December 6.

"We live in an ocean of violence,"
she told me once. But
waves in the ocean

do not make headlines. Not even
on the back pages.
They are expected:
part of things.

"People get shipwrecked when
they choose life on the ocean,"
they say.

Never mind that
they were floating on life rafts
already
paddling furiously
when the storm struck.
When the blows struck.
When the sickness struck.

Never mind that
they keeps pouring
steadily overflowing
buckets
back into the churning water.

We have life jackets
and ways to measure
precisely
when a storm is coming.
We have evacuation plans
to share, and would
if we believed that
everyone deserved to find
safe, dry land.

Never mind that.

"When you sail into a storm,"
they say, "you run the risk of drowning."
And they did.
But that doesn't make us less culpable
for ignoring the swells,
the thunderheads rolling in
one after another
after another,
after another.
And it doesn't make them
less gone.



December 6 is the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women.

How I learned to stop shopping and love the bliss.

Me: Would you like to do some yoga with me?

Eric: As long as I don’t have to buy $100 pants to do it. And we call it ‘stretching.’

We had that conversation a couple months ago during one of our strategizing sessions about how to become Better People. We were both struggling with the winter blahs. But one thing we’re both really good at (and one of the biggest reasons we adore each other) is coming up with new projects to challenge ourselves with. We both constantly strive to grow.

One of the strategies I came up with for myself was to try to learn how to meditate in a way that I would find helpful. Thanks both to a great teacher and my own persistence in honing my new skills, I am thrilled to admit that meditation has made me healthier. I’m learning to stop and breathe through difficult situations and to face hard feelings head on when I feel stressed, resisting the urge to watch four hours of The Office reruns and eat spoonfuls of peanut butter directly out of the jar. I’m starting to understand how much control I really, really do have over my own responses to things. If I don’t freak out in the face of something horrible, that doesn’t make it less horrible. It just makes me less of a mess and, by extension, better able to deal with it.

It’s not magical or even transcendental. There’s nothing secret or special about my practice. I sit for an average of fifteen minutes per day listening to guided sessions on my headphones. I didn’t buy a special cushion or custom-made ergonomic bench. I don’t use prayer beads or heat any special essential oil in the room where I sit. I actually practice either on the couch or in my comfiest arm chair, usually in the raggedy bathrobe that I’ve had since high school. I think about simple questions like, “What’s going well right now?”“Where is my body hanging on to tension that I could stand to get rid of?” and, “In a tough situation, what would 'love' do?” I’m a big fan of practical, useful information that has compassion at its core. When it comes to self-help, or whatever you want to call it, it’s important to me that whatever the practice, it’s done specifically in the interest of me getting healthier in order to be more useful, more engaged with other people, and more connected to the emotions that are in and around me. It has surprised me how much this practice fits the bill.

For so long I avoided learning to do it because I didn’t think I was the kind of person who meditated. I’d tried it a few times; I went to the Shambala Centre here in Victoria once and had awkward tea with a lot of nice-looking people in scarves and spent the entire silent hour I was supposed to be practising trying to quietly sit up straight, too distracted by trying to keep my bum from falling asleep to actually relax. I coveted the $50 silk-covered round meditation cushions I’d see in stores with names like Sacred Lotus Spiral Oracle (okay that doesn’t actually exist, but it could) and think, one of these months when I have some extra cash, I’ll get one of those. And then I will meditate. And it will be Good.

I've looked up meditation benches on Ebay. I've researched retreats and classes and peace-inducing candles. I've searched “meditation for anxiety/ self esteem/ stress relief/ clarity/ energy/ motivation,” online and found a few things to listen to, all the while thinking, “I can't be doing this right. If I was doing this right I'd know where to look, not just be messing around with free information that's available to everyone.” I was surprised that my brain went there, but it really did. I believed that there was a big, secret Way of Doing It that I just hadn't figured out yet. I obviously hadn't read the right books or bought the right gear. When I did, I thought, everything would fall into place.

It turns out I didn't have to buy anything material to make this experiment successful. But this is not a story of discovering that money doesn't buy happiness. It's about the fact that whatever you want to do, the Stuff that is everywhere that begs to help you do it more effectively, in a more specialized way, means nothing if you don't have the skills to carry out the task.

What I eventually did was pay someone to teach me tools to use in building a practice that I really enjoy. I paid $10 to sit in with a few folks at a drop-in session with Brad Morris at Cowabunga Meditations a couple months ago on the advice of my friend Kelly and, lo and behold, with just his voice, he taught me how much fun meditation could be. I didn't have to clear my mind, to sit in a certain (uncomfortable) way, or to watch my thoughts float down the river like leaves. There was no competition embedded in the learning, no parade of expensive outfits (one of the main reasons I've really disliked practising yoga in class settings). I felt excited and (most importantly) totally capable of doing it. So I signed up for the 40-day series of practice he was offering (and I paid for that too).

What I have learned from Brad's way of practising meditation is that there's not a 'right' way to do it, and even if there was, it certainly wouldn't be achieved by sitting on the right cushion. I've learned that it's okay to think about meditation as a form of entertainment. It's okay to have fun and laugh and love what you're doing. It's okay to think that the whole idea of chakras is silly but still enjoy singing the tones that are meant to 'cleanse' them. There's no guru. There are no special, stretchy pants. It's just you and your brain and your body having a play date. And once you get that, the skills are free forever after. Brad had skills that I didn't, so he took my money and gave me knowledge, support, and encouragement in return. That seemed fair to me. Now I know how to do it and can help other people both to learn the things I've learned and by the fact that I'm more clear-headed, even-tempered, and just plain happier than I have been in a long time. There's no brand of lifestyle-enhancing gear that could have given me that.

There are a lot of things I've shied away from doing because I didn't think I had the right gear. Cycling, camping, running, even writing; I didn't have the Oxford English Dictionary, how could I possibly write well? When we adopted our dog from the SPCA, we loaded up on special dog things from a fairly expensive pet store – toys, treats, one of those retractable leashes -- most of which he proceeded to completely ignore in favour of lying on our cheap floor rugs and doing just fine when tied to a length of old rope. The gear myth is pretty much crap.

Sometimes I thought it was weird when I'd see people running in 'normal' clothes, or walking in the rain without a super fancy raincoat from an outdoor lifestyle store. Now I love it, because I finally get it. If you're going to go climb an icy mountain, absolutely go and get the right things that will help you not die when you're doing it. But for most of us, doing things that genuinely make us healthier and happier are pretty cheap, if not free. When they're not, we should weigh out the value of what we're paying for. My investment in learning what I know will become a lifelong meditation practice, and by extension both a preventative and a responsive health care measure, was exactly $107. My super-fancy waterproof jacket specially designed for cycling, whose zipper broke and had to be replaced two weeks after I bought it and doesn't change anything about the way that I cycle (and hangs unworn in the cupboard most of the time), was twice that.

(Not Actually Very) Painful Love: Why I'm Joining the Bone Marrow Donor Registry.

My friend Sarah had a life-saving bone marrow transplant fifteen years ago this week. I didn't know her then, we wouldn't meet for another few years, but her transplant changed my life too.

Sarah survived leukemia, which she was diagnosed with when she was fourteen. Her form of the illness was a rarer one, and when she was diagnosed, she was told there was a 65% chance she would not live. Her doctors encouraged her to tell the people in her life she was close to how she felt about them in anticipation of her young life ending. I'm staggered by the thought of having had to contemplate one's own mortality, make meaning of it, at that unjustly innocent age.

There are some people who give so much and ask for things so infrequently that when they do, you take it incredibly seriously. Sarah's not one to ask for favours, so when I got an email from her the other day in which, reflecting on this very significant anniversary, she asked me to consider joining the bone marrow donor registry, I started researching the process. Donating bone marrow is something that I've considered ever since Sarah and I became friends in my dorm room in our first year at King's College. After a very short small-talk exchange, we bonded over how we both swooned about grand, impossible, romantic ideas. She told me about her illness that day too, and I told myself I would look into donation.

Here it is eleven years later, and I've put bone marrow donation off every time it comes to mind. The truth is, every time the thought has arisen, I've felt terrified by the prospect of how much it would hurt. I had heard that donation involved a painful extraction, and I'm someone who didn't get her ears pierced until I was 26 because I was afraid it would hurt too much. I cry in panic every time I have to get blood tests done because I can't stand the thought of needles piercing my skin. Needless to say, I've never even tried to donate blood. When I hand out clean needles to clients who use injection drugs, I have to sing inside my head or hum out loud to distract myself from the thought of all of the things associated with that physical act. I feel queasy just writing about it.

The tougher part of myself then responds to these fears with straightforward logic. Painful? Really? Because guess what's more painful, princess? Cancer. I know this rationally of course. When our friend Deirdre died, quickly but painfully, from leukemia three years ago, my resolve was renewed; I would donate bone marrow and maybe someone sick would live because of it. When I think about the hundreds of people who showed up to Deirdre's funeral and the pain my dear friends have gone through because of her death, or the families of all the other kids on Sarah's floor at the Sick Kids Hospital (none of whom survived their illnesses), or all the incredible things that Sarah and I have shared this past decade (including Paris parks and Prague potatoes), it is an easy decision. And then I start thinking: pain. Fear. Needles. Nausea. I start humming and do something distracting and I forget again. Acute fear is just so large-looming that it can block your very view of the thing your fear is keeping you from doing, no matter how important it may be.

I'm putting this out there to be held accountable by a larger audience for the promise I made to Sarah a few days ago to finally join the donor registry in both her and Deirdre's honour, but also in the hopes that those of you reading can learn along with me.

I've been doing some reading these past few days about what it's like to donate bone marrow, and I've learned a great deal already. First and foremost, most of the time during the actual donation, they put you under general anesthetic. You're not even awake when the extraction happens! Knowing this helps me immensely. I'm not a particularly brave person, honestly. I don't willingly do very many things that even push me out of my comfort zone, let alone into painful situations. I realize it would sound far more principled to write about how the pain of the donation is far outweighed by the benefits of providing potentially life-saving material to someone in need (which of course it is), but my fear is too paralyzing for me to be that heroic. If it wasn't, I'd have done this years ago. I figure at this point, being honest is the best policy. I think if we are open about what kinds of fears (particularly those that involve cost to ourselves) truly keep us from doing things for others, we can more effectively address them and (hopefully) move beyond them.

So it doesn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would, that's the first thing I learned.

Here's what else, from the bone marrow registry program in Canada:

• When you join the registry, all you do is get a cheek swab so that your DNA can be tested and kept in the database. When a donor is needed, the database is searched for the best possible match. Only if you're found to be the best match among millions of donors (worldwide) will you be contacted to be asked to donate.

• It's actually the stem cells within the bone marrow that are used in transplants. A lot of the literature you can read about donation will talk about stem cell donation, which confused me at first.

• Often, the stem cells can be extracted in a way that's similar to giving blood. It's a non-surgical procedure. Both that and bone marrow donation through surgery are very safe and have few complications or even side-effects.

• Regarding post-donation pain: “Bone marrow donors can expect to feel some soreness in their lower back. There have also been reports of donors feeling tired and having some discomfort walking for a couple of days or longer. Most donors are back to their usual routine in a few days. Some may take a few weeks before they feel completely recovered.”

• Most people who donate are back home later the same day. The pain they experience after has been likened to having fallen on ice.

• The average length of time for donors to be on the registry is seven years. This means that joining is a long-term commitment, but also that it doesn't actually ask much of you until you're found to be a match.

• Joining the registry doesn't guarantee you'll be a match, but it does increase the likelihood that someone who needs them will be able to use your stem cells. The transplant significantly increases the possibility that the person getting it will live.

There's plenty more info on the OneMatch website. Check it out, and please consider joining the registry along with me.

Sipping on Dark Roast and Reading about Porn: a Perfect Sunday Morning.

My very cool boyfriend recently gave me the book A Billion Wicked Thoughts by Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam. One holds a Ph. D in computational neuroscience; the other, a Pd.D in “biologically inspired models of machine learning.” They've combined their expertise in brain science and data mining to tackle an enormously ambitious research question: what do people's internet searches for sexual content tell us about human sexuality?

I figured I already knew some of the answers. I fully expected confirmation of my suspicions that homophobic straight-acting men are secretly looking at gay porn at night while their lady-friends are sleeping, and that far more women have sparkly, smouldering, teen vampire fantasies than would care to admit it out loud. We're not being honest about what really excites us because of shame and stigma and the repression of religious-based moral codes in our society, right? Maybe. But there's a lot more to us than that. The study has unsettled my assumptions about both sexuality and science in a number of surprising ways.

First of all: the research process. Doctors Ogas and Gaddam studied a billion pieces of data from a vast range of topics, from Harry Potter erotic fan fiction to Girls Gone Wild to rape fantasy to a genre that was, perhaps naively, news to me: granny porn. It blows my mind to try to conceptualize how they did some of this research. In one part of their study, they analyzed 1.9 million Craigslist ads posted by men seeking other men for casual sex to try to figure out whether those men prefer a dominant or submissive sexual role. Their discussion of the result of that analysis (that two-thirds of the posters prefer being bottoms) takes up a mere six paragraphs in the book. All those hours, all that work, for six paragraphs (that, albeit, speak volumes about the sexuality of the male posters). As you may be able to tell, I'm new to reading science books. If you do science (as I tend to put it, someone please correct me on the right way to say that), this won't be news to you. But a someone who usually reads novels and poetry and subjective nonfiction about politics, I'm floored by the breadth of the study.

Second: the book's accessibility. These guys are not only highly intelligent, they're very funny and down-to-earth writers. They've managed to translate what could have been dry, hard data into a narrative that is exciting, amusing and (most importantly) very readable for someone like me who isn't fluent in any kind of scientific dialect and feels a moral aversion to alienating language. Two scientists quoting Louis C.K. (twice!) to illustrate their very serious and historically important findings? I'm hooked. They repeatedly find relatable (if clichéd) ways to describe huge, complex concepts. They describe what they found to be a generalizable trait in biological males (regardless of gender expression or sexuality) to respond with desire to singular, visual cues (such as body parts) as Elmer Fudd: “solitary, quick to arouse, goal-targeted, driven to hunt...and a little foolish.” Conversely, observed female tendencies toward seeking out combinations of characteristics (picking up physical, social, emotional cues in combination) in a potential partner is likened to Agatha Christie's iconic Miss Marple Detective Agency. These two handles become shorthand for the differences in sexual interests between biological men and women their research supports. It's clever, and it helps me understand their findings better. It also helps that said findings are so interesting in and of themselves; some are absolutely unforgettable, such as that that the most searched-for single word on the internet's most popular porn site is “mom.”

The authors use evolutionary theories to explain differences they observe in online sexual behaviour between the sexes that aren't difficult to imagine (e.g. men have short sexual attention spans so as to maximize their chances of reproduction with as many women as possible, while women are attracted to male physical and personality cues that suggest a safe and stable child-rearing environment). Particularly because of these findings that seem to solidify out-of-date gender roles, the book has garnered criticism for adding to the bulk of pop psychology that validates those stereotypes. I can understand this concern; it bugged me that some of the things the authors discovered were true. But the third aspect of the book that has me rethinking my own beliefs about why people are into what they're into is the authors' assertion that, based on this research and what they already know about neurology, some differences in biological male and female sexuality are hard-wired. When you're a progressive person who fights oppressions that are largely rooted in oversimplification for a living, this is not a fun fact.

I tend to be of the camp that gives great weight to context, to life experiences, when considering why people act how they do, and I get really bored with explanations for things that are based on a tired old gender binary: "men are like this and women are like that, isn't that weird?" (Reggie Watts satirizes this perfectly). So the study's affirmation that most women seek out erotic fiction in which character development is key and submission to alpha males is central, and most men search for explicit sexual imagery (and prefer big breasts if they're hetero), for example, is irritating. That, in a study that showed groups of viewers violent imagery followed by erotic films, the men could get aroused but the women couldn't, has me inclined to disbelieve it because it sounds too stereotypical (i.e. men want sex anywhere, anytime).

But here's where the teachable moment happens for me. Disliking the results of the study doesn't make them untrue (as some of the critiques I read seem to suggest it should). If the authors presented their findings that biological women and men (regardless of their gender expression or sexuality) have fundamentally different sexual cues and then concluded that this meant that men are inherently drooling, sex-crazed jerks and women are hysterical narcissists preoccupied only with attracting the right kind of man, then it'd be different. But they don't. They root out what we like (if we're straight men and women or gay men, at least; one of the other things that bugged me was that the research ignored lesbians and people of any other sexuality/gender expression) based on what we're actually looking for online and suggest reasons why that might be so based on our biological history. Maybe it's true, maybe it's not. But it's a new way of thinking about why we like what we do, and that's exciting to me.

The authors' conclusion is that acknowledging and understanding the fundamental sexual differences between us is key to greater harmony, compassion and authenticity in relationships. In an interview (around minute 30 here) I heard with Dr. Ogas, he asserted that identifying what causes sexual arousal doesn't then determine how people act in relationships and make social and emotional connections to each other. Nor does the study deny or judge anyone whose sexuality doesn't align with the majority of those whose data was used. That's where our independent, evolved brains come into play – we get to decide how we behave (and what judgements we make about those behaviours) in spite of these hard-wired inclinations.

for Shannon.

I’m resisting the urge to email this story to all of the people who have, over the last two and a half years, told me that I’m too serious, too angry, too intense about my work. “What’s your problem?” I’ve been asked. “Why do you have to take it all so personally?”

Because women I know are dying. That’s why.

A few months ago it was suicide, then chronic illness, that took the lives of women I've worked with. Today, it's murder.

This morning, nine women piled into two vehicles, all smiles, on their way to soak up some of this precious sunshine at a local beach: a couple hours of fun amidst some pretty serious struggles they’re all experiencing. They packed along a picnic lovingly prepared by one of our dedicated volunteers (wraps, veggies, fresh cut fruit, homemade cookies), affixed bedazzled sunglasses to their faces, flushed with excitement. As they pulled out of our parking lot, the hourly news released a few more details about the woman whose body was found in a local park on Sunday, another piece of the puzzle of whether she’s one of “ours” snapped sickeningly into place. My stomach drops, my head starts spinning. I’m hoping they’re not listening to the news in the cars; but some of them know her, and whether they do or not it’s naïve to think they’re not already thinking about her, wondering.

We’ve been fielding calls and giving interviews to local media for a couple of days now, since the story broke. Reporters want to know: Is there cause for concern among sex workers in Victoria? Do we have any reason to believe the woman, who according to news reports already filed lived a “high-risk lifestyle,” was a sex worker? We use what counselors sometimes call the Broken Record Technique. Yes, we are aware of the case. No, we don’t know the woman’s identity yet. The police haven’t released her information yet, we don’t know anything you don’t. No, we’re not willing to speculate about who she is or why what happened to her happened. Repeat. Over and over.

It’s hard not to feel like they want this woman to have been a sex worker. It’s as if involvement in sex work and drug use are accepted as answers in and of themselves to the questions of this case. In the absence of any actual information about who she was and what happened to her, blanks can be filled in with details like these that carry a lot of weight, if not accuracy.

I refresh the local news website I’m following and the timeliest headline possible comes up: “Prostitution laws continue to allow women to be victimized, court hears.” I feel like commenting, “Hey, thanks Captain Obvious!” underneath the story, but I don’t. I have to remember that this ‘news’ is not as redundant to most people as it is to us, my coworkers and me, who see scars and bruises and the deep, long-lasting effects of psychological and physical trauma on the hopeful, resilient women we work with every single day.

That conversation is happening right this minute in a courtroom in Toronto, as the federal and Ontario provincial governments try to convince the Ontario Court of Appeal that Justice Susan Himel (a heroine in our community) was wrong to rule that the federal prostitution laws do more to harm sex workers than to protect them. The Harper government argues that since sex workers choose a dangerous profession and one that is contrary to the law, that they are not entitled to protection or safety. What they’re essentially telling people who engage in sex work is, we won’t entertain the idea of changing the laws so that you can work safer because the work you do contravenes those laws. If your head’s spinning trying to find the logic in that, you’re not alone.

But make no mistake: for our government, this debate is not a question of legality at its essence. It’s a proclamation based on moral judgments that divide people into deserving and undeserving of the violence that is done to them. According to Statistics Canada, the top three most dangerous jobs you can have in Canada are taxi driving, policing and sex work. If any politician (let alone a head of state) were to publicly state that police officers don’t deserve protection from violence on the job, heads would roll. The fact that the Prime Minister can get away with this exceptionalism is deeply indicative of the way that sex workers are judged and (de)valued in our communities. Harper said last December that sex work is "bad for society." This opinion, enforced by outdated laws, literally results in death, which is, I'm just going to go ahead and put this crazy idea out there, worse than his, or my, or anyone's discomfort with the idea of sexual services as valuable commodities.

The top three pieces on the hourly news are still about the Stanley Cup playoffs when we get the call that the woman is indeed “ours.” The grieving begins in our community as the celebration begins outside. "It's never going to stop," a coworker said to me, jaw clenched, as I headed out the door for the day. How heartbreaking, how utterly infuriating it is that even rational people who dedicate their working (and often private) lives to providing advocacy and support for sex workers are sometimes forced to conclude this.

I have to be clear: we don't yet know what happened to Shannon. Whether her death is related to her work, we can't say for sure. But the angry grief on the teary faces of my coworkers and the fear in the voices of clients who phoned us for information about the missing woman today is proof enough that their response isn't just about her. "We live in an ocean of violence," another of my coworkers said earlier. "When you've known a lot of people who have died violently, you're always just waiting to hear who the next one will be."

That's my problem.

Red Light, Green Light

I recently had the incredible good fortune to spend nearly a week with some of my favourite people in a city I now have a swooning crush on: Amsterdam. Its winding canals and cobblestone streets and unbelievably, impossibly ubiquitous bicycles (not to mention its accompanying civilized cycling culture, in which bicycles always have the right of way) hooked me.

Our hosts, my friends Wanda and Craig, had made Amsterdam their home for the past 8 months, and made sure we had ample opportunity to explore by creaky, fixed-gear fietsen. They lead us down narrow streets, over canal bridges, through densely populated parks and throngs of other cyclists with an easy familiarity that I found baffling. A couple of days into our visit, we decided to pass through the fabled Red Light District. I have dim memories of my first visit there, nine years ago, recalling mostly that I felt then that the city had two faces, a glossy, shiny one for daytime and a decidedly more debaucherous one at night. As you no doubt know, prostitution is legal in the Netherlands, and many sex workers ply their trade openly, in street-level windows illuminated by red lights. I remember walking through the streets back then under the overprotective arm of an American rugby player, who I met (along with his girlfriend, who had the other arm) while traveling and spent a few days with. We watched with wide-eyed fascination as women in g-strings gyrated and beckoned in our direction, and men in actual trench coats offered us drugs. We scurried through the streets, trying to be cool and take it all in, none of us wanting to admit to the others that we were freaked out. This time around, I thought, my matured gaze could handle it better. I couldn't wait to see it all again with fresh eyes.

Amsterdam's Red Light District is controversial for those of us in the business of trying to work out how sex workers' safety, human rights and dignity can best be preserved. It is, for some, upheld as a bastion of freedom, in which sex workers can join unions, receive health benefits, work in secure spaces and find widespread acceptance that their work is valid and respectable. It's also seen as a way of ghettoizing sex workers and their patrons, keeping them separate and removed (physically, and by extension conceptually) from the rest of 'civilized' society. I was raring to meander the streets and to see for myself, and had plans to visit the Prostitution Information Centre, where visitors can learn about the Netherlands' sex work laws, have a walking tour of the Red Light District by Centre staff (all former sex workers); but even sex work advocates take Easter Sunday off. It was closed, and I didn't return to it.

So we wandered the neighbourhood ourselves. “I never really go down there,” Wanda had said to me the day before. “I don't like it. It's not the women that bother me, though, it's the groups of guys, I'm disgusted by them.” This got me thinking about something we talk about at work sometimes, about the tension between being pro-sex work and still feeling discomfort (and judgement) about Johns, the (mostly) men who pay for sex workers' services. I squared my jaw and thought to myself, “You can't be grossed out by the customers if you believe the business is a legitimate one. That's the just and non-hypocritical way to look at it.” And then we entered the neighbourhood.

It was teeming with men. Groups of foreign, mostly english-speaking guys crowded every bar's patio, and individuals and pairs of men wandering the streets, stopping to point and gesture at women separated from them only by a pane of glass. The looks on some of their faces reminded me of that cartoon wolf (was it a Looney Toon?) who used you drool and snarl and howl and look hypnotized when that woman in a hot red dress would pass by. They seemed delighted with themselves, confidence bolstered by morning beer. They snapped photos (despite the signs on every agency wall insisting we refrain from doing so) and made lecherous, immature comments. We were followed into a store (comically named SexyLand Erotic Supermarket) by a group of tall, stocky English guys who clearly thought it was ok to invite themselves into our personal space, sidling up beside us while we were looking at underwear and stockings, and ask “See anything you like? I'll get it for you if you do.” They'd chuckle wildly and loudly at each other's banter; we left. “They were enjoying that way too much for us not to be getting paid for it,” I sighed to my friends when we were away from their gaze. As a sidenote: this was the precise moment when I realized how much my perspective has shifted over the past decade.

Of course, there are customers who don't behave this way; we just didn't see them, because they're so much quieter and less conspicuous than the ones who do. While the Dutch men (friends and family of Wanda's) I talked to about my work back home and about the Netherlands' prostitution laws had mature and nuanced approaches to the issue, throngs of tourists to the area are clearly leagues behind in having any kind of analysis about prostitution as an industry, like any other, whose workers are entitled to operate free from harrassment and degradation. It makes me doubt that the Red Light District really accomplishes what I think should be broader goals of communities that embrace either legalization or decriminalization of sex work: normalizing and integrating the industry into the rest of society. The spectacle of it, the erotic supermarkets, the women (and some girls) in windows, the drunken, sunburned guys making obnoxious gestures through the windows, the tacky souvenirs (my favorite: a sex worker in a glittery snowglobe), trivializes the industry, invites voyeurism without requiring any standard of behaviour in return, and distracts from any semblance of intelligent conversations about sex work. While sex workers may receive a generally positive social response from Dutch citizens, the Red Light District feels like something of a theme park both staffed by and designed for visitors (as many as 95% of sex workers in the area are from other countries). I expected better. “You imagined emancipation and you got a freak show?” my office-mate suggested.

Exactly.

"To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something out of nothing..."*

I have the pleasure of knowing some really creative folks whose drive, imagination, talent and humility inspire me and make me excited about art, music, writing and (especially) collaboration.

My friend Tak recently asked me to take a listen to the album he had just completed and to write about my experience of it. I can't get this music out of my head lately, so it was an easy task. Here's what I wrote:
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The Pawnshop Manual's debut album, Parcels and Polaroids, is a meditative self-reflection that explores a particular kind of desire: to make changes and connections in an isolating world. Five Inch Step invites an awakening to the superficiality of our interactions that Falls Over Whole (Believing Through) then depicts. We've Become Here (Believing In) swells with an intense longing that evokes deep empathy in anyone who has found themselves bouncing between hope and despair. A gentle instrumental begs for simplicity and focus in a world of contradictions, and the sweet duet that follows, the title track, delivers that focus with its revelation that “all that I need is here.” 4:37am (Things That Follow) is an energetic, clap-along song that makes you want to play it loud and sing it with your friends on your way to somewhere you can't wait to be. It celebrates hope, happiness and togetherness. A slowed-down refrain from We've Become Here brings the album to a contemplative close.

The Pawnshop Manual has made an intellectual and infectious pop record that will satisfy your yearning for music that asks big questions and mulls the answers thoughtfully and creatively. Parcels and Polaroids is dynamic and evocative from beginning to end, and its aural meandering will stay with you long after the road trip is over.
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You can download Parcels and Polaroids on a pay-what-you-wish basis from The Pawnshop Manual's website or on iTunes, or buy the actual cd. The website offers multiple ways to experience the music and interact with the artists involved in the project, including other talented local musicians as well as album art designer and photographer Eric Anderson. Also check out Tak's own blog, T's Contrapunctus, for his analysis of new and exciting things happening musically around the world.

So here's to the people whose desire for things to be different in the world takes the shape of creative projects.

The rest of us lead richer lives because of it.



*Johnathan Larson, La Vie Boheme