paula's dad died

Roland is dead. English Roland at 75. He checked into Victoria Hospital with abdominal pain and and exited10 days later a corpse. Pancreatitus was the official cause of death. I watched him go with Paula, her brother Mark and her sister Amanda. Their mother, Roland's long estranged ex-wife, vacationed in Arizona.

The first day we visited Roland in London there was a 50/50 chance he'd pull through, fight back from his coma like state. The waiting room was pleasant. A volunteer shepherded us kindly. Jacob jumped online the courtesy computer station. I drew as Paula commiserated with her siblings.

After visiting Roland for a 1/2 hour we all took a break and headed to the cafeteria. We caught up on family news and Paula and her brother and sister swapped sentimental Dad stories. I pulled out my sketchbook and scanned the room. It was hard to draw Mark. Impossible really. He's like a jittery ghost.

Amanda was easier. Perhaps because her features are so similar to Paula, that and her vanity. The food was horrible. Jacob scarfed up his plastic fries and colored fructose liquid.

My brother Mike has a new house in London. We visited him after the hospital and I coughed all over everything. His wife Ann got sick soon after. We agreed it was the worst flu of our lives.


A huge crowd attended the wake. Roland was very popular and highly respected for his union activism and lifelong devotion to the liberal left New Democratic Party. He had been repeatedy invited to run for office over the years but always declined because of closet skeletons. Instead he became a mentor, much beloved, and a behind the scenes political power broker of significance, largely benign.

Paula's eulogy moved both friends and family. Some close to Roland, intimately familiar with the Parris's tragic family history, privately shared with Paula their sympathies and respect.

After the union hall emptied the family drove in 3 cars to the Thames river, which briskly snakes through London. We scuttled over the icy ground carrying Roland's ashes onto a bridge. We dropped him into the cold rushing water. Some of Roland landed on the foundation of the bridge, most flowed northwestward. Goodbye. I think I liked him, but I wish he had taken better care of Paula, protected her. But it seems he could barely take care of himself.

art institute of toronto grad show

Last Thursday the Art Institute of Toronto, where I've taught for the last 4 years, graduated the 2nd last class of graphic design students that will come out of the school before corporate offices in Pittsburgh shut down our program forever. This was the best body of young designers we've graduated and the second largest group I've had to teach at AIT. Great kids.

James did a great job. Best grad show yet.

Stacey from corporate was the lowlight of the night. The highlight was my wife and son coming to the show! This executive bureaucratic marinated us in 10 minutes of canned cliche fulmination. I guess we were supposed to feel honored that she had flown in from the USA, but it was hard to overcome a nagging gag reflex throughout her, what can I call it, orientation lecture? When never-worked-in-the-industry types drag out old saws like 'the easy part is over dear student, now comes the hard part, the real world', it's the biggest crock. There's nothing harder in my opinion than being young, responsible for your own time, studying your brains out and for some, also going into debt for 36k. Excuse me, I'll take the real world over my student days.

I wish one of our graphic design grads had given the valedictorian speech. We have some really fun and witty personalities in the group who could have really roused the crowd. This gal officially kick started a snore fest. Which only lasted until our gang rose to receive their diplomas.

Your a nice man Steve.

Funny guy. I like his laid back approach to teaching. He's earnest and knows his shit.

Dapper elder statesman. His shirts are a little wacky sometimes, but I dig this guy's style.

Appears to have been the big sister to everyone in her program. Way too much hugging for GD. We're hardcore!

My buddy Anson. Very good illustrator. Hard working sonofagun. We play hockey together. He's a pit bull out there at the rink. Probably a little crazy from elbows to the head!

Well, what can I say, was this the comic relief? He should have opened the show right off the get to, to warm up the crowd as it fidgeted into comfortable seating and gossip. Sorry, not really ready for prime time as a speaker. Very sincere guy with lots of ego. Yawn.

Afterwards Paula, Jacob and I went out for dinner in Kensington Market. A cool little place where you custom put together everything in your dinner. The Rice Bar I think. It was really delicious and the waitress was super helpful when we bugged her about the myriad of choices we had to wrestle. Its got tiny chairs, tables that wobble and when the door gets opened you get icicles on your nose. Not nice. Jacob has some good rock star hair no? He's always swooshing it around and recompiling it.

drawing sucked

We camped at the Pinery Provincial Park on Lake Huron in August last year. I had a rough night the day before we left for home. On the morning of our last day at our trip I got up early. Jacob and Paula were sleeping in. I made a fire and later after we had eaten breakfast, I got out my sketchbook and sketched the last sticks of firewood burning on a mound of embers and ash, in the fire pit.

Paula and I were behaving badly towards each other, we were wary of each other and distant. We had had a fight while strolling together on a long sandy beach. Paula used to visit this park oa lot as a child. I think she was seeing ghosts. We were holding hands and enjoying the beautiful warm sunny weather and everything was good, this is what we had come here for. The closeness turned upside with a few words and a few overreactions and we were deep into another cold wars.

We exchanged accusations and expressions of shock and hurt we retreated to enclaves within ourselves. Jacob read on a big beach blanket while Paula and I stewed in suffering. He looked up and reconnoitering our faces looking for a resolved dispute, hoping that these 2 big angry babies, dumped on his vacation, were immediately replaced by his nice parents. Every 1\2 hour or so he'd stop playing or swimming in the water and see if he could broker a peace, giving us individualized quality-time love injections. Compelled to nurse us off our misery, the impasse confused Jacob. He looked a little bored and terrified at the same time.

As they slept, I stoked a huge fire, drank Sauza's Tequila and played songs on my MP3 player. I cried into the bottle. Sitting in one of those folding chairs that you can stuff in a trunk, I looked at the stars, stared long into the fire and stumbled into the woods to pee. The area was speckled with moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves. I wandered back and repeated this whole deal 5 or 6 more time. The air was cold damp, the campground silent.

It was difficult to draw that morning, my anger and despair over another stupid estranged night. But I do hate drawing mostly anyways. It's part of hating myself for nothing in particular. My parents have a lot to do with it. But I'm working on that.

This whole emotional scenario is a regular fixture of our relationship, a sunken sofa cushion of funk, but not as bad as it used to be. Drawing couldn't make me feel better though. If you know me you probably think drawing might be my eye of the hurricane, where I probably feel peaceful and somewhere I can process trauma and anxiety, but actually when I'm feeling this kind of sick inside, it's practically useless.

But if I had let these events drift away one more time in a helpless stupor it would have made me unbearably sadder. Having so much distance between Paula and I, our hearts, it's the worst feeling I know.