Ms Locavoracious Advises

Ms L is taking the opportunity to deal with old trauma in new ways, having discovered psychologist Peter A. Levine on YouTube and taken two of his books from the library, Healing Trauma (book and CD) and  Waking the Tiger.   Levine studied and worked with trauma for 30 years, and around the world in disasters, wars, hostage situations, after bombings, in trauma centres and pain clinics.  

Even accidents can cause trauma, as I know from my 13 of 'em! (Being born 3 months early turned my Fight or Flight instinct on from birth, which makes you hypervigilant and can cause illness later in life because of that.)  Bomb threats (my dad was a union leader) and being bullied, of course, made that much worse, as danger now came from all sides.

One reviewer wrote: "Levine effectively argues that the body is healer and that psychological scars of trauma are reversible-- but only if we listen to the voices of our body."

This discovery is both exciting and inspiring, as I've found somatic release work to be as helpful or more than regular therapy, even trauma counseling, but too expensive to continue.

Levine writers, in Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma: "Of all the maladies that attack the human organism, trauma may ultimately be one that is recognized as beneficial. I say this because in the healing of trauma, a transformation takes place--one that can improve the quality of life.  Healing doesn't necessarily require sophisticated drugs, elaborate procedures, or long hours of therapy... While trauma can be hell on earth, trauma resolved is a gift of the gods--a heroic journey that belongs to each of us." 

This is one journey I am determined to take - and will be practicing his exercises faithfully for some months, slowly and gradually.  (Those who like to work more quickly can do them in only a couple of weeks.)  

I want to clarify my comment about "going postal" the next time a male hijacked a post on the Blasey Ford investigation.

Saying "men get raped too" is like saying, "White Lives Matter" or (having been a white guy abused by your teacher in school) comparing yourself to a residential school survivor.

The scale and magnitude of the problem simply aren't comparable.  

Would you face a mostly female police force if you decided to lay a complaint? Would you face a mostly male judiciary?  A mostly male media?

It's about rich powerful privileged white men raping because they can get away with it - and being rewarded later with positions of power (like Trump) because women's stories of abuse, assault, or rape simply don't matter. (Most people don't give a damn: They believe the man, always.)  The woman was an evil seductress - whether she was 4 or 14 or 44.

So how addicted are you?  Most don't consider computer games,  the Internet, or cell phones to be addictions -- but they can be.

If you're willing to test yours and give yours up for a couple of hours - you get a reward.  Five tickets will be given away nightly to see the Fringe play on addiction, "Fix" -- an interactive, site-specific, interdisciplinary theatrical adventure. Located in Railspur Alley on Granville Island and put on by The Elegant Ladies Collective.  We take an intimate journey through addiction: what makes us want a “fix,” what are our fixes rooted in, and how can we begin to fix this? A compassionate, heartbreaking and beautiful look at what ails us.

Your phone will be kept in K. Lani's capacious pockets! (Ms L to right.)

Give up your personal "fix" for a free ticket! Can you do it?

Come see Karen at our ticket table between 5:30-6 and give her your cell phone or similar item there are  5 free tickets for each show.  For tonight only - even more!  Come early. (The table is next to Art Starts by the playground, Site C.  Enjoy Granville Island, return before 7 and enjoy the show.)

To learn more about the show, check out this link. Should you chose to purchase tickets, proceeds go to support drug rehabilitation programs. Tonight only -- all tickets are half-price!

The Show is 55 minutes, at 7:00 pm, running on:

Monday September 10, Thursday, Friday, Saturday September 13, 14, 15.

Half-Price Tickets Tonight Only!

Ms L has only two brain cells left at her advanced age, due to growing up in the 60s and 70s.  The two cells are like feuding spouses -- who divorce every evening, then reconcile only after 2 cups of organic dark French roast coffee in the morning.  (Without sufficent caffeination, even making a bed becomes an Olympic event.)

Now she has quit coffee (may harm benzo recovery) they are sulking in separate rooms refusing to work together. (Damn!)

Now her brain cells have graduated to throwing things at each other. They've turned into Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.

I am never so proud of my community, my city, as during Pride.

The wondrous diversity of people, all celebrating in harmony and joy. Near-naked men in spangled short shorts that make my short shorts look like bloomers! Topless women decorated in paint or nipple covers, with no-one leering, everyone enjoying.

Families everywhere, Pride babies laughing at rainbows and glitter; tiny tots dancing to the beats.

I spoke to a couple, she from South Africa, he born in Canada but lived always in the US. They delightedly stumbled upon our Pride 2017 and were enchanted, having lived in countries where this is not so safe.

Ms L flirts with the cops far away from the spectacle, keeping traffic moving smoothly around all the barricades. When I said I wanted a souvenir of one of the handsome men in uniform (am bi, and love gorgeous folk in uniform), one to decorate my home, perhaps hold a plant, I was told a volunteer could be arranged. Our cops are witty. One told me I could purchase my souvenir at the main VPD office. "But," he added, "We get purchased a lot, but often returned. We're high maintenance!"

Despite all the glorious drag queens, Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, youthful nudity and glorious body decorations, Ms L was photographed several times, videoed dancing, and even asked to join a Pride selfie by a young Japanese girl.

Here, a Pride flag is decoration enough - waved so enthusiastically by many children - but my Pride fairy wings and fuchsia boa were complimented almost as lavishly as those who spend all year making their costumes. 

Ms L loves the drag queens best - each an extravaganza!

Danced my butt off, music everywhere from Sunset Beach to up and down Davie Street. Started a street dance party outside Denny's, who had great decorations and music this year. Even the waiters rushed out to dance too!

Voice hoarse from smoke and shouting, Ms L wandered home, having celebrated another perfect Vancouver Pride.

Slept like a baby. (A Pride baby!)

To glimpse Vancouver’s own Pride Pirate - Ms L in action - check this video out.  With another video of the view of the parade overlooking Sunset Beach

When noted neurologist and author Oliver Sacks spoke out against psychiatric abuses in a mental hospital he worked in briefly (preferring kindness and compassion, listening and play therapy to psychiatric abuse) -- the psychiatrists got their revenge using rumour, innuendo, and homophobia.

"The chief staff psychologist said that a well-organized and successful behaviour modification program had been set up and that I was undermining this by my notions of "play" not conditional on external rewards or punishment. I replied, defending the importance of play and criticizing the reward-punishment model. I said I thought this constituted a monstrous abuse of the patients in the name of science and sometimes smacked of sadism."

Two days later, Teketomo came up to me and said, "Rumors are going around that you are sexually abusing your young patients."

I was shocked and replied that such a thought would never enter my mind. I regarded patients as my charges, my responsibility, and I would never make us of my power as a therapeutic figure to exploit them."

From Oliver Sacks memoirs, On the Move.

For psychiatrists, "punishing" patients by starving them, depriving them of liberty, placing them in solitary confinement proven to harm the mentally ill (how would it be punishment if you didn't hurt and terrify them?) was preferable to treating them like human beings.

When Sacks spoke out, they punished HIM. (And being gay, of course he had to be a pedophile and was therefore vulnerable.) Though there was no proof whatsoever, he had to leave Ward 23. (After he left, one of his patients tried to commit suicide, missing his mentor, the only caring individual on the ward.)

Psychiatry still uses punishment to "heal" and continues to penalize queer patients (though that has long been taken out of the DSM). Until recently being trans could get you put away. A lawyer recently told me that while families can no longer use someone's being queer to have then incarcerated and medicated, all it takes is an accusation that, "They're not themselves," or "They're acting crazy (read queer or trans)."

Compassionate doctors and therapists who found therapy, listening, play, and creativity far more beneficial than punishment have been all but forced out -- including in British Columbia in 2018.

This is the most beautiful story, on learning about love in an almost unendurable situation. (From the New York Times section Modern Love.)

"I could have stopped going to the marriage classes. I could have stopped dreaming about love. But the only thing harder than living a life without love is living a life without pain. Pain tells us we are alive. That we can still feel. Sometimes, pain is like love. Because I could imagine love, even without my photo, I still had hope."

The West End remains un-destroyed and I did NOT go on a Godzilla-like rampage - despite being uncaffeinated and having to go out for lab tests on just (gasp!) water...

Despite a receptionist taking a full half-hour to fill out the form that normally takes 5 minutes.  She remained unslayed as I chewed my lip and scanned the room for the heavily caffeinated - pondering deep French-kissing a total stranger. (Or cannibalism.) Can you be a vampire with bad teeth?

Thankfully, I'd had a “bath of nature" as the French call it and escaped for half an hour rather than waiting in a drab waiting room.  (And waiting).  I wandered Davie Village Community Gardens (once captured as its Resident Fairy by a photographer who admired my Pride Fairy Wings).  

Months later in another part of the West End, 2 little kids came up to me, all excited, and said, "We know you!"  I assumed they'd heard I was a Pirate, so was gobsmacked when they said, "You're the Fairy!" (Then I recalled someone told me I was on a website I never found for Davie Village Gardens.)

I, of course, smilingly agreed.  Told 'em my wings were a trifle tattered and torn from a long flight and had to be mended.  I love it when their eyes get big!  

Today, my luck was in and a hummingbirds darted by me and fed from a plant. I always said if fairies existed on this plane - they'd be hummingbirds.  Then its mate joined the little hummer, and both flew right over my head.

Sustained by nature, I ate no-one, despite it taking another hour of being a pincushion while still uncaffeinated.   Nature Saves West End from Rampage!

(But am only smiling now as I am home, consuming a coffee!  Ahhhhhhhh... bliss.)

The sky was that eerie white that lets you know smoke from wildfires has drifted in, and the sun blazed a vivid post-Apocalyptic red against the greyish white.  I begin coughing again (a danger for the hernia, but how do you stop?) Wildfire Season is back.  

Remember the days before that existed?  When summers in Vancouver were so lovely we never wanted to go away then as skies were so bright and clear, the weather warm but rarely broiling,  with occasional bouts of cleansing cooling rain? Before the high heat of global warming changed our weather irrevocably and made the woods to dry they became tinder.

A friend has packed his trailers in California, prepared to flee.  So many in British Columbia have been evacuated - one friend 3 times in one summer!

Yet it is still Gay Pride week, with much to celebrate, So be dammed to the disconcerting sky! I thought as I set out for the Pride Premiere.

As always, there's something for everyone.  For the quieter-minded, soft evocative music behind the gallery, lots of fascinating booths to explore.  In the main plaza - a Public Disco, with some wonderfully dressed folk dancing. Rainbows, unicorns, spectacular garb, Drag Queens. Such gorgeousness and fabulosity gathered in one place!  

Ms L is thrilled - I have adults to dance with for a change instead of the (other) toddlers running amok!  They're there too, happily bedecked in sparkles and rainbow glitter on their faces, waving Pride rainbow-feathered fans.  One shyly shares one with me from a public bucket.  Want to dance with a streamer? It's there.   Glitter-bedecked umbrellas entice me, and I dance - though at the 80% level recommended by my physio to protect little Hegg.  (Egg, the Hernia.)  

Some of the watchers applaud me -- which is always funny when surrounded by gorgeous half-naked young people in glitter and rainbows!  Perhaps so few keep dancing at my age, perhaps they just love a spirited queer elder or apparent ally.  

Am tired, it's been a rough week.  (Haven't mentioned it all, need a chance to reflect.) Time to head home and eat for the first time today!  But a favourite musician is now playing in the quieter area, and I dance a dance of joy and grief and pride - lots and lots of pride - for each and every one of us there who has been criticized for being queer, for coming out, been hurt or bullied yet gleam with such radiant beauty and celebrate themselves and the community.  With love, and joy to my mostly-safe city.

This energizes me, and I vault up the stairs at Robson Square (instead of taking the easier route as I planned), still dancing as I hear Babe Coal's stylings wafting home with me.  A group of young Asian tourists seems astonished: They crowd around me, urging me on to dance to their music.  I oblige (still at 80%, which is hard with an appreciative audience).  They surround me, video me - I feel like Lady Gaga!  So glad I can still do this, that I did not give way to fear -- and dance with energy (and only a little caution).  They applaud.  

Kudo's to St Paul's Hospital Records Department (Vancouver, Canada) - and brickbats to Vancouver General Hospital

St Paul’s Hospital Health Records Department assembled 30 YEARS of my health records in 21 days (well under the 30 business days the records departments promise). 7 MONTHS after I first applied, VGH has STILL not provided my records.  10 out of 10: St Paul's; VGH: 0. The last time Ms L applied for her records at VGH on April 21, she couriered the papers and  contacted the head of the department on April 22, to be sure she had dotted every “i” and crossed every “t.”  The gentleman told me all was perfect, and he would expedite the process, given my previous experience. That means LESS-than 30 business days. Apparently, at VGH - 10 weeks – 50 business days is considered “expediting" and I was called and told it would be ready today for mail or pickup.  (Wait for it... The Torment Continues.) I planned my day accordingly to pick them up, have a friend drive me, etc -- only to be informed that THEY.ARE.STILL.NOT. READY.  (*facepalm*) They have assembled Volume 2 I was told, but Volume 1 has disappeared into the ether.   (She didn’t tell me what happened to Volume 3. Eaten by lions I expect.) The paper pushers at VGH resemble Douglas Adam's Vogon Constructor Fleet from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:

“They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters.”

Ms L, however, is rapidly learning bureaucratese. I was told they put "Urgent" on my request. (That translates to "When Hell Freezes Over.")

I think Douglas Adams summed it the bureaucratic procedure exquisitely - and clearly my records are with his plans!

“But the plans were on display…” “On display? I eventually had to go down to the cellar to find them.” “That’s the display department.” “With a flashlight.” “Ah, well, the lights had probably gone.” “So had the stairs.” “But look, you found the notice, didn’t you?” “Yes,” said Arthur, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.”

When people ask (and truly want the answer) I tell them, "My life is beautifully terrible, and terribly beautiful."  (Here's an example of the latter.)

I had a wonderful creative time at my Writer's Group, a Meetup group in Gastown.  Read my latest story on my mom, known for her pioneering environmentalism as The Lady of the Lake.  

Though most thought it good as it was, a couple added some subtle comments that made me see how it could be much better.   Constructive and creative criticism -- the very best kind!

Then I wandered my way back home in the dark, filled with energy from the group's creativity, with nerves to walk off (am always nervous reading my work at first - till it becomes a performance). As I enjoyed the night, I looked up as the clouds parted and revealed a nearly-full moon riding the night.  Lovely!

Performance nerves gone, feeling relaxed I wandered through Robson Square to watch the dancers practicing their varied styles in a large open rink.   A couple with almost balletic moves did salsa, and varied young people moved to hip hop music, wriggling in snake-like fashion from one to another.  One young woman had oodles of swag, and fluid-yet-powerful moves that impressed me no end, so I moved closer.  She saw me and smiled, and beckoned me into the ring.

"Your turn, " she said.  (Had she seen me dance before?)  I busted a couple of moves, added some of my own usual more-contemporary style to the mix, apologizing for being lousy at hip hop.  (Got swag, just unused to the crouching "yo yo yo" posture trained out of me in ballet and contemporary classes.) The powerful young dancer smiled a huge smile and said (to my gob-smacked astonishment), "Your every move is beauty."

Wow.   I guess she has seen me dance before in my own style, not just fooling around with theirs.  Such a wondrous compliment and sparkling finish to a perfect evening, after a tough day battling exhaustion, memory loss, grief and pain.

Transcended completely for a few hours by creativity -- from the talented offerings of the gifted writers in my group to the vivacious dancers in Robson Square.  

Perhaps the joy and pain I dance to release and celebrate show and are appreciated?

Because that was such an amazing and powerful compliment to someone never a pro -- only a talented amateur.  The young dancer brightened my night with her talent and comment as much as the emergence of the silvery moon brightened the night so brilliantly and briefly -- and for a while I felt no pain, only clear energy and creativity.  

Pure magic!  Art and music heal.  (I can testify to that.)

Here’s a video of me dancing, indoors for a change!

A Story From the Other Blog (I Cheat on You With)

I had the most wonderful experience last night.  

I was at the Story Story Lie storytelling show at Cafe Deux Soleil, seated with a friend, just chatting before it began, when a tall beautiful young woman with clear bright eyes walked towards me.

"Do you live in the West End?" she asked.  Puzzled, I replied, "Yes."  She told me she used to be a panhandler there, and I often came up to talk with her. "I just wanted to tell you -- you helped," she said. I was gobsmacked. "I'm sober, I'm working, I live in New West.  And I always wanted to say 'thank you.'"

Wow.  When I was mad for a time (made so by medication withdrawal), I decided if everybody took responsibility for a 2-block patch of their city, and did what little they could -- all those "little's" could add up to something large.

A little money -- I don't like to give much to addiction -- some food. Old gloves or warm socks or scarves.  But mostly I gave respect for their humanity, and what they've suffered to get there.  Street addicts, I’ve always believed, are just people with worse childhoods than yours, and as a former benzodiazepine addict (sleeping pills) I don’t have the right to judge.  There but for the grace of the goddess goes me!

Sometimes I’d share my story -- of getting off 5  prescriptions inlcuding the Benzo’s and recovering my health. (Turns out they’d been harming, not healing.)  Many street people then told me theirs, sometimes things they might not have shared before.

But I never knew if it did any good whatsoever.  Sane now (well, sort-of), the problems of the city seem much more overwhelming.

Hades Abducting Persephone, Bernini

Dragged there by the Hades of grief...

I can testify to its enduring power, its mystery, and the need for ritual, nourishment, self-love and self-care during it mentioned in the blog post Grieving and Ritual with Herbs, Teas, and Essential Oils.  (I recommend it highly.)

I lost 4 beloved relatives before I was 5, and 4 more friends and family before 18. It was too much for a young teen, so I repressed most of it (which doesn't work, or help.)

At 40, the nightmares began, and I sought a dream group to help me understand them. With dream books and the group's wisdom, the long-hidden griefs showed me it was time to them to emerge, for me to face and heal those long-long feelings.

I read and researched, then began a grief ritual.  I had discussed it with a therapist who had done the same for her son, as I wanted to feel safe in case I found it overwhelming.  So many deaths to mourn!

I was afraid I might get caught there, stuck in my grief of overwhelmed -- but in fact it was beautiful. Awesome, in the most powerful sense of the word. As I wept and raged at those who left me alone so young, I felt their presence: healing and transforming tears washed away the stagnant places in my soul, and I felt comforted.

Grief has its own power and majesty. Running from it only prolongs its power. Facing it, sitting with it, and honouring it eases the pain, and brings peace and acceptance. It always returns, but as waves of differing sizes that wash over us, not a tsunami.

Winter may come again, but so does the spring.    Grief counseling, grief ritual, all can help the seeds of spring begin to grow again when you feel forever stuck, trapped in an endless winter of sorrow. 

Ms L deplores the modern tendency to avoid verbs.  Who or what is the new avatar? And why? (Her curiosity is killing her. Ms L is curious as a cat!)

Thanks, @jeezypetes for the explanation.  (Ms L speaks English, not emoji!) When I look at it I see Green Heart the new avatar.    Am learning, it’s a steep learning curve, as Ms L is a Luddite and technopeasant.

I’m baaaack!  Sure, I ran off and married Blogger... created 4 different blogs, cheated on you all.  True, Blogger makes a much more professional-looking blog, more like the hard copy magazines I loved writing for in the past.

But Tumblr has more heart in its little pinkie than all of Blogger!  More community, more compassion, more soul. And I missed you guys and our wild and fun interactions!