![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
quietearthling's journalLog in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more
| You are viewing quietearthling's journal Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
 |
|
| Quiet Earth Chronicles 20 most recent entries |
 |
Life and Death Things that involve blood, dead bodies, and unscrupulous public servants should probably not be so amusing, but they are, to me at least. I hope that one day when my lifeless corpse is taken away in a plastic body bag, it'll be a genuinely funny event. I don't mind if it's gruesome, or scary, just as long as it is also humorous. Act 1
“Amanda, I want to go buy a coffee,” I say. “Oh, all right. Be back quickly,” Amanda graciously says, because she's nice like that. And just as I make it to the coffee shop my cell rings. “Come back right away, I think a tenant died.” I run back. And, think, “I can't believe it. I step out for TWO BLOODY MINUTES and someone dies.”
Act 2 – while I was gone
“Amanda! My neighbor fell down and she can't get up,” a tenant reports. Amanda (who is a paramedic by the way), rushes upstairs to the rescue. What she discovers is the following: the woman's body is face down, warm, and unnaturally heavy. Amanda, with help of another tenant flips the body over. The face is swollen and deformed, and the body is warm because the rigor mortis has already worn off. Amanda calls 911 to report a dead body. The dispatcher says, “Start doing compressions.” Amanda replies reasonably, “I really think she's dead.” The dispatcher ORDERS her to do compressions. Amanda, against all common sense starts doing compressions. The dead body discharges blood from the mouth. Paramedics arrive and see Amanda performing CPR on the obviously dead body. One of them breaks the ice, by saying, “Soooo, you are doing compressions?”
Act 3
There are so many ways to get a date. You could respond to newspaper personal ads, you could stalk people on the Internet, you could correspond with convicted felons, and you could go to church. Or, if you are a paramedic, you could stand over a dead corpse that is covered in feces, urine and blood, leer at the attractive young woman who used to know the deceased, and ask her: “So, whatcha doing for dinner tonight?” I kid you not. The guy asked Amanda out while they both were standing over the departed's lifeless form. I personally think it's a testimony to Amanda's attractiveness. I really think she should have said yes, and married the guy. I just think it's an awesome story to tell your children, “Your father picked me up while bagging up a corpse.” I say, Amanda is very pretty. Because as soon as the paramedic got turned down, the cops started flirting with her. The dead body was still in the room. Not even covered with a blanket or anything. The tenant might be dead, but at least romance is still alive.
Act 4
For some reason, Amanda is not all that amused by all the flirting. Actually, she's fit to be tied. And then, she starts looking for her keys. They are nowhere in sight. “Did you leave your keys in the room with the dead body?” I ask helpfully. “I must have. But I'm not going up there,” she adds quickly. “If they start flirting with me again, I might say something I'll regret.” I really, really want Amanda to say something dramatic, and worthy of regret, JUST ONCE. She never does though. Damn. “I'll go rescue your keys,” I volunteer. And see the dead body, Amanda adds mentally, while she looks at me smirking.
Act 5.
“I am looking for a keychain with a red tag,” I tell the paramedics and the officers and the coroner. “Oh yeah, I remember that keychain. It's over there in the room. Go ahead.” They stand aside to let me in. Now, this is the first dead body I'm seeing in the line of work, and second dead body I'm seeing in my entire life. The bodies seen in movies really don't count, I think. So the body is there, on the floor. Still hasn't been covered up with a blanket or anything. I mean, not that I can blame them guys, they've been busy flirting with Amanda. “Where is that keychain again?” I ask, cautiously advancing towards the body. There are really too many fluids on that body for my comfort. “Right there,” finger points to a chair next to the dead woman's head. “On the chair.” I stare at the chair. Then I stare at the dead body again. There's a problem with this, I realize. No, two problems. Problem 1: To get to the chair, I am required to step over the dead body. Not that I am overly sentimental or anything, but... I just dunno. Problem 2: I do not see the keychain on the chair. And that's the crux. If I could see the keychain, I'd step over the dead body to get to it. But I don't see it. And truly, I'm not into the gratuitous stepping-over-dead-bodies. No, not me. I ask, “Where's that keychain again?” “Right there, on the chair. Can't you see it?” “No,” I say. “Well, it's there.” I don't make a move. I'm stubborn like that. I'm not hopping over that dead body for no reason. “Well, I can't see it,” I say. “Can you physically POINT it out to me on the chair?” The police officer follows my gaze and stares at the chair. “Oh what do you know, it's not there.. .where is it? Oh wait, it's in the evidence bag out in the hallway! You don't need to be in this room at all,” they say, and usher me out of the proximity with the corpse. Thanks, jerks. Truly I think Downtown Eastside gives birth to the best dark comedy you could come up with. And the most amazing part of it is that it's completely unrehearsed. Seriously, could you come up with this sort of stuff if you TRIED?
2 comments | post a comment
From time to time, I think of quitting Paper Cup. I think part of the reason I remain there, is that it's my connection to the Normal Jesus. Not sure how else to describe it . The view of Jesus that is held by normal, middle-class, conservative or moderate people.
Re-Posted from Facebook
2 comments | post a comment
This morning, I am working at Jubilee Rooms. I love taking over from Brenda for a number of reasons. She's nice. The tenants love her, so there's good energy in the building. The office looks clean. There are no dirty dishes in the sink. She confesses any "sins" right away... Giving me a slice of toast, she said casually, "By the way, I let a guest sign in early today." I looked at her with a mixture of amusement and contempt for her compassion. "Oh?" "Hear me out. I thought they had a legitimate reason." "Go on." "They were handcuffed together. Literally. And said he had swallowed the key." I blinked. "Say what?" "They needed to go get some tool to get them unstuck." "Did they get unstuck yet?" "No, not yet." "I wouldn't have let them up. Let them wait by a police station and get uncuffed when they open." Brenda looked at me horrified. "I"m just saying. If we let this sort of thing be a legitimate excuse for bringing in guests early, EVERYONE will start doing it. You should go knock on his door and tell his guest to leave." "Fine. I'll do it if you want me to." She came back a few minutes later. "I did. They said they are coming down in 2 minutes. I'm going home." 15 minutes later, I was knocking on the tenant's door again. "John...." "We are coming out in two minutes!" "You've said that 15 minutes ago!" I banged on the door again. Louder. Some scrambling around followed. "John, can you open the door please? I just want to talk. I promise I won't hurt you." I said, trying not to laugh too hard. The door opened a bit. The tenant looked slightly embarrassed and defiant. "The other staff member said we could come in." "You SUCKERED her into it! And I am telling you now you can't have guests here before hours. Handcuffed or not. You should go to a police station and wait for them to open - they'll help you." "We are going to. But, can we sleep first?" a girl's voice asked politely. "Who is this?" A small shy voice said from behind the door gave me a name. "Hello there." "Hi." "The deal is, you need to leave now. You can't be here before the visiting hours." "Can't we stay until visiting hours start?" John asked. "No! Come on, work with me here. If my supervisor arrives at the building and finds an unauthorized guest, before hours, handcuffed to a tenant... how do you think it will make me look?" They actually giggled at that. "I'll make you a deal. If she leaves now, she can come back in the afternoon. If she doesn't, she can't come back for a week." "That's not fair!" John protested. "The other lady said I COULD bring her in." "She mad a mistake, and I'm correcting it now," I said bluntly. "You can't punish me for her mistake!" "No," I agreed, "But I can punish you for not doing what I say." "It's true, she can," the girl's voice said helpfully. Bless her little heart. Two minutes later they emerged from the room. The handcuffs were black nickel finish, and I tenantively appraised them at $39.99 "They do not like a standard police issue," I observed. "No." "Where's the key?" "I swallowed it," John said sheepishly. "Why on earth would you do that?" "I was kidding. I didn't really plan for it to happen." As he was hopping into his shoes, I took out my cell phone. "I'm taking a picture of your hands handcuffed together." "Why?" John's voice was sulky. "Because," I said, "I want proof. This way my supervisor isn't going to think I just made it all up." I showed them the picture. He groaned and the girl smiled. "I like it," she said gently and kissed him. He sulked further. They left handcuffed together. When Amanda called, and asked me how my day was going, I started laughing hysterically. Amanda said that this was the strangest thing she's ever heard. I said it was the strangest thing I've ever SEEN in the rooming houses, and said I was delighted to be here for it. "Well, at least it gave you some positive energy for the day!" she giggled. I must say, this kind of crisis I don't mind. I'll take this over floods, fires, bed bugs, mice, cockroaches, mental health meltdowns and overdoses any day. It makes a far better story.
I’m not quite sure what happens when we die. Maybe we just die, and our spirit/soul/essence vanishes into nothingness – until God re-creates us again, in some way, to send us off on another adventure. Some days, I think that whatever life we are having now, will continue… only, maybe a little bit closer to the Higher Power. Maybe seeing things a little bit more clearly. Maybe having a chance to choose the direction that you always wanted to go in, but never could, because of all the forces holding you back. Oddly enough, the book of Revelation says that in heaven, the Son of God will wipe every tear off your face. So, I’m guessing, that there may still be some sadness in the afterlife. Derek and I rarely talked about afterlife, but we talked a great deal about this life. He would say how he wanted to just go off and sit by the water somewhere, listening to the birds, and the wind blowing through the trees, or the rain; watching the waves, and “mellowing out”. His dream was simple – a bag of weed, a tin of tobacco, lots of good food, a place far away from any kind of city scene where crystal meth was available, and a fishing rod. “Sounds good,” I said sincerely. Bag of weed vs. injecting crystal meth? Dude. Totally. I’m with you there. He told me stories about recovery houses. Some recovery houses for crack/crystal meth users would kick you out for smoking a joint. Now, I’m no addictions counsellor… and I don’t, by any means, believe that weed was the best thing that ever happened to humanity. I’m just sayin’, sometimes you gotta pick your battles. About a month before he died, on a Wednesday morning, Derek walked into the office, and sat down in a chair, glaring at me. His application for a recovery house he had hopes for was denied. Apparently, the recovery house decided that they couldn’t deal with his “issues”. I shook my head in disbelief. Derek? Issues? I would take him into my home, if I had a home with a spare bedroom far away from the downtown eastside, that is. Derek is one of the most intelligent, most self-aware, most self-disciplined, most promising young people we ever housed. If they won’t take him, then what hope is there for everyone else in the Downtown Eastside? I asked him if there was anything I could do. I was itching to call the recovery house, and speak to them, politely and professionally. Or if that failed, tell them what exactly I think of their “program” and “screening methods”, and where exactly, and how deep, they could shove their opinions of Derek’s issues. Derek shrugged. “I don’t know, Galina. I just don’t know.” “You know, you should start your own house,” I blurted out. “You get this stuff like no-one else I know. You should start your own recovery home. You know, a harm reduction one.” “Galina,” he said, pausing intensely after every few words. “Honestly, this is what I always wanted to do. Start a harm-reduction recovery house. For youth. I just want to go away first. Just sit and watch the water. Fish. Bring a bag of weed. Then, go back to college. Do a diploma in addiction counselling. Just so that I have a paper letting me run a recovery house.” It was a good dream, I thought. And a plausible one. I could actually imagine Derek doing that. I just had another thought of heaven. Maybe heaven is relative. Remember the parable of Rich Man and Lazarus? R.M. lived a life of luxury, and Lazarus was a leper and a beggar. Then they both died. Lazarus went to a place of honor and comfort, and R.M. went to a place of pain and torment, and didn’t like that much. Ok, so I am wondering, what if they actually went to the same place? Imagine a guy whose life consists of “killing” competition to climb the corporate ladder, using women, buying expensive toys, being selfish, and controlling people. Take away his status, his power, his big screen TV, his cell phone, and his newest iPod. Dump him alone, into the midst of kids in their late teens, detoxing from speed, and tell him to take care of them. That would probably be hell for him. At least for the first couple of years. Now, imagine Derek, clean and well, with a clear mind and a healthy body. Imagine him flinging the doors of his home open, welcoming young people, being a big brother to them, encouraging them, supporting them, making coffee for them, cleaning after them, forgiving them, loving them. I think, struggles and challenges aside, that would actually be his idea of heaven. Maybe once we cross over, there’s no judgment or punishment or anything like that. Maybe God only has the best for us, but with small print: your initial experience of God’s best may vary, based on what kind of person you have chosen to become? I’m picturing Derek now, continuing his adventure. He’s alive. He’s just resting. He’s sitting down somewhere on a lakeshore, listening to the rain, watching the waves, smoking a joint. He’s letting his mind and spirit become stronger and healthier, as his need for crystal meth fades, and his passion for life reasserts itself. Once he’s well-rested and strong, he’ll get up, and walk along the lakeshore, and open his own harm-reduction recovery house for youth in heaven. Maybe it’s not very good theology. But right now, I’ll settle for a good dream, and a good hope.
for Derek Irwin, with affection and
1 comment | post a comment
best wishes for your new adventures I loved Derek for many reasons, not the least of which is that we both hated Coffee Mate. In fact, as far as I am concerned, our hatred of Coffee Mate was a spiritual bond of sorts. Pouring a cup of coffee and stirring in some white powder, he would say, “Coffee Mate. That stuff can be used to start a fire on a rainy night in the forest. I dread to think what it does to my insides.” I first met Derek about half a year ago. Jeff, Jubilee’s team leader called me to say that Derek did some work and I needed to pay him. “Okay,” I said, “How will I know it’s Derek when I see him?” “You will know because he has half a head missing.” I thought, Jeff and his odd sense of humor. Fifteen minutes later, a young man with a smile on his face walked through the door. “Hi,” he said, looking at me with a smile. “I am Derek.” He took the cap off his head, revealing an enormous dent in his skull. He could not have made a more dramatic entrance. Derek came into our community when Amanda rented a room to him. A few weeks later, under the influence of crystal meth, Derek took his clothes off, crawled out of the 3rd floor window, and sat on the crossbeams in the light well, three story drop beneath him. Amanda quickly assessed the situation as potentially problematic, and called 911. The police came and said, “What are we going to do? You figure it out.” We figured it out. We hired him. I think something in our collective consciousness just clicked, “Naked in the light well? He is onto something here. He knows how to adapt to stressful situations.” After Amanda hired him, Derek quickly became my personal hero. He single-handedly saved more than one tenant from eviction by going in and cleaning the infested rooms full of debris and waste, that government-funded support workers wouldn’t touch with a six foot pole. He worked slowly, with a great deal of determination, with numerous smoke breaks, and with lots of dramatic stories about the rooms, the tenants, and the gross nasty stuff he gets to see and do. “Galina.” Pause. He liked pauses, as they heightened the dramatic effect of the unfolding story. “I am no plumber.” Pause. “But why is it, that when people plug a toilet.” Pause. “They think it necessary to continue throwing toilet paper into it.” Pause. “Until the entire thing is filled to the rim?” He waved a plunger in the air. I once suggested that even more than the money, what motivates him to do these jobs is the ability to tell stories afterwards. With a huge grin on his face, he nodded vigorously. His cleaning stories are almost as interesting as his stories about drug use. He laughed, confessing that he had purchased drywall, powdered chalk, and crushed glass thinking it to be crystal meth. He told the story about a buddy offering him to snort some powder a few weeks ago. “I don’t know what it was,” he said, and paused. “As it is not having any effect on me.” Pause. “None.” Pause. “I did not get high on this, whatever it was.” Pause. “However, I can’t help but wonder what it is that I snorted.” Even more amazing than his work stories or drug stories, were his binning stories, and binning trophies. “People throw out the weirdest stuff,” he said. “Clothes. Watches. Christmas gifts they never wanted. Tins filled with pennies and nickels.” From his binning adventures, I got a plastic rose that is hanging in the office, spray bottles for building cleaning, a little toy frog, and a pair of almost brand new Doc Martin boots. Murray, Chris and Barb found him this morning. He was face down on the bed. The cause of death is still officially unknown, but the coroner said that it is likely that he died from “natural complications of his pre-existent condition”. On June 27, 1997, he tried to take his own life by placing a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. He survived, but blew a part of his head off, and was discovered, alive, bleeding, 12 hours later. When asked who did this to him, he kept saying his social insurance number and date of birth. “I suppose, in my own way, I was trying to tell them that I did that to myself.” I think it’s tragic that he died so young, but I am also grateful for the miracle of him surviving that suicide attempt, and staying alive for 10 more years. At least I got to know him, have dinner with him, hear him laugh, and watch him make coffee. At least I got to see him positively glowing when he finally got to leave his tiny, dark Jubilee room and move to a bright, newly renovated room at the independent rooming house. At least I got to hear him say over and over, that with us, he felt like a part of the family. At least I got to hear his stories. Stories about pain, happiness, beauty, ugliness, anger, forgiveness. Stories about being stuck, stories about moving on. Stories about figuring things out. “By the way,” he said one day. “I figured out what it is that I snorted in my buddy’s room.” Pause. “You know how I found out?” Pause. “I entered his room and there it was.” Pause. “This stuff, all over the counter.” Pause. “So I dipped my finger into it and tasted it.” Pause. “You know what it was?” I looked at him, puzzled. “Coffee Mate.” he stated pointedly. “Galina.” Pause. “You know how little I enjoy DRINKING Coffee Mate.” Pause. “Well.” Pause. “ I enjoy even less SNORTING it.”
Good 12 hour shfit at Jubilee today. Quiet, without too many incidents.
Today, preparing for her 12 hour night torture shift, Brenda muttered this statement, directed at the tenant who flooded the building:
My first 12 hour shift turned out to be actually 13.5 hours, as the person who was supposed to work didn't relieve me... I wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to work 36 hours in a row, and then quickly decided that some things are best left unexperienced. Brenda is an angel. She came in to work the overnight.
Sleep.
Early in the morning, I was woken up by a LOUD bang. I thought, oh, stupid cats, they dropped something, and went back to sleep.
actually the pain is better now.
In the Dodson Pub, one moment you are a slimeball, the next moment, you are a hero.
I used to think truth was, well, about accuracy, facts, regulations, laws. Dotting all your i's, and crossing all your t's. Having all your ducks in a row. Making sure everything is correct, error-proof, mistake-free. If someone had asked me, in all seriousness, "what is truth", I probably would have given them a strange look and and spoken about the scientific method, being factual, and doing things the proper way. That was truth. Right now, in my mind, Truth is something different. Truth has a human face to it. It's a vibrant and living reality, rather than a shoebox of receipts that are supposed to prove something to your spiritual accountant. Truth is about loyalty. A person of truth is faithful to the people in her life. Changing loyalties as a matter of convenience would be out of the question. So would be being a type of double agent described by C.S. Lewis, - a double agent who belongs to two groups of people, and criticizes one whenever he is with the other... and without even saying anything that is inaccurate or factually incorrect, one can fail to be a person of truth. After all, what could be more untruthful than Judas's kiss (even though Judas didn't actually say anything inaccurate at that time?) And what could be more truth-filled than a simple statement spoken in 1941 in Germany: "No, officer, there are no Jews hiding in my cellar." Truth is about love. A person of truth speaks things that flow with love and kindness and mercy from the mind of God. While working with the marginalized and the poor, one could be saying things that may be accurate (factually, that is), but are also intrusive, accusatory, insensitive, and disruptive. That doesn't ring as Truth. Amanda said once that a part of her own personal healing is to be in the downtown eastside, and forever be with people who are in crisis, and continue speaking to them things that are good, and loving, and true. And what is more true, than that the people who are hurt, are loved by God? That is the ultimate truth, isn't it? Truth is about justice. The law and the facts say that no-one is allowed to sleep in public spaces. But the truth is that the few persons who slept on the doorsteps of DERA one unfortunate winter night, got to this situation through years of oppression and exploitation. So, in my mind, when DERA activists chased the police away and defended the people at their doorsteps, they were acting as agents of truth, as persons of truth. There are people in my life who are persons of truth. Most of the times they don't have any ducks in any row, they end up getting tickets from police when trying to defend someone, and are completely clueless about speaking on their own behalf. But their lives ring with love, loyalty, justice, truth. Sometimes I wonder why Jesus didn't asnwer Pilate. Maybe Pilate just threw the question at him and walked away without waiting for an answer. Or maybe it was the wrong question to ask. Maybe the question should have been, "Who is truth?" Jesus said, "I am the way and the truth and the life." (John 14:6) post a comment
Cookware, you silly geese!!!! See below. Yeeeesh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The lent calendar that I was reading said that Christians apply ash to their foreheads, or just handle ash in their hands, to get a sense for the texture - ro remember that we are ash and dust. Ash Wednesday is about humility, and acknoweldging one's frailty.
This lent, I'm not going to give up anything. It seems to be working for a lot of people, but I don't think it is going to work for me - it feels too artificial. But I still want to do something special, something that would help me grow spiritually.
Last night, Amanda borrowed my pot, and invited me over for a bite to eat and watch a movie. She had two other friends over. I brought some booze, and we sat down around the TV.... and the movie they were watching was Passion.
Tonight was an anniversary of my grandfather's death. My mom lit a candle in her place in Toronto. I read the Mourner's Kaddish to her over the phone, in Hebrew (with many mistakes and stumblings).
Pilate is my all-time favorite Bible character. He so human, so complex, so conflicted, so arrogant, so full of himself... Trying soooo hard to be a nice guy for one day. You can almost hear him shouting at Jesus, "Why won't you TALK to me!!! I can help you! Why aren't you answering my questions? What are you, stupid? Don't you realize the danger you are in, don't you realize how vulnerable you are?"
Bee was not the easiest person to house. She averaged about 1 suicide attempt every 2 months. Yesterday Bee was evicted. I spent the whole day feeling like I was punched... but I didn't try to stop it. |
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
amused
impressed
thoughtful