Get me off the streets. Get some protection! Get me on my feet. Get some direction!

I'm walking on an anonymous street in what could be any old city, any place in the world. It's chilly out, darkest night, and the street is shining wetly in the lamplight. The threat of rain still hangs in the air, and the moon is trying to break through the charcoal grey clouds over my head.

The cobblestones in the street are uneven and slippery beneath my feet. I trip and fall, bracing myself for the shock of landing, but I don't land - not right away. I'm falling, falling, falling... through utter dense blackness, until finally I land safely on my feet on what looks like the same street - until I become oriented.

I'm in the Markt, in Bruges. Normally bustling and welcoming during the day, here in the wee hours of the night I'm eerily alone. I blink, and suddenly I'm standing in the middle of Broadway and 42nd Street in the city that never sleeps. There are people everywhere, moving like schools of fish, swimming up and down the sidewalks. A yellow cab honks and swerves to avoid me, and I dash out of the way. I blink again, and I'm in Dam Square, Amsterdam. At this time of night, it's much quieter than New York. I take a seat on a bench and wonder exactly what's happening.

It's late, and I'd like to go home. I yawn, and watch my breath wisp visibly from my mouth. Squinting my eyes, I suddenly become aware of all the places I've just visited, and more, all existing in one place simultaneously, seemingly unaware that they are sharing the same time and space - layered on top of one another like thin transparencies that expand before me with each blink of the eye. Curiously, I recognize each of the locations as they phase in - they are all places I've been before.

I think I've tripped and fallen into a rip in the space-time fabric, and I've somehow taken on the qualities of a quantum particle, in which I'm able to exist in several places at once.  It's like being inside a multiple exposure photograph. And I didn't bring my camera.

Blink. Temple Bar, Dublin. It begins to rain. I get up off the bench and look for a welcoming pub to duck into, but not before the monsoonal downpour begins. I dash through the nearest door and slosh over to a stool at the bar. The bartender brings me a Guinness and I begin to sip and look around, at the other patrons.

The man sitting to my left seems peaceful enough, sipping away at his own dark pint of stout. He's sort of handsome, this man, but serious in his calmness.  I avoid eye contact, but watch him out of the corner of my eye. He waves the bartender over and requests another pint, but the bartender tells him he's had too many and cuts him off. Suddenly, the beautiful, peaceful man transforms into an angry, ugly monster, slamming his nearly empty pint glass down on the bar, shattering it, and demanding a replacement.

The beastly man is ejected from the bar, thank goodness. I was beginning to worry about my safety. I look out the window and see that the rain is still pouring down. I order another Guinness and move to another location inside the bar, near the pool table, where a crowd has gathered around a man who has introduced himself as Joe the Lion. Joe's a bit drunk, and he's making outlandish claims and is taking bets. Dude looks like Rhys Ifans, but he thinks he's David Blaine. He's saying shit like "Nail me to my car and I'll tell you who you are". A couple of drinks on the house and he's a fortune teller.

The guy standing next to me shakes his head and shouts in my ear over the loud music "quiet night, isn't it!" I laugh with him for a minute, before taking my leave from the back of the bar. Out the front window, it looks as though the rain has eased up, so I pay my bill and make my way back out onto the street.

Blink. Okay this looks familiar... it's the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the World's End Close end. At this time of night, in this weather, with the shops all closed until morning and so few people around, it feels sort of haunted. Like I can feel the souls and spirits of the people who were here earlier today, floating around me, having left a piece of themselves behind. Or maybe it's the medieval ghosts of people who lived here hundreds of years ago. Regardless, the hostel is closed and there is nowhere to take shelter, so I blink, hoping to be whisked away to someplace more hospitable.

No such luck. But I know this place well, so I walk up to the castle end of the street with the hope that I'll encounter an open pub. As I approach the castle grounds, I see a young couple by the high wall of an old stone building. They have the look of forbidden love, having stolen away in the night, like two conjoined shadows, like it's the two of them united against the world.

The couple walks away, holding hands, their laughter and whispers echoing through the misty air. Blink. I'm on West Queen West, in Toronto. Yes! If I can just find a streetcar to get me to the subway, I can get home to my warm bed. Traffic is quiet, so I cross the street nonchalantly and take a seat in the streetcar shelter. Just then, two hipster dudes appear and look at me as if I've stolen their bench. As if they discovered this streetcar shelter and I'm merely a tourist, squaring the place up. One of them pulls a Buddy Holly 8-track cassette out of his plastic bag. I smile. They roll their eyes at me so hard I nearly get whiplash.

I don't know how long I've been waiting for this blasted streetcar, but the hipster dudes seem to have glided away and left me to wait on my own, which  makes me worry that they know something I don't. Of course they do. I decide to try and walk east toward Osgoode Station and hope that the subway is still running.

I hear a commotion coming up behind me.  A group of friends who've obviously been out drinking are stumbling near. One of the guys is angry with his friend - the handsome Jekyll-turned-Hyde from the Dublin bar?! He's barely able to walk, or even talk, as he slurs his words, trying to form a complete sentence. His friend is pissed that his birthday is ruined - again! Every year, according to the Handsome Man's friend, this happens. The Handsome Man gets drunk and causes a scene and gets kicked out of every bar and ends up passing out. The Birthday Boy always ends up carrying him home. The Handsome Man seems like he's trying to apologize, but then he falls to his knees, and then falls again forward, his pretty face hitting the slimy pavement.

Leaving Birthday Boy and Handsome Man behind to live out this year's tragic pattern, I walk on toward the subway. But I blink and suddenly I'm someplace else. Damn. I was so close to getting home! I look around to try and figure out where I am, and suddenly it hits me - I'm in Trafalgar Square. I love London, but this is frustrating. I kick a stone and walk in the direction of a pleasing saxophone riff. I find myself standing outside of a pub with live music. I'm tempted to go in, but the place looks packed, and I'm enjoying the music from my standing room only place on the street.

The music ends and I walk on back toward the square in search of a place to sit. Blink. Oh for crying out loud, where am I now?! George Street in St. John's, Newfoundland. Oh thank goodness, some place like home!  The bars seem to have closed for the night, but if I can get to my in-laws house, I'll be safe and warm, at least for a little while.

I walk up Duckworth Street, trying to remember my way around.  I make a wrong turn and end up on Water Street. This feeling of sudden homelessness is wearing on me. Knowing that I may find a safe place only to be transported into another space-time layer, I just want to sit down and rest my weary feet. Then I hear the sad and somewhat scary sound of a man crying in a laneway.  The sound of empty beer bottles rolling on the uneven pavement punctuates the silence and the man's intermittent sobs.

I resign myself to my fate. I'm doomed to slide from time-space membrane to membrane for the rest of eternity. I'm a bit afraid I might find myself on planet Tralfamadore, but then, I don't recall ever visiting there, so perhaps I needn't worry about that.

Suddenly, I see a night bus hurtling down the street. Thankfully, I'm not far from the bus stop! I get there just as the bus pulls up. It stops, and I get on. Smiling from ear to ear, my heart filled with hope, I search my pockets for loose change, deposit it into the meter, and take a seat. I may not be going home, but I'm going someplace like it. I'm sure my in-laws will be happy to have me. I feel at peace. And then I blink.

I'm in Sydney Botannical Gardens.  I couldn't be further from home if I was on Mars.

I used to come walking here when I lived on Pitt Street years ago. I've never been here at night, and I'm not even sure guests are allowed to be here after dark. Still, I'm in no hurry to leave. Though it has recently rained, the moonlight glows and illuminates the trees. I sit down on a bench, close my eyes and remember how it looks in the day. I can feel warm sunlight on my face, hear the lorikeets chirping, and dogs barking. This is a happy place.

Suddenly, I hear the sounds of footsteps and the familiar voices of a couple of lovers out for a night walk. It's the couple I saw by Edinburgh Castle! They walk into the garden just as the fog rolls thickly in. They don't see me and I'm not quite ready to leave, but I can hear that they're now having a fight. More than a fight, it might be the end. They argue through the dense fog and I get up and leave them to their quarrel.

I walk out to Circular Quay. The fog, garden, and couple are now far behind me, but her sudden wail of emotional distress and pain cuts sharply through the fog, pierces my eardrum and stabs me in the heart. It's a cry of grief with the distinct sound of the end of love.

As I make my way to Pitt Street, the rain begins again. I look around but everything is closed. There is nowhere to go. I run up the street, hoping I can make it to the old hostel and convince them to let me in. I blink with purpose, hoping to be taken someplace drier, someplace near an open bar or shop. I blink. Blink. Blink.

I'm in Paris. I don't know what street I'm on, because I never did get my bearings over the four days I spent visiting here. But I know I'm in Paris, because I recognize the architecture - ornate white buildings with balconies, for eons in all directions. It's raining here too, but I quickly locate a 24-hour movie theatre and rush inside.

The movie is already in progress, and there is no one to stop me from going in. I sit down and try to catch up with the story, taking place in an exotic desert land. Thank goodness the subtitles are in English. I can't tell if the meaning is lost in translation, or if the film is trying to be serious and failing, or if it knows how silly and camp it is. I decide that it's self-aware and let myself giggle in earnest at the story as it unfolds charmingly and humorously. But why am I the only one in the theatre who is laughing?

The movie is over and the credits begin rolling. I'm content to sit here in the theatre while everyone leaves. They all have someplace warm and dry to go to. I close my eyes and try to fall asleep. Just then, the usher appears at my side and asks me politely in French to remove myself from the premises. I open my eyes to find that I'm no longer in the theatre.

I'm back on the anonymous street in any city, in any part of the world. I squint in the darkness, but I can no longer perceive the layers. It looks like my space-time travel adventure is over. Now if I only I knew where I was.

*****

After the increasing misery and melancholy that's been coming on over the course of the past couple of albums, "Heroes" has swooshed in to save the day and bring back some hopefulness. It's not all hunky dory (har har), but we all know that when things are on the upswing, one's sense of doubt can swoop back in and take us out for a play or two.  

I'm thoroughly enjoying this album. Note that I have no idea if Sons of the Silent Age is about hipsters, but that's what it made me think of, and I quite enjoy the idea of David Bowie condemning hipsters before it was cool.

Admittedly, "Heroes" hasn't gotten a full two weeks of my undivided attention - I took a wee vacation to New York City last week, which was seriously a lot of fun, but it didn't leave me much time for pondering this album. Walking on the streets of the Big Apple did inspire this story, however. Though it was my first time there, it reminded me of so many of the places I've visited before, and yet had a distinct quality all its own at the same time.

I may take another week with "Heroes" before I take the next step in this adventure... but I'll try not to leave this space unattended for too long!

Don't you wonder sometimes, about sound and vision?

This post is dedicated to Snruby. You will get through this. Love you.

 I stole this from @ThatEricAlper's twitter feed.

As you might expect, Low took me to a dark place. My memory took over and pressed Rewind and then pressed Play, and every time I went to press Stop, it would swat my hand away.

In 2007, my new job required that I take this personality test called the Clifton Strengthsfinder. Everyone in the company had to take this test in which you discover what your top 5 strengths are. They gave me a certificate to keep at my desk, and at the company-wide sales meetings, they made us wear an ID tag with our top 5 strengths listed. The idea is that you keep a person's strengths in mind when you communicate with them. If so-and-so's number one strength is Responsibility, you wouldn't tell them how to cut a corner somewhere.

In a world where sales is the main goal, everyone around me had extremely bold strengths - Maximizer, Achiever, Activator, Competition. When my colleagues would catch sight of my top 5, they often commented on the "strangeness" of it, how they hadn't seen anyone with my mix:

• Empathy
• Adaptability
• Input
• Connectedness
• Intellection

Empathy. This "strength" has been a dominant theme my whole life, but I don't think I've ever learned to use it properly. I'm not even entirely sure what the best use of this trait would be. Perhaps nursing, or teaching, or saving the environment, or something. But I never had an inclination toward any of those things. Instead, I had to be artistic. So where am I going with this?

It's been kind of a challenging two weeks, absorbing the Low album. It is a fantastic album. I was a bit worried about it, because in my pre-reading about it, I learned that it's primarily instrumental, with only a light smattering of lyrics. I was afraid that if I couldn't sing along to this album, I might not be able to relate to it.

How wrong I was. Low doesn't need lyrics. The music tells the story. And it's not a happy one. It physically brought me to tears.

Before I tell the story of where the album took me, I just need to ask one question. Does everyone go through a "blue period"? Everybody hurts, that's what Michael Stipe said. And that's absolutely true. But does everybody hurt for an extended period of time in which simply breathing and getting out of bed to complete basic tasks like getting a glass of water is damn near impossible?

My blue period occurred not too far back in recent history - from January 1 2006 to February 10, 2010. Yes, I know the exact dates, because they were important dates. Maybe the slide into darkness began somewhat earlier, and maybe the rise out wasn't completely devoid of pain, but those dates bookend the period rather aptly. And that's not to say that I never smiled or had a happy moment during those years... but the dominant feelings were melancholy, restlessness, fear, isolation, loneliness, anxiety, hopelessness, and an overall feeling of being lost.

That period is where Low took me. I could try and make up something else, but that would be dishonest. Having said that, I've decided that I don't just want to put all of this out there where anyone can see it. I mean, I'm kind of doing that anyway, but I'm going to set up an invisibility cloak on the story that follows. If you can figure out how to read it, congratulations, you get to find out about some of my darkest thoughts and moments from that time period. Yes, I'm making you work for it, which may mean that no one will bother, but it's important to me to set up some kind of shield. Without further adieu...

The Fall and Rise of the Little Girl With Grey Eyes

It was the summer of 2005. Actually, it was not even summer yet - it was early May, but hot like summer. The hottest spring on record. The Little Girl With Grey Eyes had just returned to Canada from nearly two years overseas. The time of her life. She left behind the person she was to become someone else for awhile, to just be in the world and experience it in an untethered way. The only moment of fear or hesitation she experienced was the dilemma of whether to continue backpacking in Europe or put all her money into a flight to Australia. Her next destination all hinged on that. In May of 2004, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes called her mom from Bruges and asked her... "So should I go to Berlin or back to London? If I go to Berlin, I'm going to stay in Europe. If I go back to London, I'm going to fly to Sydney".

            

                                   

She went to Sydney. She had fallen in love with an Australian hiphop emcee she had met in Edinburgh, and she followed him home. She stayed downunder for a year, the best year of her life. But when her visa was up, it was time to leave. So back to Canada she did go.  She had considered resuming the European adventure, but her grandmother was sick, and thus decided she had been away too long.

Initially, adjusting to life back in Canada wasn't that difficult. The Little Girl was living a permanent high. She was positively glowing. Everyone wanted to hear her stories, at least, she believed that they did. Regardless, she told her stories relentlessly.

When her Aussie boyfriend ended the relationship over the phone a couple months later, The Little Girl was instantly crushed. But while the initial blow was devastating, the longing that so often accompanies a break-up didn't persist longer than a couple of months. More than likely, his residence on the other side of the planet helped her to fold him up and put him away into a shoebox on her shelf, out of her thoughts, relatively quickly. It wasn't long after, that she was suddenly able to see him with a much clearer perspective the person he really was. How she had chosen to ignore the fights, the drunken rants, the violence followed by blackouts, in favour of the beautiful idea of being with him.

The Little Girl had been working and living in a resort in cottage country that summer. As the warm weather came to an end, she found herself a hotel job downtown Toronto.  Growing up in Northern Ontario, she had always wanted to live in Toronto. On December 1, 2005, she moved into a share house on Sullivan St. at Queen West and Spadina, with a group of art students and a spiritual coach type guy. According to local lore, her snazzy new dwelling was three doors down from where Margaret Atwood once lived.

December 31, 2005. The Grey Eyed Girl was working the evening shift at the hotel. A good group was working that night. Their shift was supposed to end at 11pm, and they had planned on cramming themselves into the nearest bar and ringing in the New Year together. But hotel workers rarely finish work on time when it comes to such holidays. The group made it to the bar just after midnight, and stayed for a couple of hours to celebrate. The Grey Eyed Girl felt good. She liked her new life. It wasn't Europe or Australia, but she had made friends and was happy, making ends meet in Canada's Big City. She may not have been living her dream, but it was good for the short term.

At 8am on New Year's Day, 2006, The Grey Eyed Girl bounded out the door and up Sullivan St. on her way to work, just a short 10 minute walk away. The two men walking briskly in her direction gave her a bad feeling, but she didn't want to be late for work, so she continued on her way. As The Girl encountered the men upon the sidewalk, they pulled out knives and held them to her neck and back, demanding money. The Girl gave them the $15 she had on her, and hoped that would be enough to satisfy them. They let her go, physically unscathed, with only the warning that they saw which house she came from, and would come back for her if she reported them to the police.

The Little Girl's brain had difficulty processing the thought that she had traveled the world by herself for nearly two years, without so much as the slightest incident occurring, only to get mugged in her homeland.

Life after that became strange for The Girl. She was thankful those men didn't hurt her. She knew the chances that they would make good on their threat were slim. And yet, she feared them. She feared everyone, particularly during the earliest hours of the day. She became convinced that there were only two kinds of people out in the early mornings - those going to work, and those who were up to no good. She tried to identify them. There seemed to be a lot of the bad kind. Leaving the house in the morning became difficult. She asked for afternoon and evening shifts, which her manager was happy to give for the most part, with only a few exceptions. Still, leaving her room became a challenge.

A couple of months later, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes ran into a friend from university. They hadn't seen each other in about 8 years - had it really been that long? She liked him, always had. He was smart and creative, and well dressed. After a day of enjoying sushi, drinks and clothes shopping, the two became an item. Unfortunately, The Girl lived in daily fear that The Smart Boy With Amazing Shoes was going to leave her. He could sense it and revealed to her that he had always thought of her as a secure and confident person, but now he had gotten this feeling that she wanted a body guard, not a boyfriend.

When he broke it off, the devastation crept into the Girl's heart more slowly and insidiously than it had with the Aussie. She took the news quietly, thanked The Boy for giving  her the chance to be with him, and then proceeded to spiral down, down, down, into a hole so dark and deep that it was impossible to tell which way was up. She took a sick week off work to lie in bed. Going back to work, she was barely able to stand. The crushing loneliness and newly developed fear of being alone spawned terrible, alarming thoughts.  Thoughts about going outside, closing her eyes, listening for the nearing ding of the streetcar, and walking out onto the road.

The Grey Eyed Girl broke her lease six months in. The insipid, lilac-frosting coloured walls of her room were closing in on her. Sullivan St. was a nightmarish world where everyone walking her way was coming for her. She moved up the road to a flat above a restaurant in Chinatown with a girl she met on craigslist, The Pretty Girl With Golden Hair . The apartment was small, but cheerful, with tiffany blue walls and enormous bedroom windows through which happy glowing rays of sunlight beamed. The change of scenery was welcome.

At first, The Grey Eyed Girl felt sure she had left everything that happened to her on Sullivan St. behind. Chinatown was always busy, with people crowding the sidewalks at the markets. No one could hurt her there. And her new roommate was a lovely, chipper girl. Then, things changed at work.

During the first year of employment at the hotel, everyone at the front desk was required to do a three-month stretch of overnight shifts. The Grey Eyed Girl's stint began that June, immediately after her move to Chinatown.  The first couple of overnights weren't so bad. But soon she found she was unable to sleep during the day, despite her best efforts. She made Daysleeper by REM her anthem, and blasted it on her stereo when the sun and the sounds of the street got to be too much. The big bright window that had seemed such a blessing when she moved in became a source of vast discomfort. With the hot June sun shining into her room and filtering into the rest of the apartment, her eyes would not stay shut. She wanted the darkness back.

A couple of weeks into overnights, things fell very much apart. With very little sleep, The Little Girl found herself unable to eat much. Her thoughts became increasingly irrational. She was relieved to learn she had been given three days off in a row, beginning on Tuesday. Rather than sleep, she called every friend in town to see who wanted to go on a bender. Being a Tuesday, no one took her up on it. Insistent that she was going to get blind drunk, alone if necessary, The Little Girl bought herself a big bottle of wine and popped Moulin Rouge into her laptop.

She awoke the following afternoon, having slept most of the hangover off. But what concerned her more than feeling a tad unwell was the knife she found in bed with her. How it came to be there, she could not recall. She called her dear friend Snruby for advice, which was to go to the hospital and tell them what happened. The Little Girl did, and stayed there for two days.

Mostly she slept, but when she finally woke to find herself in a room filled with a hundred different kinds of crazy, the need to get out became overwhelming. She considered going to Montreal to see a friend there, but the doctor talked her out of it. Before leaving, he gave her three things: a note informing her manager that she was not medically able to work the night shift, a bottle of Zoloft with an accompanying prescription, and a recommendation to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. The Little Girl took the note and the pills, but rejected the other suggestion. In her mind, the wine didn't get that knife, something else did.

Zoloft is a strange thing. Within hours of the first dose, the Grey Eyed Girl felt as if she was swimming slowly through space. This effect eventually wore off, but the additional effect of not being able to cry or laugh persisted. In this quasi-functional state, life became sort of livable again, even if it wasn't what could be described as joyful. Despite this, the mediocrity was punctuated with joyful moments - her sister got married, and she rekindled her friendship with The Smart Boy With Amazing Shoes. She and her roommate moved to a larger apartment with a better sunlight balance, and a balcony. She left her job at the hotel and began working what she hoped was going to be a more creative role.

Fast forward to December 2008. The US economic crisis had left the American-owned company The Grey Eyed Girl worked for in a state of financial emergency. Jobs were cut. For a time, it was rumoured her position was on the chopping block. Fortunately, she didn't lose her job, but over 150 of her colleagues in the Canadian facility lost theirs. As 2009 took over, the impact of the closing of the Canadian facility became apparent in the Toronto showroom. Fights between sales reps broke out, profanity-laced rants filled the atmosphere. A thick film of anxiety covered everything - the office walls, the floors, the photocopier, her computer, the entire showroom.

The Grey Eyed Girl wasn't a fighter. As she had learned during her first week at the company, her number one strength was Empathy. She absorbed it all.

It got so that she could barely answer the phone, and when she did, the words "What's wrong?!" fell out instead of the standard greeting. She spent hours in the washroom. She cried at her desk. She ate almost nothing, and when she did, she'd often spit it out before swallowing it. She took a lot of sick days. She drank every night.  She thought insects were crawling in her hair. She probably should not have stopped taking the Zoloft.

Eventually, the Girl's behaviour and resulting weight loss were brought to her attention by my manager and two of the sales reps. She had no choice to admit that she wasn't alright. She was encouraged to take a short-term disability leave to get better.

Upon returning to work in December 2009, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes knew it wouldn't be for long. The fear and sadness were still there, but something else had taken root: Hope. 2010 was coming, and The Little Girl was tired of all the bullshit. Tired of being sad, of being afraid, of phantom insects, of feeling lost and not knowing where she was headed. She knew that 2010 was going to be the year that everything changed. She gave her notice on February 10, and never looked back.

*****

 I have a love/hate relationship with Low. Musically, it's beautiful and incredibly moving. The first time I heard Warzsawa, it made me cry in public, and I still get a lump in my throat when I listen to it.  Sound and Vision's lyrics just about put me on the floor, despite its upbeat music, and Be My Wife... OH GOD IT'S ALL SO SAD. (And can I just say that the first time I heard Subterraneans I nearly choked during the lyrical part of the song. It's uncanny how it actually sounds like he's calling my name... Shelley Shelley Shelley... I'm not crazy, I played it for some people and they agreed.)

Having this album take me back to my blue period is painful, but I know that it's behind me and I refuse to let myself ever slide back to that place. I am not that person anymore. I could argue that I'm currently living in my "rose period" - the most creative period of my life so far. My time overseas may have been the happiest and most fun, but no one should live in that kind of unbridled hedonism for so long - you come down too hard. Balance is important.

This album is among my favourites, because of the way it never ceases to make me FEEL. Having said that, it does get to be a bit too much at times. It is also hard to take because I know its creator went through his own personal hell during the making of it, and of course, I empathize. Fucking empathy.