What Would You Do with the Lister Block?

Hamilton Ontario’s beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Cock your head to one side and squint and you’ll see its objects, architecture and people in a totally different light than if you were to tilt to the other side and cross one eye. You can either look at it with hope and curiosity, wondering at its story, or you can look down at the Tim Horton’s littler in the gutter and scrinch up your nose at the man in holey jogging pants, scratching his unmentionable parts and mumbling something about the government planting wires in his head.

Hamilton is what it is and can’t pretend to be otherwise. It makes no claims of being “The Greatest City in the World” as some try. It couldn’t. It would never get away with it. It’s blue collar to the core. Steel town. Hammer town. Tim Hortons Town.

I love this place. Behind the inner city grit, it’s got 22 waterfalls and more compassionate social workers than you could shake a muddy stick at.

Hamilton is where small town kids come to get away to the “Big City”, so it’s a big city made up of small town people. I remember teeny town, Ontario. Every teenager in Dunnville wanted to run away… not to Toronto, but to Hamilton. I think there’s still a small town comfort to it, probably due to its aforementioned runaway inhabitants.
Like a small town, if you come in to this place with a business that acts like it thinks its better than Hamilton, don’t even bother. You won’t last. I can spot a fancy failure from a mile away in this city.
There are distinct personalities to every nook and cranny of my Hammertown. We could sit down and chat about them some time if you’d like, but if I begin to divide them up for you here and now, starting with the basic “Up the Mountain”, “Down the Mountain”, “East Side” and “West Side”, I’d end up getting detailed down to every street and block, pointing out how you can pass from a “good neighbourhood” to a “bad neighbourhood” by walking half a block and turning left instead of right, and how, oddly enough, the “bad guys” generally stick to their block, street, or even their own half-a-street of one block.
At the front of my house we have cute kids playing hop scotch. The back of my house to the left, we have cute kids playing basketball. But half a block to the right, behind my house is a notorious crack-filled apartment building where people are known to get shivved. I’ve never felt unsafe here, unless standing directly in front of that building. Honestly. The street in front of my house is a good neighbourhood.

I live in the center of the city. Corktown. Apparently I’m in the heart of where the Irish settled in Hamilton. We have a lot of pubs and a lot of pubs.

I love this town. I had to choose to settle somewhere as my home base and I’ve been to a lot of places. I chose inner city Hamilton.

A fifteen minute walk to the west of my home will bring you to the actual “City Center”, Jackson Square Mall, the Farmer’s Market and …

The famous Lister Block.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Lister Block. This massive building takes up an entire city block and was once a stately and impressive center of business. Downtown was once what you’d picture a city’s downtown should be. A lot of that hustle and bustle was due to the Lister Block.

As photographer, Isaac J. S. Cumbo writes in his flickr page:

The Lister Block was erected by Joseph Lister on the corner of King William and James Streets in Hamilton in 1886. Soon after its completion it became one of the most desirable central business locations in Hamilton. The building was considered modern for its time, It had a boiler house, new methods of heating, and elevators.
In 1922, an arcade was erected. The original building burnt down in a violent fire in 1923, and the present building was erected in 1924

When the building was occupied, the four upper floors housed offices, while the fifth floor was occupied by professional tenants, such as physicians, dentists, chiropractors, and beauty specialists. The sixth floor was occupied by offices.During the 1970’s , with the completion of the new city hall the focus of civic and cultural activity began to shift from the Lister Block, causing financial difficulties for its tenants. By the early part of the 1990s, eviction notices were issued to all the tenants of the Lister Building. Since then it has remained abandoned, in a constant state of deterioration.

As long as I’ve known of its existence I’ve heard rumors that someone is finally going to do something with the block. A simple Google search will find you people who love the block, hate the block, want to save the block, rebuild it, or tear down/rebuild/turn upside down and plant a hockey team inside of it. There are so many ideas and dreams and rumors of hopeful, wealthy investors making offers to the city. But for some reason it’s just never happened. Every once in a while new boards go up over the windows or doors, but no real action ever takes place. I’ve heard it’s the city’s red tape holding things back. But these are all just rumors.

I want to get inside. I want to explore. I want to dream up new uses for this block and find remnants of its past life.

I find it haunting and ironic that what used to be home to big business and doctors’ condos is now probably home to squatters and the mentally ill. How quickly tides can turn. How quickly wealth can turn to poverty.

Take a look at the following photo blogs, flickr pages and websites full of poetic images and tell me…

What would you do with the Lister Block?

http://www.smlg.ca/Portfolio/simpleviewer/lister/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/carlsoncumbo350d/sets/72057594049322538/

http://community.livejournal.com/abandonedplaces/640447.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/artiseverywhere/sets/72057594052802822/

Normally I Hate the Subway

Originally written November 4, 2006.

I used to see a man on the bus, semi-regularly. He was the type of good looking that’s so distinct and unique it takes you a while to realize he’s good looking. Were one molecule out of place, he could be just as easily be very odd looking. It’s a fine line between super model and freak-of-nature — gazelle and deformed.  As it was, I decided he was very good looking.
He was black, with a shaved head, large wide set eyes and large lips (all almost disproportionately large), with a washboard forehead of wrinkles, just like mine, only more so.  His eyebrows were such a distinguished shape, one might almost assume he waxed with a “smart man” stencil.  His eyebrows alone made him look like he was thinking about something intelligent, and worrying just a little.

I remember drawing him while on the bus once. I don’t think he noticed, and I don’t think the drawing turned out well. But it burned his face into my mind.  That happens when I draw things - like writing down a dream.  It sticks.
I didn’t see him for a year or so.  Maybe I got a new job.  Maybe he did.  I can’t remember.  For some reason at least one of us wasn’t riding that bus anymore.
Then one day I saw a man who looked just like him.  On the same bus.  Wearing the same clothes and sporting the same washboard forehead.
He was identical in every way, but he didn’t seem like the same man. The other man — the pretty one — seemed shy, but laid back.  Tired from a hard day’s work and ready to go home to relax with a glass of wine.  This man looked scared and everything about his body language screamed, “Don’t look at me!”  It really made him look like an entirely different man.  I was almost sure he was.  The thing is, there was no reason that anyone should have been looking at him.  No one was. …Well, except for me, but that wasn’t anything new.
It was so clear in his body language.  It felt as if people’s eyes were like laser beams that stung when they hit him, causing him to flinch.
So, of course, this made me watch him all the more closely.  If you scream, “Don’t look over here!!”, what do you expect people to do?  At first I was only staring at him to figure out if he was the same man I used to admire.  Once I realized he was, I began staring at him to figure out why he had changed.  I couldn’t get over that something was incredibly different about him. I mean, apart from his demeanor. S omething about him had changed, but I couldn’t place it.
We always transfer from that bus to the subway, and head downtown in the sea of morning zombies.
I piled out of the bus after him and I followed behind from bus to subway platform (Not purposely “following” him. That’s just the order in which we walked off the bus). …Even from behind, something was different about him.
It took me the entire walk from bus to subway car to finally realize… his left arm was missing from the elbow, down.
I’m SURE he had a left arm before.  And once I finally noticed it, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I hadn’t seen it earlier.  It was right there! …or rather, it wasn’t right there.
Imagine talking to someone who has a third eye, and not noticing until part way through the conversation. You’re brain just glitches and tells you that this is their face, and this is what’s normal and to be expected for their face. …Once you do notice it, it’s very shocking and jolting.  It’s hard to shake off.
He just didn’t seem like the type of man to be without a limb.  How strange that I thought there was a “type”.  He always dressed in very sharp and expensive-looking business attire, with very classy shoes (his shoes were one item that helped me realize he was the same man. He always had very nice shoes).  For some reason you just don’t see such sharp, corporate men, walking around the business sector, missing arms.  Why is that?  Tragedy doesn’t overlook the rich.  In fact, tsunamis hit luxury resorts first!  Why would I have assumed a rich man couldn’t be limbless?
It’s been a while since he’s ridden my bus.
Last night after work, I found myself on my regular, sardine-packed subway car, squished right up against, who else, but that stunning, sad, one-armed man.  I was there the entire ride, until he got off at his new stop. He must have moved.  His back was turned to me.  Eyes-to-shoulder blades (I’m very short).  For some reason, I couldn’t help but take it personally.
I wanted to hug him. …No, actually, it wasn’t a hug.  I wanted to lean on him.  Have you ever had a big dog like a German Shepherd stand next to you and just lean into you, for comfort and security? That’s what I wanted to do.
For a moment I thought about looking around for the glint of a wedding ring, but then I remembered that… well, it would have been on his left arm.
People don’t talk to each other in Toronto. It’s not likely that I’ll be able to ever ease into any sort of conversation, if I see him again. I’ll probably just always be that girl from the bus who stares at him when he’s not looking, while he pretends that he’s not looking.

Serious about Humour

Humour is my language.
I can speak other languages, but I prefer to express myself in my mother tongue.
Personally, I believe it should be everyone’s language, much like how Americans go abroad and get annoyed that not everyone speaks English.  As understanding and empathetic as I generally am (or appear to be) when conversing with others, I have a difficult time understanding people who just can’t communicate in humour.
If I have to repeat, “No, no. You see, that was a joke.” more than twice in a conversation, you’ve probably lost me.  I just might give up right there.

If human interaction were baking recipes, then humour would be the milk.  Not every recipe needs it, and it would spoil a few dishes, but most baked goods ask for at least half a cup, worked in evenly throughout the mixture.
Well placed, perceptive humour can be an ice and tension breaker.
It can be an open door, as well as a terrific wall — an invitation or a deflection.
There are things you can express through sarcasm that would never work in a serious tone.

My best defense against fighting most of my insecurities is humour.  Self-deprecation can help you own your imperfections and mold them into strengths.

I bought a house a few years ago and quickly realized that green thumbs are not items I possess — not on either one of my hands.  I dug up my front lawn one day with the intention of turning a new leaf and starting a garden, but I then forgot (or rather, didn’t care enough) to actually plant anything.  As a result, my lawn was wonderfully tilled and ideal for lush and fertile weeds.  I like to think I was starting a weed garden, but too many people misunderstood me when I made comments like that.
At its worst, my weeds grew to be about 4 feet tall.
Old Italian men would come around to my house just to point and laugh.
One of them told me to get a husband and have him fix it.  I thanked him for pouring salt on my wounds.

When giving instructions to my house, I eventually found myself describing it as “the one with the ugly lawn”.  This was becoming my home’s most distinctive feature.

My friendliest neighbour Bob, “The Dirty Old Man Who’s Past His Prime” (I swear to you, that’s the way he introduced himself) tried several times to pawn his lawn tools off on me, until I insisted that I had worked long and hard to get my front lawn just perfect like this.
“Oh… Yes.  Yes. I thought so.” He said.  “I didn’t mean to insult you.  I just thought… You know, if you ever wanted to prune it, to be even nicer……  I have a Weed Whacker in my shed.”

I needed to take control of the situation and make sure my other neighbours wouldn’t hate me.
Bob was funny andnd his lawn is dirt, so he would have been the last to judge.

So…
Fix the lawn??  Pfffft.  Not likely.
Making them laugh was the key.

I began to put up signs.  The first one began with a grain of sincerity and read,

“Yes, I am aware of the condition of my front lawn.  But thank you for your concern.”

That sign was put up simply to stop the stares and murmurs from contractors, neighbours and passers-by.

Then came,

“Yeah?!  Your MOM’S an ugly lawn!!”,

“My other lawn’s a Porche.”,

and,

“I do this to make the other lawns feel better about themselves.”

(That my friends, is what I like to call “one-downing”.  Instead of “one-upping”, where one tells a better story, making those around him feel worse about themselves, one-downing self-deprecates and helps to build others up — make yourself plain, so the girl next to you looks glamorous.  That sort of thing.  My lawn was one-downing all the other lawns on the block.  My lawn was the Ethel to everyone else’s Lucy.)

I kept those signs up for over a year.  I grew to care very much for them.  And at one point my mother (a very funny woman) did a drive-by lawn ornamenting, leaving behind a tole painted garden sign in the yard which read, “Quiet please, weeds growing”.

Eventually I realized I had reached a point where I had developed pride over my particular weakness, and my owning of my bad thumbs had now lost its point.  I began to let the lawn get uglier just so I could keep up the signs.
“My place looks like CRAP! Stand tall! Stand proud!” I would think to myself while arriving home from work.

The Fed Ex lady had told me she looked forward to coming to my house, always hoping to find a new sign, and that had made me very happy.
(She would also assure me that the lawn wasn’t so bad.)

I’ve since taken down those signs, and today my inner city lawn looks a lot more like Bob’s.  It’s not glamorous and it’s mostly dirt, but you wouldn’t get lost in it anymore.

I’m no longer insecure about my habit of neglect, but I sort of miss the attention from the signs.
The Fed Ex lady has long since forgotten me.

I’m considering planting corn.

Painting Prayers

While in the middle of painting my latest piece, “Faith”, I realized that my paintings are my prayers.  (With the exception of “Crayola”, which came out making no sense to me at all.)

Not figuratively, as artsy, sentimental mush.  They are very literally prayers.

That’s probably why I’m so emotionally attached to them (”Crayola” aside), and why I’ve never been able to consider selling them (apart from, “Crayola”… Poor “Crayola”).

This also might be why none of them ever feel finished.  Especially the paintings which remain unanswered.

When I look back on them I see that each one was created in a moment when I felt there was nothing else I could manage to do — when none of my own actions could change my life’s circumstances or my own condition and I had run out of words and ways to rephrase my pleas and petitions to God, I could still make pictures.  In a way, to me my paintings echo the tone of Old Testament offerings.

I’ve just finished reading “Disappointment with God” by Philip Yancey, and am now half way through his, “Prayer: Does it Make Any Difference?”.

The visual result of such a tumultuous theme over the last year of my life is this ~ “Faith”, a series of three, acrylic on canvas (photographed with a very poor camera).

It’s a request, not a claim.

I can’t hold on to my treasures.  They were gifts to begin with.  I’m not in control of them, and my attempts at grasping at the pile only results in bruised and squashed fruits.  So I only have one option.  It’s certainly not common sense and it seems awfully foolish to do, but it’s the only way out.  Chuck ‘em up to God.  It’s the only chance they’ve got, and the only way to free my arms of the load.  I guess my arms are of no use if they’re clinging on to tumbling fruits.
This image to me is the flip-side to the Pilgrim’s Progress idea.  He’ll take care of not only my burdens, but my treasures as well (before grasping on to my treasures becomes my burden).

I’m not yet sure which of the three images is me.

Other prayers:

“Precarious”

“Day: 1″ (which was painted over another painting called “Day: 39″)

Day: 1 represents the first moments of reflection and coming to terms - on the way to recovery and able to rest, but reflecting on how things will never again be quite as they were, before.  Blind faith hopes there will be a purpose, in spite of the thick fog that tries to convince it otherwise.  Day: 1 waits, hoping the pain will become a pearl.
Day: 39 was painted a few years earlier.  It was an image of an emaciated hermaphrodite character, doubled over and dry-heaving on the floor.
40 days in the desert.  40 days of flood waters rising.  The 39th day is that nearly broken state that thinks it will surely last forever and could never guess Day: 1 is just around the corner — the day before a dove returns with an olive branch in beak.  That painting was far too painful looking for me to ever display, so I felt it much more meaningful to start again, over top, with Day: 1.

“Anne’s Blue Heaven”
“I see the eight of us with our ‘Secret Annexe’ as if we were a little piece of blue heaven, surrounded by heavy black rain clouds. The round, clearly defined spot where we stand is still safe, but the clouds gather more closely about us and the circle which separates us from the approaching danger closes more and more tightly. Now we are so surrounded by danger and darkness that we bump against each other, as we search desperately for a means of escape. We all look down below, where people are fighting each other, we look above, where it is quiet and beautiful, and meanwhile we are cut off by the great dark mass, which will not let us go upwards, but which stands before us as an impenetrable wall; it tries to crush us, but cannot do so yet. I can only cry and implore: ‘Oh, if only the black circle could recede and open the way for us!’”
~Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank

“Ravine”

Newest in the “Painting Prayers” theme,
“Safe”

Honey, Honey ~ Feist

How to Make a Frankin Toy

I have made somewhere over 50 (but probably less than 100) “Frankin-Toys” in the past 6 years. They make for a fun, guaranteed one-of-a-kind, inexpensive and thoughtful gift. And if you can sew at all, they can be extremely fun to create.

How to make a Frankin-Toy

1- purchase a heaping pile of second-hand toys. Name-brand preferred, but the most important quality in all of them should be their clearly distinguishable body parts. For example, teddy bears are generally only good for their heads. Once torn apart, a teddy bear’s leg or arm simply looks like a stump. But if that’s the sort of frankin-toy you’re going for – a stump monster – then by all means!

2- disassemble said toys

3- sew back together in amusing (yet preferably non-offensive) arrangement

4- assign silly name and give away as Christmas (and/or any-or-no occasion) gifts

Sadly, I’ve given away most of my toys without having taken pictures.  I can’t remember all the toys I’ve made.
If you’re one of the lucky jerks to have received a Frankin-Toy in the past, I’d love it if you took a snapshot and sent it to me!  I’ll post it on the site.  I miss my babies dearly. Each one is special.

“Bubble-ufagus”

Squeeze her fuzzy claws and she says things like,

“You’re beauuutiful” and, “Crayons make me happy!”

Big Bird gets eaten by a fish.  A moment of creative genius, I must say.

“The Bert Bullet”

WHAM! POW! Shot straight through the belly of a very indifferent flamingo!

“Tweety Junction”

“Frog Legs McToots”

The latest toys, Christmas 2008
I call them “Tigger Time, Times Two”  BFF’s.

They hop and twitch and giggle and sing. They even sense when they’ve fallen over, but the one on the left is no longer able to do somersaults since I “modified” him.

“Anne’s Blue Heaven”

“I see the eight of us with our ‘Secret Annexe’ as if we were a little piece of blue heaven, surrounded by heavy black rain clouds. The round, clearly defined spot where we stand is still safe, but the clouds gather more closely about us and the circle which separates us from the approaching danger closes more and more tightly. Now we are so surrounded by danger and darkness that we bump against each other, as we search desperately for a means of escape. We all look down below, where people are fighting each other, we look above, where it is quiet and beautiful, and meanwhile we are cut off by the great dark mass, which will not let us go upwards, but which stands before us as an impenetrable wall; it tries to crush us, but cannot do so yet. I can only cry and implore: ‘Oh, if only the black circle could recede and open the way for us!’”
- Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank

In Passing

Originally written Feb 23, 2007

Sometimes I daydream about horrible things.  Usually while I’m waiting for the subway, during rush hour.
I think about getting accidentally shoved onto the track and losing my left hand.  It makes me feel as if it might make life easier somehow.  Do I want to lose my hand? No!  My left hand is my career and my career is like my child!  A part of me would die if I were to ever have my hand taken off by a train or anything else.  I’d rather lose half my body or even my face than lose my left hand.
This morning in the subway I realized I fantasize about these things because, in a way, it would make sense of my struggle.  All my life I’ve been struggling with God-knows-what (and He does), throughout a perfectly blessed and privileged, middle-class life.  I’m perpetually fighting to push forward, but I can’t be sure of what it is I’m fighting or pushing so strenuously against.  Nothing is “wrong”.  …So why is everything wrong?
Why do I feel as if the air I’m trying to walk through is as thick as mud?
A constant, underlying Melancholy would make sense for an artist with no hands. What a poetically bitter existence that would be. Struggling through a life like that would make sense and no one would question my discontent.  No one would tell me I’m ungrateful.  (As it is, nobody does. I don’t recall having ever spoken of this before.  But I do feel as if I’m being ungrateful.  My life is incredible.)
I’m learning how to be content in all situations.  I’m not yet there, but it’s something I grow in as I live.  However, I’m not sure I’ll ever been content with Life.  Not MY life, but Life as a whole — capital “L”, Life.
I think this feeling must be humanity, or at least “the human condition”.  The struggle — the fighting — is against everything that’s wrong with the world; an endless dissatisfaction, having a distant recollection that this isn’t the way it was meant to be.  What I’m pushing against is “why bad things happen to good people”.  What I’m pushing against is “why a fine dog bites a nice child”.
Even in the ecstatic times, something in me is fighting against pain.
So, I don’t think I want to grow to be content with capital “L”, Life.  I don’t want to grow desensitized to it.  I won’t accept that this was the plan, because I’ve seen the blueprints and I know it wasn’t.
This feeling –this pang– could be the seed that could mutate into self-mutilation.
A person wants pain they can see.
I remember breaking up with a man and trying to make myself throw up (I never succeeded. Damn my repressed gag reflex!)  I just wanted to know why and where in my body I felt so ill.  I can’t locate heartache and it confuses me, deeply.
I’ve read about disorders where people become convinced they are supposed to be amputees and become so obsessed that they go as far as amputating themselves. Sometimes it’s for pity, but it’s often because they see amputees as valiant heroes — overcommers.  In a way, I can understand that disorder.
I think those of us who aren’t already there, are just one sliver away from serious, debilitating dysfunctionality.  All it takes is one little brain glitch to bridge the gap – one little spark from a couple crossed wires to make the difference between balanced and imbalanced.  Sane and insane.
This was all just a fleeting, partially subconscious thought when I got onto the crowded subway car this morning, but now that I’ve spoken it out loud (in a way), it’s messed with my head a little and made me rather somber.  I’ll likely not speak of it again, for fear that irony (who, in my mind, is a living, breathing, cruel and bored 30 year old man) will take advantage of the moment and have me hit by a train on the way home.  I don’t really want that.

C.S. Lewis wrote, in a collection called “The Business of Heaven”,

“The settled happiness and security which we all desire, God withholds from us by the very nature of the world: but joy, pleasure and merriment, He has scattered broadcast. We are never sage, but we have plenty of fun, and some ecstasy. It is not hard to see why. The security we crave would teach us to rest our hearts in this world and oppose an obstacle to our return to God: a few moments of happy love, a landscape, a symphony, a merry meeting with our friends, a bathe or a football match, have no such tendency. Our Father refreshes us on the journey with some pleasant inns, but will not encourage us to mistake them for home.”

“Day:1″

Donkin Donuts

I’m downtown in Toronto, wandering aimlessly after having had a meeting with my film’s sound designer. (sounds pretty impressive, doesn’t it?)

Hurting from lugging my laptop around on my back, I sit down in a coffee shop called, “Country Site Donuts” (a name that makes me shake my head in disappointment at how the owner must have just given up on life, settling for such a cheep rip-off of “Country Style”. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the “Donkin’ Donuts” I once saw in Prince Edward Island. At least “Country Site” still made some degree of sense).

As I’m sitting, resting my shoulders and finishing up the last three pages of a book, a lady comes waddling in and motions secretively to the waitress that she wants to speak privately. Privately, but loudly, she says, “Pssst! You can just get me a Coke this time, because I don’t have any money.” She sits down, nods at the waitress and shoos her to ‘snap to it’, repeating several times, “It’s ok. Yeah, I don’t have any money, so shhh. It’s ok.”

It was to be under the table – real covert-like.

After a few more requests for a Coke, I jump up and approach the counter, slapping down a toonie. “How much is that Coke?” I ask, gleefully.

“Genie! This lady is buying you a coke!” says the waitress behind the counter.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, dear dear! You’ve saaaaaaaaaaved my life! Oh you’re an angel in disguise. Oh, you lovely lady. There ARE some nice people in the world! You’ve SAVED my LIFE!!”

If I had known it was a matter of life and death I might have gotten her something more substantial than a sugar beverage, but hey. Glad to be of service.

“Oh, honey. Thank you, thank you… and I’ll have that dutchie too.”

She points to a plump donut.

Me – “…oh. Well… yeah! Ok, sure! How much for the dutchie?” And I slap down another loonie.

Genie boldly continues, “…And I like the look of that muffin too, and an orange juice and…”

Way to milk it, Genie! Good on ya!

Both the waitress and I interrupt her and insist that I don’t have enough money for aaaaaaaanything else. …How the waitress would actually know, I’m not sure, but Genie doesn’t question her.

Because I saved her life, she comes up to me for what I think will be a hug, but turns out to be a 3-year-old style kiss, with lips turned ¾ of the way inside out, and slobberier than anything you’d ever like to touch on another human being. Even though Genie doesn’t seem the type to pick up on social subtleties, I still refrain from wiping my cheek clean after the *shudder* …kiss. My right cheek is practically dripping.

I head back and sit down once more and Genie, taking her coke and donut to-go, dotingly follows me.

“Yep. I know. I saved your life. Really, it’s ok. It’s ok, Genie. No problem.”

Smiles, smiles. Happy happy. Smiles.

Genie – “Now, listen. They don’t feed me at that home. I don’t like it there. They neeevvver ever feed me there.”

Me – “Never??”

Genie – “Never. I can feel the baby kicking because I’m so hungry.”

She pats her poochy belly. She’s got to be at least 60 years old, but it’s hard to tell, exactly. She’s a woman-child and has an air of eternal youth about her. Very few wrinkles or white hairs.

“I can just feel that baby kickin’.

“Now, let me ask you. Are you studying Biology like me?” (Pronounced, “Bee-ology”)

Me – “Nope.”

Despite my one-word answer, I am being very (even overly) attentive. I don’t get this sort of interaction often, so it intrigues me, if only for the purpose of writing it down later. I could easily leave if I wanted to. I’ve finished my coffee.

The waitress leaves the safety of her counter to tell Genie that I need to finish my “homework” (I hate being mistaken for a student), and that Genie should probably leave me in peace.

Genie shoos her away with an,

“Oh, I’m just explaining Beeology to her. It’s ok. Leave me alone.”

I look at the waitress, smile big and mouth the words, “It’s ok.”

“Now let me tell you what I’ve learned about Beology.” She says with great emphasis on every single word.

“You know your digection system, right?”

She pats her baby belly again.

“Well, in your digection system, you’ve got a tube running this way,”

She runs her finger horizontally across her stomach.

“and a tube running this way.”

She runs her finger vertically down her stomach, drawing an invisible cross.

“Now, if theyyyy faaaall out…”

(My attention had been starting to wane, but this sentence quickly perks my ears up again.)

“Now, if thoooooose fall out, they just start to ROT!”

Me – “Really?? Wow.”

“Yep. They just start to rot and everything begins to SMELL! All your parts start to smell and you just start to SMELL! It just smells Horrrrrible.”

“oh no.”

She pats my knee for comfort, so that I won’t be too frightened by this news.

“But if you have cells, like these…”

Genie points very carefully and slowly to five specific spots on the top of her head – she tilts her head down so that I can clearly see the five points on the top of her scalp that have “cells”.

“then you’re gonna be aaaaaaaaaaalright.”

I get another pat on the knee.

“Oh, good. …good.” I say.

She then leans in close, much like in the covert operation upon which she embarked, when first she arrived.

She whispers, “How would you like what they did to me? Oh no. I don’t like that one bit. They don’t feed me there. You have to visit me every day, ok? Eeevvvery day.”

I ask her if she had friends at the home, trying to get the attention off of me and my sudden responsibility for her well being.

She mentions a name or two and I try to focus on those people.

“But my father. Oh, what he did to me… Ohhhhhh, what he did to me. How would you like to be tied down… Oh no… How would like that?”

Oh, shoot.

I didn’t sign up for this part.

I can’t help but curl up my eyebrows with great concern and get very sad for her, agreeing and nodding that it is horrible, horrible, horrible what her father did to her (whatever it was), hoping that she’ll forget this part in a few seconds and get back Beeology. …for her sake. Just think about Beeology, Genie.

A few seconds later,

“On Mondays I get my money and I like to go to Tim Hortons. I don’t suppose you could buy me something at Tim Hortons, could you?”

Me – “Oh…. No, no, no. I just bought you some food and you haven’t eaten it yet!”

(This is my moment to prove to people who know me that I AM capable of saying “no”.)

After more prompts to visit her every single day, I try to close the conversation without making any promises, give multiple hand shakes and a, “Weeeelll, it was good to meet you Genie. …yup. You have a good day.” And other subtleties she refuses to pick up on, until the waitress tells her to go sit at the outside table with her donut.

Did I mention she slobber kissed me about four more times during this conversation? By the second one I found it too traumatic to pretend to be alright, and I began to full-on wipe them off with my sleeve in front of her. I knew by this time she wouldn’t notice.

Not too long after Genie sits down outside, I leave the building and wander some more through the Great and Mighty T-Dot to find an art supply store. I wipe my cheeks in an obsessive compulsive manner for about half an hour. I can still feel a phantom slobber and those cold, clammy, inside-out lips pushed upon my skin.

But all-in-all, I’m glad I met Genie. She knows that I’m “not from around here” so she shouldn’t expect my daily visits, even if she does remember me, which I doubt she will.

Maybe I’ll go back there some day, just to meet her again, for the first time. I’ll try it all over again to see what more I can learn about Beeology.