Life is Your Story

What is Sunday really for ? A day to stay in your  sweat pants on the couch streaming a show about a chemistry teacher in the desert in his underwear? A day to take the kids to karate, ice skating, basket weaving and someone else’s house (now you’re getting the idea)? A day to go to the $ store for something you really don’t need and that really doesn't cost a $ ? Well - how about sex on a Sunday? As a matter of fact (completely fictitious but read on), on a recent Sunday I decided I was going to explore the Atwater Market right here in our great city of Montreal (for those of my readers from around the world - the Atwater Market is an outdoor/indoor market where vendors sell fresh produce). Once I arrived there I really had no idea what to shop for or how to “work” the market so I headed over to the nut aisle  and found a barrel filled with almonds. Now according to Dr Oz who should really be performing heart surgery and saving lives because he is a hea

I couldn’t sleep. I found myself sitting on the side of the bed, negotiating with the hurricane that had blown through my life. I made my way to an all-night diner for people like me who find themselves wide awake while everyone else sleeps. All members of a club with no name and only one rule, "Don't judge me and I won't judge you." I was in need of a gentle hand stroking my back.  I needed to hold someone and be held. I needed to spend time with someone who knew nothing about me and who wouldn't ask the questions everyone asks. I needed someone to stay without leaving and leave without staying. I needed a bright shade of blue upon my weeping, blank canvas. Two stools down the counter, sipping coffee and reading  an old messed up copy of “Beautiful Losers” by Leonard Cohen, sat a man with a face chiseled and shaped by the greatest artists of all time. He was wearing a white t-shirt, faded Levi's and Converse shoes. His arms were graced in tattoo