep for reference in the future. The advice and wisdom it imparts feels like an old friend.

Podcast: I feel ashamed it has only been over the past decade that I’ve made the effort to learn about Indigenous cultures and the true impact of colonialism in my homeland of Canada. The education I am receiving now is changing my understanding and viewpoint on a lot of issues that still resonate today and I feel certain studies—such as the one presented in my favourite podcast of the year, Canadaland’s Thunder Bay—should be mandatory for everyone living within our borders. It is a gripping, sobering mirror on a microcosm of society built upon systemic racism.

Inspiration: I am in awe of the amazing work digital artists are creating including Waneella who creates quiet, desolate 8-bit scenes of modern life in Japan.

Food: A roadtrip to the American south-west ignited a love affair with Mexican cuisine that I’ve been experimenting with over the past few months, learning the degree of chilli my palette can take and how nearly everything tastes better with lime. #TacoTuesday has become a regular thing at my place.

Soft and hard shell steak tacos marinated overnight in raspberry chipotle sauce with grilled onion, red pepper, chillis, lettuce, lime-infused sour cream and shredded habanero cracked pepper cheese made by moi.

Internet “thing”: my favourite reaction gif is also steeped in nostalgia (and I really should have heeded its warning to not check why “Mario Kart” was trending in early Fall).

Most used emoji: 😂

Most sound advice I received: “Don't be reckless with other people's hearts, and don't put up with people that are reckless with yours.”

Most memorable moment: Relaxing in my harbour-facing room at Hotel Icon in Hong Kong and being completely mesmerized by the evening architectural light show.

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The view from my bed is seriously amazing and you can expect me to keep reposting it: #wow #hongkong #discoverhongkong #china #travel #solotravel #solofemaletravel #symphonyoflights #milliondollarview #discoverhongkong #girldiscoverers #theworldismyoyster

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The Simple Life

Deborah Clague November 25, 2018

Winter is coming.

Which means I am getting all up in my feelings, nostalgic about the passage of time and currents of change, and trying to capture it all for posterity through the words in this journal. There’s something about the first snowfall, as the flakes fall softly to the ground and blanket the landscape in silence, that leaves one ripe for introspection. It’s almost as though nature is encouraging a pause.

I’ve been in deep thought about my future of late. Especially about how what motivates me now is to re-live moments of my past.

Visiting my mother is the one tether to a familiar reality that I covet to embrace again.

Every time I visit my mother, I am not only catching up on the happenings of my hometown but also seeking solace in the relatively unchanged world of my childhood.

One of the highlights of my most recent visit—beyond being showered with puppy kisses from my much-missed Monty—was simply sitting with my mom every morning, sipping orange pekoe, and playing along to the Price is Right. Pretty much everyone in my generation gets hit with waves of nostalgia as soon as “Come On Down!” is uttered; watching it was a ritual as a kid, especially when at home sick from school. After all these years, most of the games have remained the same. Plinko is the perennial crowd pleaser, but I was always partial to Cliffhangers which I’m happy to report is still in rotation because the theme song is such an ear worm. Throughout our bonding exercise, my mother and I got worked up, cheering for contestants who walked away with cars and trips around the world, and feigning disappointment with those that didn’t know the correct price of a basic toaster.

Banal moments like this may seem like the filler that connects the more pivotal, recorded events of our life, but I’m learning to take more pleasure, more presence, in them. It’s not just watching a game show with my mom; it’s the perfume of love, history and comfort that permeates the room without wont of spoken word. The essence of life is coded in these moments of simplicity.

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life
How'd I get so faithful to my freedom?
A selfish kind of life
When all I ever wanted was the simple things
A simple kind of life

Interstate 15, Part II

Deborah Clague July 26, 2018

I like Montana. I like the mountains and crisp air and postcard panoramas. The first night of our road trip we stayed in its capital, Helena, which has less than 32,000 citizens. This statistic nicely details just how sparse the population is within the state. It's very ... breathable. Outside the natural scenery, the capital is somewhat nondescript in appearance; being two hours delayed from the unexpected detour, we made our way to a wood-fired pizza place and then just retired to our hotel room for the night not feeling like we missed anything. For future trips, I feel Butte would have been a better overnight destination. With snow-capped peaks framing it in the distance and historic architecture steeped in legend, the word "majestic" seems well-suited to describe its beauty.

One can take Interstate 15 all the way from the Canadian border to the Mexican one. It's a nice drive with lots of rest stops, fuel stations and, within Utah at least, numerous billboards reminding people that God is watching and you should atone for your sins.

via GIPHY

Outside of having an ultra-conservative religious base that practices polygamy, I didn't really know anything about Utah. Ignoring the influence of creed and instead seeking enlightenment from mother nature, I was completely in awe of the rock formations in the southern portion of the state which includes a number of protected areas, national and state parks such as the breathtaking Grand Staircase National Monument. Eventually turning east off of Interstate 15, we were in the thick of it while enroute to our next stop: the biggest tourist destination of them all – the Grand Canyon in Arizona.

Highway 89A in particular, a scenic route that runs through a Navaho reservation in Arizona, was the highlight of my entire trip. Driving through it was a showcase of some of America's most iconic landscape; landscape which has featured in many a Hollywood western to represent our storied, brutal history. I half-expected the ghost of John Wayne to manifest on the horizon as we drove this isolated stretch of roadway. Or perhaps hear the distant call of the roadrunner. Meep Meep.

Our adventure-filled day ended on a magical note as we slept in a teepee under a galaxy of visible stars. Living in a city with constant light pollution, this reminder of the scale of the universe (and my place within it) was a cathartic ending to a long, tiring, immensely memorable day.

Start of Highway 89A, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Highway 89A, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Hiking off Highway 89A, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Our accommodation for the night, a teepee in Williams, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Interior of teepee, Williams, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Teepee selfie, Williams, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Also the first BBQ of the season, Williams, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018). — Also the first BBQ of the season, Williams, Arizona (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

❤️

Deborah Clague July 13, 2018

Birthday memories of an amazing man whom I will always hold dearly in my heart. My dad will be forever loved and missed.

My dad in New York City, one of his favourite places (2012 ©Deborah Clague).

Reggie

Deborah Clague June 8, 2018

The first time I met Reggie was on my birthday in 2005. A week prior I had lost my first childhood pet, a border collie named Pepper, and was visiting a local no-kill shelter to spend an hour or so playing and interacting with the dogs as a sort of therapy for dealing with my loss. It was, theoretically, supposed to end there. But of course it didn't. As soon as I saw the little lab-cross in his cage, looking longingly at me with his puppy-dog eyes, seemingly imploring me to rescue him, I simply had to. He found a home and I found a faithful friend that would bring joy and companionship to my life for years to come.

Over time, Reggie became somewhat of a legend in my neighbourhood. He grew into a big dog–just two years ago, he weighed in at 95lbs at the vet–and had an intimidating look about him, exacerbated by a grizzly bear-type hump on his back. This was all a facade though. Black dogs, as studies show, are perceived as being more "aggressive" than other colours of canines. In actuality, Reggie was a big softie. He was a ham who loved attention while out on his walks. We went everywhere together. During this time, I operated a home-based design business and taking him out for his daily strolls became part of my creative process, forcing me from my desk and allowing my mind to flourish with new stimuli. Upon reflection, these moments provided some of my fondest memories. The time I spent with him in virtual solitude on our hikes, admiring the simplicity of nature and complexity of life, instilled a deep appreciation for exploration that I might not otherwise have. As friend, as companion, this animal helped me grow.

I wasn't able to have a large dog in my apartment when I moved cities in 2010 and so my parents took on Reg. My father started calling him "Bone" to the point where people had forgotten his given name (he was named after the Reggie character in Archie comics for his raven black hair). As my father entered retirement, he and "Bone" developed a deep bond that was only broken when my father died from esophageal cancer in 2014. Prior to his passing, he confided in me that the dog had saved his life, jumping on his chest as he lay in bed one morning struggling to breathe. He felt no one would believe it but I did. I, myself, can attest to the strange behaviour of Reg/Bone just a few hours after my father was gone. He knew. Somehow, he knew.

The last time I saw Reggie was in April. I was visiting my mom in Winnipeg and she had some concerns about him. At the time, I felt he appeared okay. His vision and hearing had long been in decline but at the age of thirteen, which is eighty-two in dog years, it was to be expected. And even though he struggled a bit while walking, I felt he was still alert enough that we probably had a few months left. Perhaps Autumn would be the time to make that difficult decision that every pet owner fears.

But Autumn wouldn't come.

Reggie, one of the best good boys on the planet, passed away on May 29. I am very saddened that I didn't get to say goodbye to this wonderful soul that has been a constant presence in my life through a very transitional era. He will forever be loved and hold a place in my heart.

The last photo of Reggie and I, Winnipeg, April 2018.

Hong Kong X

Deborah Clague June 2, 2018

Every morning after waking up, I would open the curtain from the window and flood my room with light from the rising sun. I wanted the view of the city—my impeccable view of Victoria Harbour—to be the first thing I saw. It was a sight that would fill me with motivation and gratitude. And as my trip was nearing its end, I wanted to soak up every minute of it in hopes that the feeling would carry forward long after I left Hong Kong.

Beyond the view, there was something else at the window that elicited wonder from me daily. A bird would often circle around my window, perhaps able to see movement behind the glass and as curious about me as I was about him and his urban adventures.

A bird wouldn't be the only creature that I held silent conversation with.

Visiting Buddhist temples and pausing in the presence of their serenity was a most welcome respite from the constant traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian. Outside, people just stared at the screen of their phone (like most everywhere else, just amplified here amongst 7+ million citizens). While inside, one couldn't help but take stock of their surroundings as the feeling of peace carried over the air with the wisps of incense. Man Mo Temple was a highlight but I also wanted to return to Wong Tai Sin, the "good luck" temple. I wanted my trip to start, and end, there in the hopes that its myth might rub off on me.

On my second visit, I had a strange encounter. One that I should preface with a brief story because I know it's going to sound strange and unbelievable but is not, perhaps, entirely unprecedented. A few years ago, my best friend was on her own spiritual journey and found herself delving into the world of crystals, even attending a conference to learn about their supposed healing power and other mystical properties. One strange experience she shared with me was participating in a breathing exercise circle. As she paced her exhalation, eyes closed and deep in thought, she felt the sensation of someone poking her stomach. Immediately exiting her zen-like state, she darted her eyes to see who it was. And there was no one present. Admittedly, I thought she may have, ahem, also been researching other "natural" ways to seek enlightenment during this period but it turned out to not be the case and she swore by the story.

And now, back to mine.

On my second visit to Wong Tai Sin, I again paid respects at the alters, each representing one of the five geomantic elements—metal, wood, water, fire and earth—and ended by pausing in the Good Wish Garden. It was here that I took a few moments to reflect on my newfound love for the city of Hong Kong, the hardships I've experienced over the past few years and my hope that the future would continue on a path of light ... when I felt a poke. It DISTINCTLY felt like someone's finger poking me near my ribcage. I, like my friend, immediately exited my trance and looked around to see who it was.

But there was no one there.

I looked down at the pond, at the koi swimming around, and for the first time I saw a turtle perched on a rock staring at me.

At Wong Tai Sin, I returned to the same fortune teller I visited ten days prior. On this occasion, he had a line of two women awaiting his seer services. I joined them by sitting patiently on a stool outside his tiny storefront and recollecting back on the futurities he previously shared with me. After involving myself with some dubious characters over the years, that initial inquiry specifically related to my love life. People these days act like love is an archaic concept and feelings don't exist but I am not wired that way. I value honesty, integrity and respect and lament how rare they increasingly seem to be as people treat the emotions of others like commodity to be traded for ego. This toxicity can, unfairly, also taint future relationships as well and while I have met someone who possesses the strong character traits I desire in a partner, I don't want my past to hold any influence on my view of who they actually are.

"They will travel to meet you. You will meet at an event relating to dance."

And so it was written.

My partner is originally from Kerala, India, but has lived in Australia, South Africa and South Korea performing scientific research. I met him three years ago at a salsa dancing class neither he, nor I, was planning to be at. The chemistry was immediate. All night, I noticed him staring at me (and I'm sure he did likewise). When my friend wanted to leave, I implored her to stay just a little bit longer as I felt I wasn't leaving without his number. Too shy to approach him though, I felt I could will it into fruition. Sure enough, a few minutes later he asked me to dance and the rest was history. While we've had our ups-and-downs, our ons-and-offs, we always return to each other as we are best friends.

I waited in line for around thirty minutes and then made the decision to leave. The original fortune I received could have been somewhat vague to anyone, but there was an eerie specificity to my life that gave me hope I already found the answer I was looking for.

The last image of my trip that will forever stay with me is flying over the red lights of a ferris wheel illuminated against the stark countryside of Taiwan down below. Sometimes the perspective you need can only be found at 20,000 feet.

Hong Kong sunrise (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Central district, Hong Kong (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Hong Kong's famous trams, Central district (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Rainy afternoon in the Central district (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Back alleys of Central district (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Walking along the promenade at night, Hong Kong (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Various amulets available for purchase at Wong Tai Sin Temple (you best believe I now own a "get rid of scumbag" amulet) (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

One last selfie from the top of Hotel Icon (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

Hong Kong Part I

Deborah Clague March 5, 2018

Ten years ago, my father and I backpacked around mainland China. It was an experience I had idealized in my head but in actuality wasn't fully prepared for; I was exposed to so many different sights, sounds, flavours, experiences and ideologies that mid-way through, I became overwhelmed and quit. I wanted to go home. To appease me, my father instead booked an extended stay at a nice hotel in Chengdu and we remained stationary as "locals" for awhile. It worked but in the end this cost myself the opportunity for total immersion and understanding of difference. I've taken a new approach with subsequent excursions and now embrace being uncomfortable to a certain extent. The growth I've had in the last ten years is proof of that. For instance, I don't think my partner and I would have made it otherwise—he's a doctorate scientist from Kerala and I'm an artist from the Canadian prairies. It's not just a blending of cultures, but of mindsets. We make it work.

In the decade since that trip, there has been much change in my life. I moved to a new city and transitioned from entrepreneurship to a fulfilling career in education. Added to my family and cut ties to other branches of it. Made lifelong friends and kissed unforgettable loves goodbye. I learned to truly live for the moment but also take time to reflect on (and respect) the past lest it haunt me. And then there was the single most important thing to happen in my life: I lost my father, best friend and perennial travel partner.

In a way, this trip marks a bookend for the period. It is a return to a place that kicked my ass ten years ago. It is an acquiesce for it to kick my ass again, if needed. My father would appreciate this. May he be with me in spirit.

And may the next ten years provide as much adventure and evolution to my life. Let's go.

Me and a friend at the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding (©Deborah Clague, 2007).