Tagged: life

Wrote this the other day

- by Alyson Shane

I’m writing this on a plane from Winnipeg to Toronto. We’re going to celebrate my Grandma’s 100th birthday and I’m thinking about death.

I’ve been reading Slaughterhouse Five despite my own efforts to distract myself from writing.

I start wanting to write as soon as I get on a plane. As soon as it starts to taxi, as soon as I see the tarmac beginning to move, that little voice in my head starts talking.

The voice has been with me for as long as I can remember. I think it’s how I knew I was supposed to be a writer: words flow through me and out of me whether I want them to or not.

I read somewhere once that a certain percentage of people don’t have inner monologues. 

That sounds like a lonely existence if you ask me.

So here I am, sitting in a tube in the sky listening to the hum of the engines, reading a book about the war and thinking about death.

I’m thinking about the characters in Slaughterhouse Five, dying

about how, almost every time I talk to my Grandma who turns 100 tomorrow she says

“I wish I was dead”

and maybe that should upset me but it doesn’t. I get it. I understand her perspective.

She lived most of her life as an independent, able-bodied person who took care of herself and lived her life on her own terms, and as she’s gotten older and older she’s lost more and more of what made her feel like herself.

I feel for that. I fear it.

So now I’m looking out the window at nothing and thinking about death and what I’ll say at her funeral. 

I think it will go something like this:

“My Grandma was the only person I know who thought about death more than I do.

One of my first memories of her is standing on the back step of her house in the North End. I’m in kindergarten or one of these early grades, in elementary school for sure.

I’m looking at my Grandma’s feet, slacks, shoes, and she’s saying

“I’ll be dead before you graduate high school.”

As I got older she kept moving the goal posts on me:

“… by the time you graduate from university”

“… by the time you get married”

“… by the time you start a family”

I guess she figured that if she kept moving the deadline out into the future, some day she would be right.

When I went to visit my Grandma for her 100th birthday I read Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut on the plane.

It’s an anti-war book and darkly funny in the way you’re not supposed to laugh at, but makes you want to anyway.

In the book the main character suffers a head injury and comes to believe that he was abducted by aliens who can see in four dimensions.

As a result, these aliens don’t perceive time the same way we do. They see a dead body as just a way that person is existing at that moment in time, but that person continues to exist in throughout all the other moments in time before, too.

So when someone dies they aren’t sad about it because that person isn’t really gone. They’re just not existing in that moment of time anymore.

They shrug and say: “So it goes.” 

Which seems like a flippant thing to say but when I think about it, it’s true: the universe and time works in ways we don’t understand and even though Slaughterhouse Five is a story, I figure maybe those aliens who see in four dimensions may be onto something.

In some ways my Grandma isn’t really gone.

She won’t be in my present moving forward, but she’s in my memories and in moments of time in the past.

She’s still sitting in her sunroom on Mountain Ave with me on her lap as I eat an ice cream out of a crinkly plastic container with a wooden spoon.

She’s still buzzing around in her kitchen making me perogies for lunch when I’m a university student working on my bachelor’s degree.

She’s still walking around the basement of The Bay in her determined, thorough way, chatting with all the clerks who know her and talking about how much she likes having “the groceteria” so close to her apartment.

She’s still sitting across from me at The Paddlewheel Restaurant, picking away at a cheeseburger and saying “I’ve never been much of an eater”

(A sentiment I’ve never truly understood if I’m being honest.)

My Grandma is gone and I’m devastated. I have lost one of the only people who made space for me, listened to me, and made me feel seen and heard and loved when I didn’t feel like most people did.

Losing her feels like there’s a part of my that’s missing and that I won’t ever find again. 

But my Grandma will always exist because she existed once, and she still continues to exist in those moments in time.

She continues to exist in our memories of her, which are also snippets of time.

She exists in my dad, my aunt, my brothers, and in all the lives of the people she touched.

She’s gone right now, but she isn’t really. 

Time isn’t linear just because we perceive it that way. That’s just us, being humans, making sense of a universe that folds and expands and works in ways our mammal brains can’t comprehend.

That doesn’t make losing her any easier, but it does give me solace to think that she’s still around in the annals of time, watching baseball and Wheel of Fortune and wearing slacks with perfect creases in them.

But my Grandma won’t be around moving forward and I’ll miss her for the rest of my life.

So it goes.”

The pilot just announced that we’re starting our descent and now I’m back here up in the sky, thinking about death.

My Grandma is probably asleep right now, but in a few hours it’ll be her 100th birthday. I wonder what she’ll thinking about but I think I know.

I’m sure that tomorrow when we all get together she’ll find some way to slip it into the conversation. Remind us that life as a centennial may not always be what it’s cracked up to be. 

She’ll say she’s ready. That she wants to go. 

It will upset everyone but me and I’ll feel bad and guilty the same way as I do now, looking out the window for signs of the city and still seeing nothing but a red light blinking in the darkness, thinking about death and time.

So it goes.


This post is a test

- by Alyson Shane

I'm testing a theory I have that goes like this:

Whenever I sit down to blog I get maybe 5-10 minutes into it and John finishes whatever he's doing and wants to come hang aka interrupt me and pull me away from writing here, which isn't a huge deal but also UGH I haven't had the mental bandwidth to sit down and write this month and it's kinda eating at me, y'know?

So instead of trying to write some big, prose-y post like I sometimes do I'm gonna sit here and barf out as much of my stream-of-consciousness bullshit as I can before the inevitable happens

aka, John wants to watch an episode of The Sandman which we've both been obsessing over.

Summer's basically over and I'm sad about it even though by anyone's standards (including mine) we did a pretty good job of making the most of it. 

We camped or went to a cabin or a music festival basically every weekend

which is both exhilarating and a bit chaotic since every Thursday night is Prepping to Leave night and Sunday/Monday are Unpacking and Endless Laundry nights

but even though it's felt overwhelming at times we made memories that I know I'll cherish so it's worth a little low-level anxiety in my view.

(Omg I hear his chair moving what did I tell you.)

Speaking of never being home, we're leaving to go to Ontario on Thursday night and though Manitoba is a big, stunning province I'm so excited to go literally anywhere else for the first time since 2020.

Friday's my Grandma's 100th birthday so we're celebrating with her and some fam in Toronto and spending a few days in the city before catching a train to Windsor to stay with John's fam and catch up with all of them.

I'm excited but also very much looking forward to coming home and spending more than one consecutive weekend in my actual bed, cuddling my cats and making art.

This past weekend we managed to stay in the city and it was GLORIOUS. We biked to the Beer Can on Friday night and had drinks with my friend Florence and her cool husband

(Hi, Florence!)

and on Saturday I remembered that there was a vintage sale happening at the hippie bookshop up the street so we hustled over there and I scored a bunch of cool things, including:

- A nice wicker basket
- A cheese board that says "SAY CHEESE" on it
- A mug with an illustration of a cat that looks like Toulouse
- Like 20 cards (they were $1 a pop, how could I say no?)
- A cool hanging ornament of bright fabric elephants
- A battery-powered "galaxy" light for the bedroom
- A necklace holder that was white but I painted gold to match the bedroom

Everything came to like $80 which was an absolute steal and I'm over the moon about it. 

We wandered past a few yard sales, too, and I snagged some outdoor lanterns that are currently white but that I'm also planning to paint over at some point in the future (colours tbd).

Saturday night we had a bonfire with my brother and his gf out at her place where she made us dinner

(lemon pasta with scallops and beet salad with beets she grew, yum)

and I nerded out waaaaay too hard over her chicken coop and super large garden setup. It was nice spending some quality time with both of them since we're all so busy and you know how life can be.

Sunday I spent most of the day cooking since I've recently become obsessed with that style of Asian cooking where you have like 4-5 dishes instead of one massive dish on a single plate

(this website has been a huge inspo)

and a lot of the dishes require some meal prep which is honestly fine with me. I like cooking and trying new and weird stuff so pre-steaming spinach and yam leaves and letting 'em sit in a sauce all day in the fridge is my idea of a good time

(when did I become a real adult? Please call my 20 year old self)

and we FINALLY booked our flights to Asia this winter which means I get to do my favourite part of travelling: creeping on AirBnBs and daydreaming about all the food I'm going to eat.

This time we're meeting up with Adam and Britt to hop through Vietnam and Japan after John and I spend a few weeks in Thailand and Cambodia 

(Adam may join for part of this but it's all tbd right now; all we know is when we're leaving for our leg of the trip and I am seriously losing my mind with excitement)

so all in all we're looking at being gone for about 8 weeks which makes me thankful that I work for myself and can bring my laptop and do as little work as possible/monitor things from afar while still exploring temples and shrines and taking night trains and lounging on beaches and swimming in the Andaman Sea.

(I keep hearing John's chair moving and it's making my ears perk up)

Anyway back to travel: I'm a big believer in unplugging as much as possible when travelling 

so while I'm technically always tethered to my business, I spend a lot of time working/planning ahead so I can basically check in once a day 

(more for my own sanity/anxiety than anything really)

usually all I need to do is fire off an email or assign a task to someone on my team 

(who are amazing bless them)

and then get up to whatever shenanigans I have planned for that day. I miss being in places where the air smells like lemongrass all the time and walking until I feel like my feet are going to fall off.

This time I'm bringing my laptop and not just John's lil Chromebok so sorry/not sorry if this turns into a travel blog for a few weeks while we're out there. My biggest regret from last time was not documenting the trip in more detail so I'm gonna work harder to share/post more so I can look back on it someday

which is what this blog is supposed to be about anyway, I guess?

It's not always just a place for weird rambly posts
or pretty thoughts
or work through things

it's also supposed to help me remember who I was and what I was doing, thinking, feeling at that time.

So even this has been a bit all over the place I'm glad I snuck in some time to write this down.

(Omg his door opened... I think it's happening?!
Aaaaaand here we go! CALLED IT. Night folks!)

Tags: Life Writing


A year here

- by Alyson Shane

A year ago on Monday, John and I biked to our mortgage broker's office, signed some paperwork, picked up our keys, and walked into our house for the first time.

I'll never forget that experience. 

Opening the heavy wooden front door, looking down the main hallway that opens onto the library, living room, dining room, and kitchen. Rooms that felt



waiting to be filled.

We wandered through them, running our fingers along the walls, the heavy doorframes, the wainscotting, the bannisters, holding our breath.

We'd whisper

"this is really ours?"

our voices echoing off the 11-foot ceilings as we talked in hushed tones

as if a sudden movement or noise would break the spell this old, beautiful house had cast on us

as though we'd blink and be back in our rental; everything we'd gone through just a dream.

It all happened so quickly. A conversation, then two, then a house tour.

Intense conversations about money, savings, affordability. Turning over records and statements and exposing my life, my business, my finances and my savings. 

(Anxiety-inducing stuff.)

We bought our house during the peak of the housing crisis when other people we knew were looking at 15, 20, 25 houses. Bidding on all of them and winning none. Houses going for $100,000 over asking.

I'd read Twitter and Reddit threads about competition in the market with a pit in my stomach. Home ownership felt like a distant, unattainable, unaffordable dream. 

But we saved anyway. What else could we do other than

be ready?

As we toured the house with the previous owners I tried not to picture myself here. I didn't want to get too attached, to picture

hosting dinner parties in the dining room
soaking in the claw-foot tub
reading in front of the wood fireplace
eating breakfast on the porch
cooking and singing in the kitchen

building a life in my dream house. 

A three-and-a-half storey built in 1912
original wood floors
radiant heat
wood panelling, doorframes, high baseboards
Queen Anne-style with a big porch
a large, spacious kitchen

and more rooms than I thought I could fill

(silly me).

The weeks after the tour were brittle and tense. I'd catch myself holding my breath while we waited for emails, approvals, and confirmations to come through. 

Somehow, through the miracle of planning and preparedness, we were approved for our mortgage. I felt like a stone had been lifted off my chest. I was floating,

if John didn't grab me by the ankle I might have just drifted away, blissfully happy at this turn in good fortune.

We sent in our offer and after a little back-and-forth it was accepted. 

Signed on the dotted line.

We negotiated for and bought the house directly from the previous owners

no realtors, no go-betweens, just adults coming to an agreement

I'll always be proud of that.

The house we bought is right across the street from the rental we lived in for over a decade 

(11 years, in John's case)

and because we'd agreed to be flexible on possession our actual move-in date was a few months out

so I'd sit across the street, looking at the house, wondering what it would be like to make it my own.

When we took possession on August 1st of last year I found out:

it's a lot of hard work. And expensive.

Over the course of August we spent almost every night here after work, cleaning or painting, listening to podcasts and music and staying up until 1, 2 AM sometimes just to get things done.

We were exhausted but elated. 

Slowly transforming every room into spaces that reflected us and our tastes and our vision for what they would become filled me with a joy I'd never felt before. 

The house felt like it had so much potential, then, and though it still does it isn't quite the same.

We've nestled in. Nested. Built a sanctuary out of chairs and couches and beds and desks and books

(so many books)

that feels safe and warm and welcoming. 

A place we love to come home to.

I spend my days working in my bright second-storey office, a far cry from the basement where Starling Social got started

or making art in my "art room", a whole space dedicated to exploring my creative side

or in the garden, a project that's still not quite finished but will yield years of enjoyment and food for years to come

or on the porch, watching the neighbourhood go by and witnessing our old rental change and evolve.

We've hosted parties, dinners and board game nights
had friends from out of town stay over
strung up lights, planted seeds, 
and weathered the ups and downs of life within these walls.

I feel at peace. I feel at home.

I feel like we're still just at the very start of an amazing chapter in our lives.

Tags: Life Home


Things have felt in flux lately

- by Alyson Shane

Change is the only constant, as they say
but sometimes a lot of things change at once
and it feels like the ground starts shifting beneath your feet.

People change. Relationships change. Everything changes.

The tectonic plates of yr life shift beneath you and it always seems to happen when you least expect it.

Whether it's a good or bad change remains to be seen I guess.

Last night I went out with my Google Ads guy and we got a bit blasted which we haven't done before together. 

We had a meeting with a friend of his who might become a client of Starling's and originally we were going to have drinks at a distillery downtown (who are also clients of mine) but they weren't open so we went to the brewery next door. 

I got there early and sat down in the lounge that's filled with suede furniture in deep blues and greens. The tables have tassels hanging off of them and the ceiling has tassels hanging down in ombre patterns of white, grey, and blue and the whole space feels like a throwback to the 1950's or 60's. 

It's one of my favourite spots in the city and neither my Google Ads guy or his friend had been there before and they both loved it and that made me happy. I love helping people be tourists in our city.

We had a great meeting and laughed a lot and eventually the friend-slash-potential client said he needed to go, so we stuck around and had another beer and my Google Ads guy said

"Let's drink some tequila"

and I said

"Okay but I need to eat first. Let's get some food."

My Google Ads guy suggested the Earl's on Main St and even though Earl's isn't really my go-to kind of restaurant 
(I tend to prefer either really bougie spots or a grimy hole in the wall)
once we sat down and ordered a seafood platter with crab, oysters, prawns, ahi tuna, sushi, and lobster

it honestly wasn't so bad.

He ordered us a shot of tequila that was so smooth it didn't need a chaser
(which is my favourite kind of tequila)
and we talked about life while gorging on fish.

A few times during our conversation he said "I've only told a handful of people this before
why am I telling you this?"
and I told him that a lot of people say that to me, that I seem to have this knack for getting people to open up and tell me things about themselves that they normally hold close to their heart.

That despite being a chatterbox, people seem to like talking to me.

He agreed and cracked open a lobster tail.

We talked about politics and life and what it's like to watch someone you think you used to know, change in front of you. How jarring it is to lose the sense of security and safety you used to feel from someone.

"It's hard" I said, and he said "I know. Being an adult is the shits sometimes."

Once we'd had a glass of wine and polished off another seafood platter we said goodbye and I went home and talked to my dad for a bit. We're going to Toronto in a few weeks for my Grandma's 100th birthday and after we got off the phone I thought about how many times her life has changed.

Getting married, having kids
losing friends and family members
losing my Grandpa
rediscovering herself as a single woman
defining her life on her own terms

then getting old
becoming reliant on others
losing more friends
moving away from others

100 years of figuring it out as she went along.

After I talked to my dad I laid on the bed in the guest bedroom and talked to one of my best friends on the phone. 

We talked about love and heartbreak and what it's like when someone we love changes and we don't understand why. How stupid and duped we feel when we realize we've made a mistake in giving our heart to someone who doesn't want it

or has stopped wanting it.

He cried because he was sad and I cried because I was sad for him and we both wished we could be there to hold each other

which I think is the mark of a good friendship and I told him so. I try to tell him often that I'm glad we're friends.

We've known each other since we were teenagers and have witnessed each other fall apart and get back up over and over and over again

moving from one crisis to another through the years.

We talked about the phases of life and how
being rejected by

people we love or used to love takes its toll. How it wears and grates at you and can make you jagged and angry if you let it.

"Where do I go from here?" he asked me, and I said I didn't know. I told him that the best advice I could give was to focus on making healthy choices and not destroying yourself Bukowski-style and self-immolating with alcohol and drugs to try and forget the fact that

change is the only constant in life, as they say.

Tags: Life


I had a dream about you last night

- by Alyson Shane

It wasn't about you at first which I guess is how these kinds of dreams always start.

I was in a house, hooking up with someone I used to hook up with
a long, long time ago
and at one point he turned to me and said

"there's an art exhibit happening"

so I walked into the living room and there was a huge, three-sided diorama in the middle of the room

almost as tall as my chest
the kind you see in science fairs, except
built into the diorama were little nooks and crannies
rooms, almost
and sections that slid out or folded open

little pockets of memories about us
when we were together, years ago.

I sat down in the middle of the diorama
pulled at a sliding section
and all the words you called me when I left you came tumbling out



your hurt littered like petals at my feet.

As I looked down I saw a light in the diorama to my left and crouched down
pulling back curtains to see our bedroom, back on Spence St
our bed, crumpled sheets
the closet door intact, before you punched it

and realized that I was looking at a history of us
laid out like the set in the movie Rear Window.

I could look from window to window
see moments in our life together
the dinners in the kitchen, the games in the living room
camping at Connect, the drives out to B.C.
how we held each other, the cats climbing over us
our slow weekend starts drinking coffee in bed.

I could open windows, pull out sliding sections
and comic illustrations of our life together would pop out

setting up our Christmas tree
buying snacks at the Marchée Jean-Talon in Montreal
riding our bikes around the city in the summertime
drinking beers in Trinity Bellwoods Park in Toronto
catching plays downtown at The Fringe Festival
watching the sun set over the mountains in Golden
the first time I said I loved you

and you said you loved me back.

I could flip through this collection of experiences we shared
see how you saw me

a beauty
a wonder
an inspiration, then
a bitch
a disappointment

someone you hated.

Someone you still hate.

In the dream you walked in when I was standing in the middle of the diorama
rifling through the memories of us you had assembled
organized into windows, envelopes, pockets

and as you walked in I felt my knees get weak, my legs almost fell out from under me
with nerves, guilt, sadness, shame

a longing for the friendship we shared that I know
we'll never share again.

"Hey" I said "what you've made is beautiful"

(a city built around your ongoing heartbreak)

and you looked at me for the first time in eight years and said


and in the dream we talked about how you'd built the diorama around
the ups and downs of five and a half years of

"I'm sorry" I said in the dream, and I meant it

and you looked at me and said 

"it's okay, I'm doing better now"

and then I woke up and I wished that I knew that to be true

but I don't know if that's true.

I wish I did.


Up and down sort of day

- by Alyson Shane

I haven't had one of these in a while. Not bad per-se; just a lot of
up-and-down emotions
to contend with.

John left for California this morning
his first work trip since the pandemic started
and while I'm excited to have a few days to myself, I found my emotions
running high, in an anxious sort of way

throughout the morning, jumping around after he left.

We kissed goodbye before he went to the airport and I went upstairs to keep working
writing proposals, making spreadsheets, comparing benchmarks
(the usual stuff)
but I found myself working at a
frantic, hurried pace
like I was rushing towards something
or expecting something to happen

when obviously it was just another workday.

I went downstairs to make lunch
(salad with tofu, my fav/go-to lunch)
and rushed through that, too
feeling that frantic, hurried tension in my chest
like I couldn't sit still
stop moving, slow down
catch my breath.

So I forced myself to stop.

I ate my lunch, finished my client-facing work and spent 20 minutes doing yoga
breathing in, breathing out, trying to stay present in my body
failing sometimes
but letting it go
(to the best of my ability, anyway)
releasing the tension, this now-unfamiliar-feeling in my chest

recognizing that being alone in a new house was weird
that it's normal to worry about the person I love going somewhere with high Covid cases
and that being apart after two years is gonna feel weird no matter what.

Breathe in
breathe out.

After my yoga I read my book club book
wrote some content for the Starling blog
answered some emails
and slowly felt the tension in my chest start to unwind

like a coil releasing its tension.

Breathe in
breathe out.

Later I went for dinner and drinks at One Sixteen with my friend Florence
who is the only lawyer I'm friends with
and the most down-to-earth lawyer I've ever met.

In addition to being a lovely human Florence is also the President of the Manitoba Chamber Orchestra, so when she asked me to see their final performance of the season with her of course I jumped at the opportunity.

Despite not being able to read music or play an instrument myself
I love chamber music
like, seriously adore it.

I joke that I'm so chatty that I'll talk forever without stopping if you don't interrupt me
and chamber music is the perfect
it takes me on an emotional journey
and instead of thinking about what to
respond with
I can sit back and let the waves of emotion created by the layers of music

wash over me.

It's freeing in a way that's hard to explain.

This concert featured an incredible Dutch musician who plays the recorder
(yes, the "Hot Cross Buns" recorder)
that blew my mind.

I've never seen anyone play the recorder like that
was fascinated by her performance, the intensity of it
how she moved with the instrument
added layers and sounds to the pieces she played.

I felt verklempt in a way I haven't in a long time
and today, I needed it
to get lost in emotion like that
to sit and take a journey
led by hands and instruments and effort.

Now it's 11PM and I'm sitting on my porch watching the sun fade from the sky

I walked home under the big, old elms that I love so much
breathing in the warm, sweet air
(and probably some dandelion seeds, but who's counting)
feeling happy and thankful and full of energy and emotion.

It's funny how different we can feel throughout the day
the ups and downs yr heart can take.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Tags: Life


These are the lives you love to lead

- by Alyson Shane

I’m walking by your house and Fall Out Boy starts playing and it's 2005 and I'm in your kitchen

sitting at the lycra table
eating Cheerios you poured for me
while you sit on the kitchen counter in
your white manager's shirt and dress pants

(you were the only person who could make a McDonalds uniform look good)

telling me some dumb joke. We both laugh and smile at each other.

The first time I stayed over you met me at the bus stop to walk me to your Dad's house where you lived

"it's sort of a rough neighbourhood" you said
holding me close.

It wasn't, but I didn't know it at the time.

That was my first time in this part of the city.

None of my friends lived downtown. They lived in
East Kildonan
East St. Paul
Garden City
in bungalows or duplexes or one-and-a-half storey houses.

You lived with your dad on the first floor of a two-and-a-half storey rental in West Broadway.

I'd never been in a house like yours before. 

It smelled old, like all the lives that had filled it left a trace of their scent on the wainscoting and tucked in the cracks of the pocket doors. 

The rooms were small and bright with tall ceilings and high baseboards and heavy wooden doorframes

"It's not much" you said "but it's home"

I turned and said "I love it" and meant it. 

The next day you took me for brunch at The Nook, a few blocks over on Sherbrook St.

I'd never eaten somewhere like that.

We ordered eggs benedict and coffee
while the grizzled regulars at the next table ordered "breakfast beers"
and sat with such a mix of people
hippies and families and late-night partyers with dark, smeared eyes

everyone leaning over their pancakes and french toast and breakfast sandwiches.

I'd never walked around a neighbourhood with trees taller than the houses 

I grew up on a street between two fields and then in a new development
hadn't experienced how the light filtered through the leaves of the century-old elms
"it's like the Lost Woods in Link to the Past" I said

and felt giddy that you knew the reference.

Later, in your bedroom, you said

"Listen to this song, it makes me think of you"
and played Our Trees by Tegan and Sara
grinning at me in your impish way

pulling me to you like a hook through my navel.

We'd hang out in the living room and order Domino's

(your favourite, pepperoni with black olives)

playing video games or watching Star Wars or Wes Anderson movies

or in your bedroom listening to music as you told me fun facts about the bands you liked

"Isaac Brock was angry at God when he wrote this"
"Wayne Coyne lost a friend before writing this"
"This one's about getting an abortion"

(I never said you were a charmer all the time.)

As fate would have it, I lived across from your old house when I was in university.

I could look out my living room window
see the stoop where we'd kiss
the spot on the sidewalk where you made me cry
the lawn we'd lie on together
holding hands under the shadow of the elm trees.

I wish I'd understood what you were doing for me, then. How much your casual confidence and comfort with 


that were intimidating and unfamiliar to me helped me see them for what they were:

elements of a life I wanted to have someday.

Now I wake up in an old two-and-a-half-storey house downtown, a few blocks from The Nook

(one of my favourite haunts since the day you took me there)

I listen to Ben Folds Five and The Flaming Lips and I've read most Bukowski

I still get giddy at the old elms above me, spread out like lungs in the sky

I walk the same streets
back lanes
shortcuts you showed me

that now make up my idea of "home"

which is why I'm taking the shortcut across the field to your house

listening to Fall Out Boy and thinking of you.

Tags: Life


I've been blogging a long time

- by Alyson Shane

(A portrait of a lady on her blog with a mug promoting her blog)

and it's weird to think about how much of my life has been chronicled here over the years. I started this iteration of this blog 13 years ago and if I go into my blog backend I can see posts that I wrote when I lived in other places, loved other people, and was 

a different person in so many ways.

I've been publishing online since 2000 but jumped around to different hosting platforms as they came and went

at first I had a LiveJournal
then a DeadJournal
then I was on Blogger.com
then I was on WordPress

and now because I'm married to a software developer I use his custom CMS called Elefant and he maintains it for me 

which is a huge relief because HTML and CSS were never my strong suit.

The other day I was talking to a student and mentioned that I've been blogging all this time and she said 

"why? How do you still find stuff to talk about after all these years?"

and I said Well, I write about my life and I keep livin' it, so I keep writing.

How much I blog has ebbed and flowed over the years

there was a time when I blogged every single day and that was hard because sometimes it was a struggle to pull a thought or a story or a post out of the humdrum of day-to-day life

but it was rewarding because I got much, much better at my craft and found my voice in a new way because when you really think about it

this blog is an ongoing piece of art made of my words and thoughts

pixels on a screen organized into dates and timestamps that give me a sense of place and time and offer this strange little window in the things I was thinking, feeling, going through in that moment.

The posts on this blog feel like 

puzzle pieces of my heart
of my soul
of myself 

that I've worked on for years and years

creating a larger image that grows with me

a map of myself that I discover as I explore it in real-time.

Of course people have made fun of me for blogging over the years, rolled their eyes when I pulled out my camera to take a picture of dinner

(this was before iPhones and Instagram)

I've had people treat my blog like it isn't art
tell me it isn't "real" writing
or that it's not a serious form of self-expression

but yr art isn't for other people so it's cool if they don't understand it

or get jealous or petty when the thing you love to do and have done with love for years opens up opportunities for you.

Being known as a writer is why I have my company, why I've gotten speaking gigs and teaching jobs and been on committees and panels and been a spokesperson for causes I believe in

because Alyson Circa 2000 needed a place to put her feelings and stuck with it

despite dry spells
despite feeling dumb
despite feeling nervous, embarrassed, ashamed

this ever-evolving piece of art is something that never fails to make me

so happy.


The poet

- by Alyson Shane

Yesterday I went to the launch of "Through Disassembled Houses of Perfect Stones"which is a thin, beautiful book of poetry by Manitoba poet David Yerex Williamson.

I met David a week ago today when John and I performed on Kelly Hughes Live! which is a live-broadcast variety show of sorts that's shot in The Valiant Theatre, which is actually an old church that's slowly (slowly) being transformed into a venue while Kelly lives in the back.

I'm not religious but there was something moving about being in that old church. The sweeping ceilings, the still-there pews, the stained glass windows and the shadows on the wall where old paintings and religious items used to hang.

Churches, for better or worse, are where so many people's lives start, end, and often where some of the most important moments happen. I don't believe in higher powers but "House of God" feels fitting for these quaint little spaces filled with memory and emotion.

(Unlike the "megachurches" popping up in affluent parts of town that seem out of step with what religion is supposed to mean for people, but what do I know I'm just a heathen atheist.)

When we played in the church it was part of a larger group of guests: there was J. Williamez, a local singer-songwriter who wrote a scathing series of songs about our previous monster of a Premier

(not to be confused with our current monster of a Premier)

Shelley Cook, a local journalist and writer who I feel like I've known my whole life at this point

us, Big Trouble in Little Wolseley, who provided musical entertainment,

and David Yerex Williamson, the poet.

I've always had a soft spot for poetry. I'm less partial to poems that rhyme — I don't usually rush to read Whitman or Chaucer even though I have a soft spot for Poe and Keats — because they tend to feel flowery. Too full of extra words just for the sake of completing the rhyme.

The poetry we heard last week, and that I heard again last night, didn't rhyme. Didn't feel like words or lines were stuffed-in for the sake of it.

These poems were raw. Strong, muscular words gathered together in sinewy bursts of idea and emotion.

Items, places, moments in time. The sharp, biting feeling of loss and grief contrasted against descriptions of open, untouched natural spaces.

The poet has lived in Norway House, MB for 20 years and when asked about how the landscape influences his poetry he said

"A fish doesn't know it's wet until it isn't. That's how it feels to leave nature and come to the city — you don't realize how much it affects you until it isn't there."

(Spoken like a true poet.)

I went to the reading with Tineke and before the event we had dinner at the restaurant, Prairie Ink, that's attached to the bookstore. We ordered the same thing (blackened chicken clubs with french onion soup) and fancy coffees with whipped cream and we laughed and brainstormed and talked about all sorts of things. The hours slipped by the way they always do when you're spending them with someone who matters to you.

After we'd eaten and paid we shuffled into plastic chairs alongside a few dozen people, colleagues and teachers, family and friends, and watched the sun set through the two-storey windows as the poet we'd all came to see fed us slices of poetry like cake. 

It felt good to support the arts again. Good to sit next to someone I love, surrounded by people supporting someone they love, letting the words wash over me

taking it in. Feeling normal.

Last Friday when I met David I told him I'd attend his book launch and he demurred the way we all do when a stranger offers to do something for us

"you don't have to"
"that's a nice offer, but unnecessary"
"I'd appreciate it, but I don't expect it"

which made me more determined to be there because that's what you do: 

you show up when you say you will.

I didn't get the chance to talk to David after his reading but I hope he saw me in the crowd and could see how his words shifted things in me as he read them, just like they did last week and just like they will again when our copy of his book arrives

(we ordered it online last week so I couldn't get it signed yesterday; silly us)

but I was thankful to be there either way to sit with my friend, his friends, and feel like a community again.

(If you'd like to order a copy of David's book of poetry you can do that here.)

Tags: Life Winnipeg


I feel good lately

- by Alyson Shane

the window's open and I'm in a beam of sunlight drinking a coffee my man made for me and listening to Qveen Herby 

last night I knocked out two pages in my art journal, one about some sad stuff and another about some feel-good shit

I made cardboard rollers and stamps and listened to Conan's podcast and giggled over dumb texts and jokes with friends.

The thing about being in a dark place for a long time is that you don't realize how low and sad you are until you start to pull out of it.

If you'd asked me in February I'd have said I was at my lowest in a long time, and I was, but now that I'm moving on from unhealthy relationships, patterns, and beliefs about myself I'm realizing that

no, I was doing badly for a long time before then.

In 2019 a thing happened — someone I cared about and trusted and was trying to help made fun of me behind my back on a secret Instagram account that several of my friends followed.

Probably unsurprisingly, that fucked with my head. I started to doubt if the people I surrounded myself with

liked me
cared about me
were laughing at me behind my back
thought I was

like that.

I lost myself in the worry and fear and anxiety of not knowing where I stood with people. 

I slowly spiralled into a dark place where I doubted my ability to write, create, imagine

I stopped dressing up, felt guilty about wearing makeup and leaning into expressing myself

I tried to dim my light because it seemed to overwhelm people around me

and yet it never seemed to make a difference. I kept feeling like an outcast, a second-rate friend, and unimportant to the people I loved.

(If I post on social media that I'm struggling and you're my "friend" and you don't reach out are you even a friend? 

How do I interpret getting messages of love and support from strangers when the people I used to hold closest to my heart avoid asking me how I'm doing?)

For a long time I turned those bad feelings in on myself

(this is my pattern)

but lately those bad feelings have been slipping away though words, paper clippings, layers of paint and stitched-together ideas

laughs and good chats with friends, long hugs, tearful candid conversations

working out, eating better, drinking more water and less alcohol, doing yoga and sitting with my body

listening to podcasts and reading books about philosophy, mindfulness, and creative self-expression

watching movies and comedy specials that make my face hurt from laughing.

Maybe this is just the natural evolution of moving past something

shedding the skin of the sad, small, struggling person I was allowing myself to become

stepping out into something brighter, fuller, more me?

I couldn't tell you; I've never gone through something this dark and bad and hard before

but I feel like I'm moving past it

coming through slaughter

holding my treasured people close and laughing and smiling and leaning into the good parts of life

more than I have in a long, long time.


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