Red Cedar

Previous incarnations.

Posted on September 25, 2008 by Megan

I was on a plane back to Vancouver and then straight into meetings this morning so I haven’t had much time to think about blogging or any other form of writing. At least I did manage to write in my journal while waiting for my flight out of Victoria. Grey morn on the harbour, but at least the water wasn’t choppy on the way out, because nothing makes me more nervous on the small planes then when they bob around like the tin cans they are.

In any case, I was on the island last night for a meeting; flew in after work, flew out this morning in time to return to the office for the day. Gave a talk on collective bargaining and the Canadian labour market in between flights. And as strange as all that sounds (even to me), this type of set-up has become increasingly frequent in the past year or so as my union responsibilities have expanded. I like it, even if sometimes I get a little overwhelmed by the number of people I have to answer to (like everyone I am elected to represent at the bargaining table and otherwise – it’s a lot!)

I had a couple of interesting encounters during my brief journey yesterday that were oddly linked, both to each other, and to my radical past. The first was getting off the plane and bumping into a younger radical anarchist I know who is now working for the provincial government. Suit, tie and all, he seemed sheepish about the fact until I reminded him who my employer has been for the last decade or so. Oh yeah. That’s right. He had forgotten that I spend more time these days shuffling paperwork in the bureaucracy or at the negotiating table than making the revolution. These two things are (unfortunately) mutually exclusive if you wish to maintain any type of profile and not get into trouble. And this is what I was thinking about as we parted ways and I headed up towards the meeting facility on Fisgard Street.

At the meeting itself I ended up seated beside a young(er) local president who I met for the first time only a few weeks ago. Probably about my age, seems decent enough as far as fellow union activists go – I get the impression that he’s local president primarily because no one else in his office is interested. So we get into a discussion about the conservatism of our union which he’s gauged is probably a safe topic with me, though he’s still a bit hesitant. So I ask him about his background in unions and politics and it turns into a discussion of who we know in common. Student radicals at different ends of the country at the same time, both members of the IWW, marxist-anarchist analysis, crazy stories about things we’ve done in our younger years that are oddly incongruous with our currrent government-worker, union “leader” selves.

Not the first time it’s happened to me, this meeting of anarchist “kin” in the course of my union or government work (in fact I’m amazed at how often it does happen to me). But usually, my reputation has preceded and other radicals seek me out. This time around my union brother seemed a little bit shocked about our shared political lineage. I think because he’s only seen me at the head of rooms, giving my spiel on bargaining, elections, economics – and I suppose that the most someone would think of me in those circumstances is that I might be a social democrat at best. It’s not that I get to address my union brothers and sisters about the need for a solid working class revolutionary movement after all, so I shouldn’t be surprised when my present face is divorced from my past beliefs and actions.

But there it is, and even though I want to lay it all on the table right there, I find myself cautious still at how much I do want new people to know about me. Because I am changing. Not so much what I believe, but how I act on it. And I am afraid that my past already binds my future in particular ways, so why make that worse? Still, there is the desire to connect with that part of myself in order that I don’t forget or lose what made me want to fight in the first place. It’s still there, that drive. Channeled differently, it has to go somewhere. Which is what I told him in my moment of unsolicited advice-giving – it may not be the most radical union but there’s enough good activists to give you reason to get more involved and stay. And just because we all look pretty straight these days, you’d be surprised at where some of us come from.

It’s true though, you know, my days of risk-taking reputation are pretty well behind me now. And while I appreciate the fact I no longer move through my days a touch paranoid, there is something I miss about making some of the trouble I did. But this decision was intentional, and one I am still comfortable with. It’s just funny the places I run into it again – that past, that person I still am.

Breaking blocks.

Posted on September 24, 2008 by Megan

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In case you’ve been wondering about the clumsiness of the language here lately, I should confess that I’ve been suffering a bad case of writer’s block in the last two or three weeks. Lots of ideas, topics, floating thoughts – but when I try to get them out here or elsewhere the words get all clumped up and they don’t flow out in any pleasing pattern or echo. Literally, my brain feels sticky with language clots, a stupid feeling that wreaks havoc on my sense of who I am (a writer, a woman with a quick mind yes?)

In an attempt to break that over the past few days I’ve redoubled my efforts to write without an internal editor. To set down whatever comes to mind and be happy with whatever fumbles out onto the screen. I find that difficult, to silence my critical self for even a few minutes, let alone every time I sit down to write, but it’s what “they” say you have to do. Particularly when challenged with a block, but even more so if you want to develop a substantial body of material to work from.

So what you have read here this week is about half of what I’ve written, since I am further attempting the disciplinary tactic of getting up every morning at six to write for 45 minutes before work, and have also recommitted to writing 15 minutes per day in my private (paper) journal. In a pretty busy schedule I am attempting to carve two hours out of my day just to write, and hopefully more on weekends as I build up my stamina for the solitude of mind required. And it’s not because I love the act of writing per se, but because I feel like it’s time to make a choice: Either I *am* a writer and I write a tad more seriously, or I am *not* and I stop tormenting myself with the fact I’m not writing. This sitting on the fence is otherwise cutting away at my self-esteem, and there’s no good reason to allow that to continue (besides, it makes me crabby).

Fortunately, Brian is as tired of my neurotic self-doubt as I am, if not actually supportive of my writing work. Thus his encouragement of the regular writing schedule has included a commitment to making coffee and breakfast on the mornings that I write, at least for the next short period while I establish this routine of rising early and heading straight to the computer. This small act helps me tremendously – though I’m not sure if it’s because it cuts down on the amount that I have to do in the morning or because it is a tangible show of support that helps boost my self-esteem on the matter. Probably some combination of both.

In any case it’s working, and I’ve written a lot of words in the last four days. Not a lot of good, cogent sentences mind you. But a lot of words anyways, and I plan to continue doing so for the next few weeks before deciding whether this is a practice that works for me. I have definitely been reminded of a lesson I learned way back in Grade 12 Creative Writing, that if you write freely and without an internal editor, stuff comes out that you didn’t even realize was in there. I wrote 1200 words of notes for a possible poem today, and only towards the end of that did I even realize what the whole point of that poem should be.

So we’ll see. I’m not promising great things, but with practice and discipline I hope to build on what I’ve developed here over the last few years. I suppose it’s just time to push a little further in that direction for my own self-satisfaction if nothing else.

(not so much of a) Fat girl.

Posted on September 23, 2008 by Megan

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In the last few months I’ve been working out more and eating less, which has resulted in a fairly predictable weight loss of almost twenty pounds to date. A noticeable amount, and suddenly I have people mentioning it on a pretty regular basis (which is totally welcome, btw, I appreciate this hard work being acknowledged). I’m about halfway to where I want to get, which means at least another four months of diligence at the gym and in the kitchen – something I am feeling pretty motivated about despite my overbooked schedule. And you know, despite the fact I rarely talk about it, this *is* a big deal to me.

But, even when I’m feeling good about what I’m doing, I have always found it difficult to write or talk about weight loss issues openly. Raised as I was, by a mother who struggled with weight issues, being fat is infused with a particular brand of shame that has me using euphemisms for it if I have to discuss it at all. And I am pretty sure I’m not the only one out there who finds this subject a difficult one given the number of people I know who say they “need to get in shape” when they really mean they want to lose weight, or who talk about “eating better” rather than dieting.

Unlike other health issues (and despite the claims of fat acceptance activists, excess weight is indeed a health problem as evidenced by my own mother’s sleep apnea, weight-aggravated arthritis, high blood pressure and type two diabetes), being overweight is so clearly seen as an individual, personal failing. Oh yes, we all know that corporations peddle poison in the form of fat-laden foods and large portion sizes, and that we are subjected to thousands of these messages per day, but should you succumb – it is clearly your fault. And for that you should be taunted, harassed, depicted as grotesque and/or humourous, and lectured on an almost continual basis as though you were a bad child. It’s no wonder that most people who struggle with their weight tend to keep their thoughts about the matter private – why expose ourselves to the ridicule we are (secretly) sure we deserve for not controlling ourselves better?

It’s pretty insidious, and of course the shaming that society places on fat people does absolutely nothing to encourage better eating habits or more exercise. For people like my mother who have emotional eating triggers it has the opposite effect, and if you’re convinced your body is the butt of other people’s jokes then why subject yourself to jiggling your fat in public on a treadmill? It takes tremendous courage in a society of fat-haters to a) admit that you struggle with your weight and b) do something about it. Trust me. And I’ve only started with 35 pounds to lose – I truly applaud those much heavier people who I see sweating away on the elliptical trainer at the Y.

This isn’t my first time on a weight loss kick (fortunately I don’t have as much weight to lose as last time since I managed to catch things before I went too far in the wrong direction), so it’s not the first time I’ve confronted the profound emotional jumble that comes with the process. Even with a supportive partner, I wouldn’t barely talk about what I was doing for the first two months despite the working out daily and meticulously tracking my food and fitness using an online tool (sparkpeople.com). Even now that I have made noticeable and significant progress and am feeling somewhat more confident about the whole endeavour I find myself feeling like a “loser” for “allowing” the weight gain in the first place. It’s a weird emotional mix – to feel both pride and shame over the same course of action – and even now I am self-conscious with what I’ve written here.

From when I was very young my mother counseled me to watch my weight because I didn’t want to grow up to be fat. She put me on diets at the age of twelve and told me that if you were overweight then everyone could tell you were mentally ill (ie: suffering from depression) because your external self was a reflection of your internal state. She told me that you could only pretend to accept yourself as fat, but really could never be happy in your true heart about the matter. And I don’t blame her at all for any of that given the way she was treated by first her mother, and then her husband. How could you love and accept yourself at any weight if you were ridiculed once you got past a certain point? As a child, I felt my mother’s shame and struggle as acutely as if it was my own. But all this warning and hectoring didn’t stop me from carrying extra weight for much of my adult life. It’s something that just happens to many of us when we stop paying attention to it, we all know how that goes.

And so to add to the emotional stew – beyond pride and shame – I’ve got some other stuff going on from childhood that involve a lot of anger and sadness too. (No doubt this is hard stuff to write about).

It should really be no surprise that my main motivator this time around has in fact been my mother’s deteriorating health. I mean, she’s not dying or anything, but her weight has clearly contributed to a number of health issues in the past few years and as she gets older, the effects have become increasingly apparent. And I don’t want to be there at sixty-five. I don’t expect to be in perfect condition or anything, but it would be nice to sleep without a Cpap machine and exist without regular insulin injections – which are both realities if I get this last twenty pounds off and then keep myself that way.

Hm. So if you haven’t noticed, this is as big an emotional process as anything – but one that I’m feeling equipped to handle and very supported in. It’s been exciting, this reconnection with my physical body, while at the same time working on putting some bad habits (and mental processes) to rest. We’ll see where this goes, but I’m hopeful that with support I can keep myself in check for the sake of my future self and health.

Monday morning free write.

Posted on September 22, 2008 by Megan

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This is like every other Monday morning, get to work, stare blankly at the screen, try to think about what I was doing at work last week or even what I want to blog about. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing comes and I give up, throw the door open to whatever comes from my fingertips in this moment. Was a good weekend, yes, full of friends and things to be done, and the small flatteries that come from a lover at the year’s marking point. Am feeling stronger, healthier, more productive even despite the lack of writing coming from this corner most days. It’s probably the only thing that frustrates me now, having put everything else in place over the past year. Exercise, work, love, home, comfort – breeds poor writing on my part I am afraid. Or perhaps it really is just that I work too much to leave a lot of quiet room for the internal me to process and produce from.

In any case it’s something to just sit down and write whatever comes through – listening to classical renditions of Radiohead on a Monday morning in a cube and posting instead of getting down to the email, the telephone, the co-workers who want to discuss the weekend. This is not exactly the environment for that which is romantic or fanciful, and yet I look at the fish which hang above my monitor – a page of illustration torn from a Victorian-era manual on fish identification and then framed for me a hundred years later – and am glad that at least this corner is mine after all and I can plug my headphones into wherever I need to go on a morning like this.

And why is it I have nothing to say on the current state of whatever environment, politics, current events, whatever? It’s just so much noise right now, three elections that are all screaming stupidity for the most part and if I think about it too much my stomach gets achey and I want nothing more than to move cities, or countries, or continents even though that is obviously not the answer either. So as much as I could rant and compare and tell you all what I think, for the most part it’s best left to the pub after four or more when I can just chalk my angst up to excessive liquor instead of capitalism. It’s easier to quit drinking than to overthrow the system after all.

I have too much fight in me I’m sure. Too much arrogance as well to think that I could ever effect any change. Too much faith in humanity at times to believe there might be a way for us to get it right. Too little faith at other times when I veer towards notions of the benevolent dictator to make sure that no one fucks any of it up. My past itches, insistent to be recognized even as I try to move forward and make a respectable life of apology for my union, for my choices, for my failures as a radical. It’s not as though I ever had an answer, though I long to go back to the times when I thought I did. When having a corner that was mine, and a safe warm bed was not nearly so important to me as it is now. When alone or with comrades was much more important than with lovers and I could sever one part of myself away with the notion of a higher calling. So safely single-minded, the world is a much murkier place to me now.

Sitting with Darren’s lawyer two years ago in his Portland office we discussed this changing view of black/white to grey – and I wonder still if it’s not just the way we sell ourselves back into the system. Capitulate in order to give ourselves an easier emotional time of it when we get to that place of near middle-age and want just for once to not have to fight every single time. Obviously he, being a lawyer, was going to come down squarely on the side of capitulation at some point even if way back in the day he had advocated quasi-radical things. And that’s it really, the system itself won’t allow for success unless we subsume our believes beneath middle-class respectability.

Is any of this news? Not really. But it’s Monday morning and if I let myself write freely, this is what emerges. A lament about work I suppose, the defeat of the start to another week. And it’s funny really that I would go there at all, for I’m feeling quite good today and even fresh from a weekend of good people and good food. Of two minds, as always, I am often afraid to let this quieter me come out on the keyboard and play.