A world without murder.

I found this in my archives, and have no idea why I didn't actually post it. It was written in 2010, and I'm still wondering...

A few days ago, on Valentine's Day, I attended a march to honor the 3000 missing or murdered women of Canada. This was an amazing event, and a wonderful way to spend an otherwise overly commercial and often lonely day.

The march was started several years ago by the Saalich people of the West Coast. As you may or may not know, a disproportionate number of women who die violently or go missing are aboriginal, thus this cause is close to the hearts of many aboriginal communities. The march on Sunday was no different.

Prior to marching, the elders in attendance spoke a bit about what they hoped to achieve, and then opened the event with a traditional smudge ceremony. During the opening comments, one of the elders commented that, in her language, there was no word for "murder", so she would just say "those who have gone before us". This got me thinking: Languages are often reflective of the priorities of the cultures they stem from. What would it be like to live in a culture that did not need a word for "murder"?

Thursday.

Ugh.

Slept in this morning;

Awoke to find my alarm turned off and stuffed under my pillow.

As I have no memory of doing this, I blame the dust bunnies.

Or perhaps Morty has decided to branch out.

Food for the Soul

It was a warm, late September evening, and slow strains of bass and steel guitar drifted into the night as we drew near the entrance of the little bar in Inglewood. It had been a brutal day, and my soul was a bit tender. We stepped inside, and I was greeted by the cheerful sight of a busy barroom and a tiny stage against the back drop of a burgundy velvet curtain.

We sat and ordered drinks, and then I turned my attention to the three-man band before us. Harmonica, acoustic guitar, steel guitar, and bass. Their name was The Tim.Buck.Two, their style was country with a twist, and they were very good.

I watched the bass player dance around his instrument, the back of which was pleasantly scarred and battered. A sure sign of love. Then I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me, feeling the vibrations course through me like electricity.

Before long, I found myself smiling and tapping my foot to the beat, the weight of the day sliding from my shoulders as they moved to the rhythm. The whole experience brought to mind a similar barroom, a few years and many miles away, where I used to sit for hours and let a different, but no less wondrous, music pour over and through me. I had honestly forgotten the sheer enjoyment of listening to a musician play his or her passion from a tiny stage.

It was a good night.

Spring in Calgary

Such a strange juxtaposition:

The lilac and forsythia blooms are a riot of colour and scent that is only amplified by the cool air and the dampness of the snowflakes that drift down to meet them.

The sun peeks through the thick blanket of steely clouds, and the world is momentarily diamond encrusted.

Very refreshing.

Smile dammit!

The woman walked quickly along the busy street. Immersed in her own thoughts, she barely noticed the noisy traffic and passersby that swirled around her.

A horn blared behind her, jolting her back to the here and now. She looked over her shoulder at the offending vehicle and frowned. Turning her eyes toward her destination, she noticed a man sitting with his back to a store front several yards ahead of her. He was unshaven, wore dirty, ripped clothing, and was holding a sign. Just another homeless person in this city that was home to so many who could not afford a roof. Unremarkable.

The woman silently cursed as she realized that she had no change to offer him. She hated meeting the eyes of those in need without being able to assuage her guilt by offering a coin or two. She considered averting her eyes as she passed. She was only a few feet away now. At that moment, the man turned his sign in her direction. She was sure it would have some sad message on it, something to persuade people to part with their spare change. Instead, she read:

"Smile dammit!"

Scrawled in black sharpie ink on ripped cardboard. Immediately, her furrowed brow relaxed, and her face broke into a wide grin. The man whooped and wiggled his whole body in celebration of his victory.

The woman chuckled to herself as she walked on. And smiled.

Note.

If there's something better for soothing the frustrated soul than listening to Ani DiFranco whilst going about your day, I don't know what it is.

This time I've gone and done it. Again.

I have finally tasted pure bliss. After hearing about them for ages, I recently had the pleasure of experiencing a Crave cupcake. I could be in trouble.

And also? I'm moving to Calgary.

As you were.