Rachel Story-Time for Butterfly Man

[Rachel Peters]

ok, seriously. no more.

[Seadawg]

ok... I will behave myself
As my wife is so fond of saying...

"just this once could you take this the least little bit seriously?"

[Rachel Peters]

My Little Crap Shack of Love

It’s a little crap shack, floating in a concrete sea.

One little brick box with shingles stands in the front/center of a large shopping plaza parking lot. He built a tall fence to keep us out (or to keep Mother Nature in) and he stands alone like a cheese. …Like an island. …Like a lonely island made of cheese.
So honorable! So brave! So… Dare I say, heroic! One little guy stands up against The Man and shouts, “Heck NO! We won’t GO!” and watches on, with quivering lip, as the entire block is paved over – all of his neighbours have sold out, yet he stands firm!
O! To love one’s home to that degree! What an admirable little guy he is!
…This is what I used to think when I passed the house.
Whenever I’m in, at, or around this shopping plaza I can’t stop staring at what seems to be invisible to most others. It’s been there so long, it just blends in to its surroundings like camouflage.
I, however, walk into lampposts. I trip over curbs. I find myself nearly hypnotized by what I’m sure is a great story behind those bricks.
I think it’s love.
I’m in love with Hamilton’s best-kept secret.
The word around the Remax water cooler is that the little guy who bought his home in 1963 did, indeed, hold out against The Man (the plaza developer), many years ago, as I always suspected. But it wasn’t for the love of his home. They say he held out until he was the last one standing on the block so that he could demand an outrageous amount for his home and walk away with pockets full of dough. It so happened that he was dealing with the wrong developer. The developer responded to his demands with a, “Screw that!” and HE (the plaza developer) built the tall fence around the house and left the little guy there to rot in greed.
It finally made sense to me why a man who supposedly loved his home so much would let it look so dingy over time. It seems that someone, 30 years ago, threw a few bottles of Pepto Bismol onto the brick and called it a paint job. The structure (from what I can see while walking into trees) appears sturdy enough… The little guy just let it get Capital “U”, Ugly.
The FENCE, however – The FENCE is perfect. And it always will be. The plaza will make sure of that.
As just deserts for his greed for money, his property now holds next to no value to the plaza, as flattening it would only mean six to eight more parking spots, and as enormous as the place is, I’ve never seen it filled to capacity, even on its busiest of days.
The city actually values this little property at a good amount – far more than any one would actually pay for it, due to its location.
Practically speaking… As far as resale goes, it’s difficult to sell a home that’s in a parking lot. I’m not sure why. I mean, you’ve got all the shopping you’ll ever need literally in your own backyard, plenty of parking for parties, no neighbours to be quiet for, and with highways and main streets all around, you’ll always be able to get places fast! You’d even have a big KFC bucket in the sky, to light your way home at night, in absence of the stars, which Hamilton hasn’t seen for decades.
And in true Hamilton style, standing at the front door of this home is one of two places in the city where you can rotate on the spot and view four Tim Horton's at once. It's a sight to behold.
Commercially, the property is in the hub of everything commercial. …But it has one parking spot. And that plaza, with all its pent up animosity, will eat rocks before it lets customers use its parking spots to enter that house!! I was told that the plaza would likely set up guards around the house, just to makes sure their spaces weren’t being stolen, if someone opened shop there.
So… What a story. I was in love with the house before I knew it, and I was more in love with every syllable spoken.
Perhaps, I thought, the embittered owner would now be willing to get rid of his property at any offensively low price! At this point, he may just want to rid himself of the burden. It can’t hurt to try! I can handle a slap in the face. …Or rather, my real estate agent can!
If the property is structurally sound I could consider buying at a low price to compensate for the resale difficulties. If he were a reasonable man, it’d be difficult to disagree. …But who knows if he’s reasonable.
Here’s where the plot thickens.
He’s dead.
The little guy – the once greedy man – died last year.
The tenants in the house have been there for 11 years, and I’m not sure who they’re paying rent to anymore.
The property has been in probate court since his death, and no one can figure out what should be done with it.
I deemed this a possible lucky break for me. (Pardon my coldness… poor dead man.) But, if I played my cards right, I might be able to take this burden off the family’s hands without as much fear of insulting. How are they going to split up a house amongst them, anyway? A little wad of money is SO much easier.
Ooooh, I know what you’re thinking. If this plot thickened any more, it’d be as dense as the parking lot pavement it sits upon.
Well, our little guy wrote a unique will. As it turns out, he gave his home over to the City, with the wish that they make it into a heritage home – a historical “City of Hamilton” thing.
………………………….Could my odds get any better??
Who cares LESS about this home than the City of Hamilton?
Like this is ANYwhere on their priority list!
This is why it’s been in probate for so long. Who knows how much longer it will sit on the shelf. …Unlesssssss someone walks through the doors with an insanely, offensively, ridiculously low offer to buy.
I found the July record of the City’s discourse on what to do with the property (likely the last time they talked about it). The only two suggestions were 1) that the house be torn down to widen the street in front of it, and 2) that it be sold on the open market and the proceeds go towards The Revolving Fund for Heritage Homes.
Suggestion 1 requires not only paving over the house, but also cutting into plaza property. I just don’t see that happening easily or any time soon.
Suggestion 2 is my only hope. This sounds somewhat like what he wanted in his will. …We all know it isn’t what he really wanted, but we can put a “heritage” label on some big rock somewhere and all feel good about it when we go to sleep.

I’m still very cautious. I’m absolutely in love, but I’m very wary of what could end up looking much like a dysfunctional marriage. You pay a high price for what, at the time, looked like adorable eccentricities, but after a few years you come to resent them, and then you wake up one morning and it dawns on you … you’re stuck with this for LIFE.

But then, like a huge tattoo on your forehead, you could role with it and let it help you express your own eccentricities.

…It could go in so many directions. Much of it is choice.

But do I want a solid investment that keeps up with the current market?
Or do I want take a once-in-a-life-time chance?
Life isn’t like the movies. I want to root for the second choice, but I won’t have a football team to lift me onto their shoulders while tear-jerking music plays in the background, and the evil developer gets a pie in the face.

It could just end up being a poor choice.

Now, resale of that house is difficult… but not impossible. …Not if someone grew up to be a marketing genius. Not if someone knew how to get the media involved.

…I’m just sayin’. There are possibilities.

I waver, daily.

There will be a conclusion to this story soon enough. City Hall is dead over the holidays, but when Tuesday rolls around I have an agent on the case. …Wow. That sounds so legitimate.

This could be the future home of the Dundas Busker Fest Annual Wrap Party/BBQ.

Or I could get a normal house.

[Rachel Peters]

The crap shack in its current state

(the property actually goes back pretty far, with an extention on the back, a yard, and a giant shed or workshop) It's deceptively large.

And that's not grass on the roof, that's a tree in the back yard.

[Rachel Peters]

The crap shack as I see's it...

[Rachel Peters]

and then...

I think Rachel Peters is about to make a deal on a house.

...a nice, normal house.

I had no choice. Lawyers are holding up my parking lot dream home at City Hall, and I need a place to live.
Apparently the city will use their own assessment and put the house up for sale accordingly. No one will buy it at that price. ...at least, I hope not. Because I want it.
Maybe it'll still be there in 5 years, waiting for a loving soul to claim it.

sigh.

I wish life was like the movies.

[Peter Voice]

There are several ways you can make this work, even pay for itself and make a profit.

First find some where to live while you plan then try the following.

Make an appointment with the Marketing Manager of the centre/mall and tell him you intend to take over the house. You are an internationally recognised Animation Artist (if only here, but we can provide references) and you intend to install a giant screen at the rear of the property facing the carpark.
Do not say you intend to pay for it.
You intend to allow the screen to be used by the shopping centre "for free" (if THEY support you) during business hours (8 per day) in exchange for the right to show whatever you like after-hours (16 per day or whatever you negotiate but that's where you start)).

Make an appointment with the manager of the hardware/paint store and show him your concepts for potential paint jobs on the building and offer this as a promotional opportunity to them.

See the manager of the electronics store about your screen and sponsorship of said equipment.

Point out to the manager/owner of the 24hr store the advantages of you showing animations regularly on Weds (or any other) night.

Point out to all parties that no-one can legally park in the carpark without a receipt from one of the stores (before they point it out to you) and that this will always be understood by you.

Contact the local TV channel and offer to broadcast the morning and evening news for them. Offer time to the local radio station that has the best live (visual) internet presence.


It seems to me that the building already has some local notoriety and that could very easily be played on. The shopping centre would happily help any-one who would turn the place into an asset for them. And while the shops around the house do not have big bucks to sponsor you, the companies whose products they sell do, think breweries, electronics companies, sportswear etc.

Put it to your friends and find a decent lawyer. With a half good business plan, the support of a couple of colleagues and the traders at the shopping centre, your bank should be interested in lending you the money.
The city may also just be clever enough to understand. See the public relations guy and the tourism guy before you approach the pedantic public servant charged with selling the house. He is almost certainly an accountant.

I wouldn't dream of living there, Rachel, but it could become the home of the RP Media empire.

RPM, hhummmm, has a racy sort of sound doesn't it.

Good luck and go for it if you really want it.

Invite me when you're ready.

[Rachel Peters]

heh. I'm not sure if you were totally joking or not, but I had very similar thoughts. If I could catch it at the right time and make it pay for itself, it could work.
Who knows what will come.

Serendipitously, the house I did end up with (almost there) has an interior layout that's almost an exact replica of the house I last lived in, with my old roommates, who will now become my renters. They'll move from one house, into the exact same house across town. It's almost like some creepy Star Trek episode where someone recreates a human environment on an alien planet, or something.
Only I'll get to do what I want to this one. ...Like, maybe commission an internationally acclaimed chalk artist to join me in painting the walls. mmmmmm.

Unless the inspector discovers that the entire house is made out of sponge toffee, or the mortar is mayonnaise and the bricks are rats, I'll be in there by the end of the month. A home to lay my head.

(I'll be quite surprised that I didn't notice, if it turns out it is made of sponge toffee. ...but that would explain why I couldn't stop licking the banister.)

[Peter Voice]

I was totally serious.

In some locations a simple billboard can be worth a fortune (per annum). A targetted, programable, interactive one that you control? Hmmmm.

Would it constitute Street Theatre?

[Rachel Peters]

Originally posted by Peter Voice
I was totally serious.

In some locations a simple billboard can be worth a fortune (per annum). A targetted, programable, interactive one that you control? Hmmmm.

it'd be what i currently do for a living, only on a house.
other people's commercials and the occassional cartoon.

Originally posted by Peter Voice


Would it constitute Street Theatre?

drive-in theatre!

[Peter Voice]

I figured all of that in already, Rachel.
How often, in your life, do you think that the elements of ability and opportunity will collide. Surely the house is only worth a couple of hundred thousand and one good contract would pay for your screen, ancillaries and the mortgage.

As I said, put the thoughts to a couple of friends and colleagues.

Who may want to rent the building as an animation studio? Are any of your past employers possible partners?

How much would movie distributers pay you to show previews?

I really am serious. It's a matter of synchronicity and one should never ignore synchronicity, especially when you have the rare opportunity to see it coming.

[Rachel Peters]

I absolutely agree.
We'll see what comes.

(and we're talkin' about Hamilton Ontario -- Steel town. Down town, a couple hundred thousand buys a mansion. It's much more reasonable than that. It's definately within the realms of possibility. ...It's one of the reasons I'm buying here. Apart from loving the community here, it's also the only commutable place I can afford.)

[Peter Voice]

Peter's story-time for Robert and Rachel

It was a typical summer afternoon in Melbourne today, quite pleasant really if you ignored the heat, bushfire smoke and the drought. I was sitting on the back porch of a good friend's house watching the garden wither in the sun when a very beautiful butterfly flew into the yard. We noticed it because, sadly, butterflies have become inceasingly rare in my part of the world. I noted that it was the first I'd seen this summer.
My friend, who harks from long before I considered working the streets, is a recently retired aeronautical metallurgist (scientist who breaks planes to find out when they break and why) and as we sipped our beers we watched this lovely insect glide straight and level into the yard. Much to our amazement this improbable creature did 3 laps of Rob's substantial garden without once flapping it's wings. It then glided smoothly towards us and landed on the rim of Rob's glass.

We both noted it's steady flight and I said I'd never seen a butterfly actually fly like that before. I had always thought Spooner actually had it right. It sat on the glass, undisturbed by our conversation as we discussed the aeronautical qualities of various improbable flying objects, the bumblebee, Russia's SU29 jet-fighter, our local advertising blimp, stag beetles, fruit bats and Bob Debris.

Rob got another glass and as he returned the butterfly took flight and treated us to a couple of exquisite, precision turns around the garden, with only a couple of wing flaps. It came back and again made a perfect landing on the glass. It flew like a seagull and we speculated that it may have gone to the wrong school or spent too much time in the neighbour's secret garden. It was definitely keen on Rob's wine. I suggested that it could be some sort of evolutionary leap, that freak genetic individual that might over generations teach it's whole species true controlled flight. We wondered if it was defying Spooner's definition.

As we considered this, and the fine flavour of the neighbour's garden produce, the butterfly again took flight. With only 2 or 3 flaps of it's wings, it started on a graceful, sweeping curve acoss the garden.

The Wattlebird that lives in the Sugargum tree at the bottom of the garden couldn't miss.

If only the bug had heard of Spooner.

[Rachel Peters]

Another Bald Performer.

I grew up as a pastor's kid, a missionary's kid, a Bible college professor and dorm parent's kid. I even spent one year in Bible college, out in Alberta, trying to "find myself". I've led a very "churched" life. It's been a long time since I've been regularly to any one church, due to an increasingly transient lifestyle. But if I happen to be at my parents’ place on weekends, I do try to go to listen to my Dad. I like his head. He’s a good egg.
I showed up two weeks ago to what turned out to be a baptismal service.
Two teens were getting baptized that morning. All of the portable chairs were turned around to face the small pool that's usually hidden by a wall along the back of the sanctuary.
I really like the seniors who go there. They can be hilarious. I try to go out to lunch with them when I can, on Sunday afternoons, and I sometimes sneak into actual "Seniors events". Now that my Mother is officially in the club, I can get away with partying with them from time-to-time.
That Sunday morning I said hi to Margaret. Margaret just turned 90 years old. She and her husband are newly weds -- both previously widowed. A few years ago she accompanied her husband to his late wife's grave, and when she turned around to leave she tripped over nothing and injured her hip. To this day she insists that his dead wife tripped her out of jealousy. She laughs a lot and doesn't look a day past 80. Her hip healed up nicely the first time, but ran into some trouble again after falling off the toilet a year later. She laughed about that one too, only slightly more sheepishly.
Her best friend is Margaret. Margaret had her ears pierced a few decades ago at the insistence of her grown daughters, but she lost one of her earrings about 13 years back. She wore the one remaining earring in her ear for nearly 13 years because she just couldn't be bothered to change them or take them out. She just never felt like it.
I chatted with her the Sunday too. She made the point of telling me that morning that she loved my parents so much that she hopes she goes before they do. I replied, "Yeah. ...Me too." I didn't realize what I had said right away, but she laughed so hard I thought she might go right then and there, doubled over and red-faced.
So, the service begins.
The first young lady to be dunked comes out, gives a little talk about why she wanted to be baptized, and everything goes as planned. Touching moment. Love all around.
The second teenager comes out and steps into the pool.
As this young man is nervously reading from his crumpled page, I notice that he's at least a foot and a half taller than my father, who's also standing in the pool, waiting to dunk the boy under the water. When the kid backs up and prepares, I realize the top of Dad's head only comes to his shoulders. I'm in the middle of thinking, "I wonder if the pool is big enough for that boy to lean all the way back. Well, they must have taken all of that into account. " But given the laws of physics, I'm still left curious about how my little Dad is going to manage this maneuver. His job is to hold onto the baptizee’s fists with one hand, while his other hand is supporting their back, as they go under.
As I’m pondering this…
“In the name of the Father, The Son, and the…” WHAPwhap!!
…The giant child’s head BOUNCES off the ceramic tile ledge on the wall as he goes under. It bounces off with unusual force. I guess Dad was really excited about this one. Or maybe the kid was. Either way, SOMEthing sent him flinging back like it was an amusement park ride.
A sympathetic, “oooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh” echoes through the sanctuary –voices united as if singing a hymn.
He comes up smiling, and on the way out of the pool I can see my father shaking his head and saying, “I am so sorry. I am SO sorry. I am soooo sorry.”

Best baptism EVER.

Later, when Dad came back with a dry suit, ready to start his sermon, he felt the need to explain. “Some of you may have heard a thump as I baptized Jason.” (I know he only said, “some”, because one third of the congregation is nearing 90 and can barely hear him talking, let alone any sound effects. But anyone with a half-decent degree of hearing ability definitely heard the thump!) “Jason learned something very important today. Following Jesus can be difficult and often painful. I was merely teaching him that lesson early.”

Anything said from behind a pulpit is usually received as extra funny.

I'll definately be checking out his next baptism for any repeat performances.

[Rachel Peters]

In Passing

I daydream about horrible things sometimes, usually while I'm waiting for the subway.
I think about getting accidentally shoved onto the track and losing my left hand. Somehow it makes me feel like it might make life easier. Do I want to lose my hand? No! My left hand is my career and my career is like my child! A part of me would die if I were to ever have my hand taken off by a train or anything else. I'd rather lose half my body than lose my left hand.
This morning in the subway I realized I fantasize about these things because, in a way, it would make sense of my struggle. All my life I've been struggling with God-knows-what (and He does), throughout a perfectly blessed and privileged life. I'm constantly fighting to push forward, but I can't be sure of what it is I'm fighting or pushing against. Nothing is "wrong". ...So why is everything wrong?
Why do I feel as if the air I'm trying to walk through is as thick as mud?
A constant, underlying Melancholy would make sense for an artist with no hands. What a poetically bitter existence. Struggling through that life would be logical and no one would question my discontent or tell me I'm ungrateful. (As it is, nobody does. I don't generally talk about these things. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever articulated it before at all.)
I'm learning how to be content in all situations (I'm not yet there, but it's something I grow in as I live), however I'm not sure I'll ever been content with Life. Not MY life, but Life as a whole -- capital "L", Life.
I think this feeling must be humanity. The struggle -- the fighting -- is against everything that's wrong with the world; an endless dissatisfaction, having a distant recollection that this isn't the way it was supposed to be. I'm pushing against 'why bad things happen to good people'. I'm pushing against 'why a perfectly fine dog bites a perfectly nice child'.
Even in the happy times, I'm fighting against hurt.
So, I don't think I want to grow to be content with capital “L”, Life. I don't want to grow desensitized to it. I don't want to accept that this was the plan, because I've seen the blueprints and I know it wasn't.
This feeling is sort of like the seed of abused self-mutilators – maybe a distant cousin.
A person wants pain they can see.
I remember breaking up with Mat and trying to make myself throw up (I never succeeded. Damn my repressed gag reflex!!) I just wanted to know why and where in my body I felt so sick. I can't locate heartache and it confuses me.
I've read about disorders where people become convinced they are supposed to be amputees and become so obsessed that they go as far as amputating themselves. Sometimes it's for pity, but it's often because they see amputees as valiant heroes -- overcommers. A part of me can understand that disorder.
I think those of us who aren't already there, are just one sliver away from serious, debilitating dysfunctionality. All it takes is one little brain glitch to bridge the gap – one little spark from a couple crossed wires to make the difference between balanced and imbalanced.

This was just a fleeting, partially subconscious thought when I got on the subway this morning, but now that I've voiced it (so to speak) it’s messed with my head a little and made me rather somber. I'll likely not speak of it again, for fear that irony (who, in my mind, is a living, breathing, cruel and bored 30 year old man) will take advantage of the moment and have me hit by a train on the way home today. I don't really want that.