Winter City

I’m a four-season girl. I’ve grown up in a climate that had four distinct seasons and I definitely appreciate each of them, including winter. A recent polar vortex caused temperatures where I live to dip below -42 degrees Celsius (-55 degrees Celsius with the windchill!), so when it warmed up to a relatively “balmy” -14 (-24), we decided to take the opportunity to get some fresh air, go for a hike and explore life beyond the walls we’ve been surrounded by as a result of the pandemic.

Wanuskewin has been a gathering place for nomadic tribes for over six thousand years. Today, it is a designated heritage park showcasing Indigenous art and culture, as well as an active archaeological site providing context and connection to our history from present day Treaty 6 territory in Saskatchewan, Canada. It also offers a museum, restaurant featuring Indigenous cuisine, and numerous hiking trails to explore the Northern Plains.

Peripheral People

It is not natural for me to be this sedentary. The innate desire to wander and explore comes as natural to me as my sensitivity towards animals or my predisposition to foods heavily flavoured with garlic. But here I am, on my couch—the very same couch that I’ve been sitting on for nearly a year reading, writing, watching Netflix—and while I’m bored, it’s become the new normal of my life. The sun rises. The sun sets. My only escape is through a screen.

Another aspect of “the good ol’ days” I’ve recently come to miss are the peripheral people who’ve been in my life. People that I’ve never formally met or held conversation with but who played as background actors in the scenes of my day. There is the Somali man, slight in stature, who stood on the corner of my block each morning enjoying a cigarette while observing traffic through eyeglasses perched half-way down his nose. He’s performed this daybreak ritual for years. We’d occasionally nod our heads at each other in recognition of being neighbours of sorts but I don’t know his story and he doesn’t know mine.

There were the people employed at a coffee shop across the street from my office who crafted one of my favourite sandwiches (saskatoon berry-turkey with arugula and brie on toasted ancient grains). Within the past year, it has sadly shut its doors. I never got to know their names. Besides being a familiar face, they never got to know mine.

The time I’d walk up to the entrance of my condo at the end of each workday would occasionally be mirrored in commute from the opposite direction by a bearded man who lives on another floor in the building. We would make convivial small talk while checking our mailboxes. I learned he worked at the nearby hospital. He would learn that I was involved in the arts. But it was just a slight connection. Enough for acquaintance but not enough for anything more meaningful outside the confines of an elevator. I never learned his name. He never learned mine. I haven’t seen him in over a year.

While I lament their absence, these characters have been recast for the current season.

Most people in my building now work from home and while I have not met a lot of them, I do get a sense of their day through the sound filtering from the hallways and above. One of my neighbours plays an instrument. I can hear the muffled output from their amp every morning around eleven a.m.. They also have a small dog. I’ve never seen it and wouldn’t be able to identity breed but can hear the faint pitter-patter of its paws walking across the laminate floor. There’s a family at the other end of the hallway that moved in just before the start of the pandemic. Their child, perhaps feeling bored and caged, spends most of the day screaming in frustration at the top of her lungs. Her parents—and their immediate neighbours—are often in my thoughts. And then there’s the contractors I occasionally pass. I wouldn’t be able to recognize their faces but I do remember their masks.

As the pandemic forces us into a second year of distance and isolation, I’m starting to feel sadness at the loss of the seemingly unmemorable interactions I had with strangers in the past. Their presence was familiar where nothing in this current world is. They offered a form of stability to my days and I genuinely miss them … even though I didn’t know them.

The Wilds

The other night, I went to close my shades and became enraptured by the night sky. During a prairie winter, the sky is normally densely overcast and claustrophobic but on this night I stared out at the stars - albeit few, albeit faint - as well as some scattered, low-hanging cumulus clouds that reflected the crimson light of the city. During a time when I feel I’ve become completely disconnected to nature, I feel like my appreciation for it (and need to preserve it) is growing. When you’ve been stuck in your home for almost a year, the desire to explore the wilds is all-consuming. This pause has given me time to reflect though, on life and what really matters.

In late 2004, I left my job at an advertising agency to freelance. A lot of 2020 is reminding me of that time. I was working at home on a bondi blue iMac when the earthquake and tsunami struck countries bordered on the Indian Ocean. I recall non-stop footage of it playing on the television in the background as I tried to work. I’m an empathetic person, sometimes overly so, and the sadness of it all really affected me. With 230,000+ dead, it was the worst disaster I’d witnessed in my lifetime.

Sixteen years later, I’m once again working at home—again, on an iMac—but this time the disaster hits closer. I’m not watching the tragedy of a far-away land through the safety of a screen, I’m living it everyday. I’m connected to risk and reminded of it through the daily death count on the evening news. My empathy here serves me well. With over two million deaths worldwide, it’s important not to lose sight that these were human beings who lived and loved and deserve to be remembered. Regardless of age, health or any other factor used to discriminate, they are people.

And people are what really matter in life.

The most happiness and bliss I’ve felt have been in the presence of people I loved. The greatest memories of my youth are traveling the west in an old RV with my parents, visiting such legendary sites as Yellowstone National Park, the Rocky Mountains, Deadwood and Wall Drug (okay, that last one is legendary for a different reason but memorable all the same). I remember the fun of playing license plate bingo with my dad or having my mom wash my hair in a rest stop sink because that’s where we slept overnight in lieu of a campground. I didn’t grow up wealthy, so moments like this were currency towards future resolve. Some of the fondest memories of my twenties are just cruising around Winnipeg after-hours listening to music and being present with someone who values and understands me through shared experience.

The brief high one gets through a material purchase does not compare to receiving a message from an old friend who felt the need to check in and say “hello”. Having someone remember and acknowledge your existence is to feel seen. To feel human. These moments have been some of the most memorable during the pandemic.

I’m thankful to have someone to share this moment in time with. Another soul to bear witness to history and the real, raw emotions and fear we all felt while living it. Having someone to talk with, to play with, every day is helping me get through. I look forward to the day when we can one day explore the wilds again, together.

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).

Give It Away

It was upon entering the seventh grade, and thus starting a new school, that I noticed my classmates’ fashion and music sense change. Some of it may have been attributed to naturally evolving tastes, some of it to that age-old desire to fit in and conform to the herd. There were seniors to impress, so all those New Kids on the Block tees were replaced by Metallica, Nirvana and the eight-pronged asterisk logo of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

I wasn’t always aware of what was trending or cool as I didn’t have MTV or the MuchMusic tv channel growing up, instead relying solely upon pop-oriented radio and network shows like American Bandstand and Solid Gold to form opinions on what I liked (and yes, I was a New Kids fan). One thing I did know though was that whenever my mom heard a Red Hot Chilli Peppers song come on, she would immediately change the channel. She hated them. Absolutely loathed them. I wasn’t a fan myself but I often wondered what this band—led by a perpetually shirtless, tribal tattooed lead singer who seems contractually obligated to sing about California—could have done to offend my mother?

Scandalous rock-and-roll memoirs were once my favourite literary genre. I attribute this to the fact that I’m an introvert who gets to live vicariously through the tales of wanton lust and debauchery normally lining their pages. So when I saw ‘Scar Tissue’ written by Anthony Kiedis, lead singer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, on the bargain shelves of my local McNally Robinson, I decided that $7.99 was a steal of a price to pay for 465 pages of trashy escapism.

I didn’t foresee the added expense of requiring gallons of bleach to bathe in while reading it though.

Maybe it’s because I’m older, wiser and have less tolerance for people like this but Anthony Kiedis’ recollection of life is less that of a rock star and more of a self-indulgent, misogynistic narcissist who got lucky. His story is that of a high school truant who failed to mature because he’s always been rewarded for his deplorable behaviour. There was no insight into his band, his craft or the era of which they dominated, every chapter instead consisted of sharing, in detail, all the women he had sex with along with rating their performance. He even threw in a few pictures of his exes posing topless (for what purpose, I will never know). Really creepy though considering he was 43-years-old when the book was published is how many of his boasts were about his girlfriends and other conquests being underage, praising one sixteen-year-old paramour for looking after him while they “played house” and:

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While bullshit likes this takes up a bulk of the book, the other half—the only part I am mildly sympathetic to—describes the rinse-and-repeat cycle of drug addiction. Anthony goes into great detail in regards to his pursuit of this demon, not just the feeling of taking the substance itself but also admitting how other elements made the experience so thrilling such as how a florescent purple light illuminating the exterior of a seedy L.A. hotel beckoned him in as the perfect place to hole up for a few days to shoot heroin. His many (many) trips to rehab are also documented.

But while that may explain behaviour, it doesn't excuse it. Ultimately, this is long-winded braggadocio.

What I learned from this book is that sometimes mother knows best.

I will concede on this though. Despite my repulsion, he did write one of the definitive songs of the 90s. Shame I can no longer enjoy it.

Favourite line: “[Girlfriend] Jennifer had slept with Chris Fish, the keyboard player for Fishbone, one of our brother L.A. groups, while I was out on tour. But it still didn’t compute with me. I could have seen if she’d slept with Angelo Moore, who was the good-lucking lead singer. But Chris Fish—a guy with bad dreadlocks and worse fashion sense?”

Prince: The Beautiful Ones
Written by Prince and edited posthumously by Dan Piepenbring

Another music memoir that is a little less linear as it was only partially written and still in the production phase before Prince’s untimely death in 2016. The book offers a brief glimpse into the life and mind of a legendary performer who carried his air of mystery into legend. The book is interesting but at times hard to read, as one of Prince’s requests was that visual icons - similar to when he changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol - be used in place of actual words.

Favourite line: “I like dreaming now more than I used to. Some of my friends have passed away, and I see them in my dreams. It’s like they are here, and the dreams are just like waking sometimes.”

Christmas Past, Christmas Present

I always seemed to have a set agenda for the holiday season. As a child, the anticipation for Christmas would begin when my mother announced our annual shopping trip to downtown Winnipeg. This wasn’t just a day for her to run errands in commerce, this was THE day I would get a moment with Santa to implore how deserving I was to receive the fad toy of the day. This social contract I had with the man to not drive my parents crazy throughout the previous year was beneficial for everyone and even though I always stuck by it, my tiny heart would palpitate with excitement and nerves on the long bus ride over. Perhaps it was early-onset imposter syndrome but I seemed to always second-guess myself, without reason to. Occasionally still do.

And it wasn’t just a regular mall Santa; the Santa I visited at Eaton’s Department Store was held in his own enchanting world - a makeshift Victorian-era township for visitors to wind through where each storefront window provided glimpse into a magical fairytale vignette from Humpty Dumpty to Cinderella. I’m sure the animatronic characters are much better preserved in my memory than they were in reality, but as a child this day felt like visiting DisneyWorld and is a beloved shared experience amongst so many from my hometown. It definitely got me into the spirit of the season. After visiting ol’ St. Nick, the day would end with my mother hitting up her favourite bakery and buying a dozen Italian tri-colour cookies for us to indulge in. To this day, my favourite dessert.

The older I got, the more my holiday memories centered on family and food culminating in a grand feast at a relative’s house that occasionally veered Griswold-esque. Afterwards as we would crosstown back home, I would always ask my father to drive through the downtown core so that I could marvel at the colourful decorative lights glowing softly against the quiet, snowy streets. It was rare the occasion that we would be downtown after-hours; staring out the window, I would marvel at this festive world just frozen in time. I imagined the varied holiday rituals that were happening within the illuminated windows we passed. For those that were dark, I hoped the occupants felt some sense of belonging.

In recent years, that circle has become even smaller as I typically spend the return to Manitoba with just my mom and wee dog Monty, who provides her company as a sort of unlicensed therapy dog (a role he was born to do). It’s intimate and private. Our walks at the ebb of the day are a highlight. I like watching the gradient of pink to violet reflected on the snowbanks as the sun sets over the horizon. As an adult, it is the calm I covet. December 25 is still reserved for opening gifts and indulging in turkey, although I’m not concerned with what I get and more focused on seeing joy on my mother’s face. Her memory has been fading but she still misses her late husband (my father). A slight trigger can still turn this joyous occasion into one of pangs of heartbreak over the loss. I’m always glad to be there to provide presence on what was, what is and what will be.

While this holiday season certainly felt different, it was special in its own way. I wasn’t “adventuring” with my dog in the prairie fields surrounding my childhood home but I did take time to explore the quiet urban streets of my own neighbourhood and was met with the same solitude. I didn’t relish a turkey dinner my mom spent hours of time and love creating but I did hold a savoury fusion feast for my partner and I. Gifts weren’t exchanged but memories of time and touch and conversation shared. When I’m older and reflecting on this (thus far) nine month period of solitude of my life, I don’t think it will feel like a waste; rather, the cocooning will probably be appreciated for not only helping to stay healthy and safe through a global pandemic but also for allowing my perspective to shift even further in terms of simple pleasures and the social contract I acknowledge to live in a society in order to enjoy them.

2020

Back in January, I was excited to start a new decade. There’s always a sense of optimism and renewal that comes with a fresh slate and 2020 felt promising. Both personal and professional endeavours were hitting new highs and I wore the confidence and wisdom it brought as an armour. It felt like I was entering a stage in life where peace of mind wouldn’t be so fleeting.

Oh, how innocent we all were.

As I write this, Canada is in the thick of a second wave of Covid-19 that is proving far worse than the first. Tensions are running high as governments try to balance the pleas of health care experts with the needs of business owners (currently leaning to the opinion that loss of life is acceptable to maintain the economy) and despite ALL evidence to the contrary, anti-maskers & other self-centred idiots continue to confuse personal freedom with the responsibility of living as part of a society.

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Watching the numbers roll in from my home province every day causes an audible gasp (and occasional tears) as a wave of anxiety washes over me. There is my elderly, widowed mother that causes worry but also several other family members that work on the frontlines in health care. Being distanced from the people I love during such a tumultuous time is not easy (and I have it relatively easy; there are those in situations much worse than mine whose mental health and wellbeing I think of often).

I currently feel exhausted, depressed … and angry. I hope to once again tap into a well of inspiration for my art and writings, but in the meantime will be taking a break until 2021.

Until then, I’ve posted a list of resources that may be of help to you or your loved ones as we ride this rollercoaster of uncertainty for the near future.

Much blessings. Much love. Let’s all get through this together.

Crisis Services Canada
Phone: 1-833-456-4566
Text: 45645

Canadian Mental Health Association

First Nations and Inuit Hope for Wellness
Phone: 1-855-242-3310

Kids Help Phone
Phone: 1-800-668-6868

Domestic Violence services

Art is how we decorate space. Music is how we decorate time.

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When I was twelve-years-old, I wanted to be like Mariah Carey. I, of course, had her albums (or, rather, cassette tapes) and would try to emulate—poorly—her famous five octave vocal range while dancing in the basement. But like every little girl seeking someone to idolize, I also wanted to look like her. By replicating her appearance, I felt I could also pass as beautiful and talented and thus become respected and beloved rather than skirting the edge of being an outsider in the notoriously fickle arena of junior high (which I was about to enter). The summer before starting at my new school, I begged my mom for a haircut and PERM(!). To my credit, a perm was still “of the time” and I wanted to make a statement. I needed to be a new person for this milestone event in my young life and it was all to start with my hair. She obliged and we went to a small, nondescript salon in the basement of a small office building in our neighbourhood. I shared an image of Mariah from her MTV Unplugged appearance (above) and told the stylist it was what I wanted to look like. She reviewed it briefly and asked me to sit down. Through age and experience, I would realize this response means someone doesn’t really give a fuck what you want but at the time I was still able to naively believe they cared.

I can’t remember how I felt when it was all done. My parents certainly made no comments that weren’t positive but that would be short-lived. During a visit to extended family, I overheard an aunt laugh and comment to another on “the bad perm” I had. Negatively commenting on a kid’s appearance within earshot is never something that adults should do, lest they internalize it and have it lead to a life-long complex, but it did have the benefit of preparing me for the reaction I would receive when I started school. Needless to say, my transformative appearance did turn me into a new person, as I wanted, just not the person I desired to be. I was not Mariah. I was Deborah … with really bad hair.

I relate this story as I am reading Mariah’s memoir The Meaning of Mariah Carey and it brought about a flood of 90s nostalgia for me. I pivoted towards other music as junior high and then high school progressed, with Courtney Love becoming the person I chose to emulate (I’m sure to the dismay of my parents) but childhood icons have a way of being part of our lives even as we move on. When I turned eighteen and started to visit nightclubs nearly every weekend, Mariah’s evolving, more urban sound continued to provide soundtrack in passing. Not to mention the fashion sense of the time which she led with now straightened hair and midriff-revealing tops and thigh-revealing skirts (which I now lack the body and confidence to pull off but am glad I did when I could). When she visited my hometown during the Emancipation of Mimi tour, I bought tickets and was entertained with one of the top three best concerts I’ve ever attended (with The Hives and M.I.A. being the other two, showing how diverse my music tastes evolved).

The book details what I long assumed. That the diva persona Mariah took on is mostly a one-sided act to a multi-dimensional artist. That appearances of having it all can betray the truth. That childhood trauma reverberates through the decades. There’s also candid talk about the notoriously shady music industry; her creative process and favourite part of writing a song; a toxic, stifling marriage; and, relationships that leave one longing, with Mariah admitting that her affair with baseball superstar Derek Jeter (unconsummated until divorce, she stresses) left her heartbroken for years about what could have been. Rarely do you see someone so vulnerable as within these pages and it is completely refreshing. Reading about her life as an adult made me relate on a level beyond the superficial. Rather than coveting her appearance, I now admire her resolve.

The Meaning of Mariah Carey
Written by Mariah Carey with Michaela Angela Davis

Favourite line: “But ours is a story of betrayal and beauty. Of love and abandonment. Of sacrifice and survival. I’ve emancipated myself from bondage several times, but there is a cloud of sadness that I suspect will always hang over me, not simply because of my mother but because of our complicated journey together.”

The Gift of Fear
Written by Gavin deBecker

I’ve always felt that a women’s superpower is her intuition. This book delves into why we should listen to that instinct, breaking down the strategies and tricks people use to let your guard down leaving you vulnerable. The author will teach you how to use fear to your advantage by recognizing potentially dangerous situations and (predictable) behaviours in a number of scenarios.

Favourite line: “Nature’s greatest accomplishment, the human brain, is never more efficient or invested than when its host is at risk.”

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Written by Stephen King

During these times of social distancing, self-isolation and tons of newly-found free time, I’ve been motivating myself to learn more about the art and craft of writing. In addition to taking a workshop with one of my favourite authors, Anne Lamott, I’ve also read through tips from another, very well-known master: Stephen King. This book acts as a brief memoir into the life of the famous horror and supernatural author, his childhood and struggles (including the 1999 accident in which a distracted driver almost left him paralyzed) but the other half of it’s too-short 291 pages is straight-up insight into how to write in a way that connects and illuminates. Highly recommended.

Favourite line: “I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.”

My favourite Mariah song (written about Derek Jeter while still married to Tommy Mottola):