An informative exhibition featuring Agatha Christie's life was at The Pointe-à-Callière museum in Montreal. She is known as the "Queen of Crime" with sixty-six mysteries; six novels written as Mary Westmacott; and a hundred and fifty short stories, eighteen plays and two memoirs under her belt. From her sleuthing couple Tommy and Tuppence to her sharply witted Miss Marple to her "greatest detective who ever lived" Hercule Poirot.

I have read only one of her books and despite my love of reading, I enjoy Agatha Christie's stories much more on television. It's easier for me when it comes to mystery novels because seeing the suspects with their unique characteristics helps organize them in my mind.

The museum split the exhibition between two floors. This post will focus on Agatha's life up until her archaeological digs.

I'm sure many of you have been stuck working with people who rely upon the rest of the group to get the project done and all through the project, you can feel that the morale is down and people are frustrated with having to do extra work because of this one person. I've been there countless times and will probably be there again in the future; it is inescapable because jobs often involve teamwork.

I was reading a book on organizational behavior and I came across the term "social loafing". It refers to a group member who contributes very little (or nothing at all) of their time, effort or any other resource to the group. To think that there has been a word out there to descibe those annoying group members! And, I would never have guessed that "loafing" would be an official term.

Some lessons learned in acting and in life from the perspective of a world-renowned performance coach, whose ideology suggests that actors aren't necessarily born, but made.

The actors were already on the small studio stage by the time the 60 or so audience members scrambled for their seats. About half were observers of the acting workshop, notepads and pens at the ready. The other half was participants who would hit the stage later that day. All morning, the performers waited patiently for the acting coach to arrive from New York City. They had been working for months on their scenes, anticipating the day they would actually be trained by the one and only Tom Todoroff. Founder of his own acting studio and conservatory, Todoroff has been coaching and directing actors for theatre, film and television for over 36 years, having taught Liam Neeson, Bob Hoskins, Robert Wagner and Alicia Witt, to name a few.

The 11^th hour finally hit. Todoroff entered the studio on that chilly Saturday morning in February, slipped past the audience and discretely made his way onto the stage. He sat on his director's chair, facing the audience and angled towards the first performers of the day. They took their positions.

Cue lighting. Enter Lady Capulet, stage right, her curly hair flying wildly behind her, her nightgown, free and flowing, falling just above her bare feet. She carried in her hands a breakfast tray and placed it at her daughter's bedside. Her daughter, Juliet, distraught from learning of the death of her beloved Romeo, sat up in bed slowly, surprised at her mother's presence in her chambers, but welcoming nonetheless.

Image: Credit J'ette Novakovich "Recycled Wall Art" Montreal

By 2015, the City of Montreal should have reached a recycling rate of 70 per cent -- a goal set by the provincial government in its action plan for household waste -- but in reality, Montreal's recycling rate has barely even attained its 2008 goal of 60 per cent. In the 2014 report on waste collection, which is released every second year, the recycling rate remains stagnant at 58.3 per cent -- a mere 0.3 per cent increase from 2012.

In a Montreal Gazette article published on Sep. 2 of this year, Réal Ménard, the executive committee member in charge of the city's environment portfolio, said that overall, the 2014 report is positive but there is still much work to be done. "Globally, we are sending less garbage to landfill sites," he explained. "We have to obviously continue our actions to encourage citizens to recycle more and participate in the new collection of food waste."

Today, everyone has two methods of committing one's thoughts to paper: physically or electronically. I have always preferred writing things down rather than typing them up, however, it depends on the situation. If I'm working on my own projects, like short stories and poems, I write them out and type them up later. If I find a project complicated, like essay writing, I'll type everything on the computer including my primary thoughts.

I prefer the act of writing for its:

• physicality (I love the sense of freedom it provides as the pen (or any other writing instrument) glides over the paper)
• intimacy (the words we write contain our emotions and personalities, making the words all the more powerful)
• opportunity (it's practically the only time I get to use cursive handwriting; I love the fluid strokes that lend the words a fancy appearance and I don't use cursive fonts very often for clarity purposes)

I like typing for its:

• rapidity (I don't always have the patience or time to write in cursive and typing saves me the time and effort of writing out each letter)
• clarity (for most documents, fonts that contain block letters, like Times New Roman, are used so as not to distract or confuse the reader)
• efficiency (I can highlight, copy/paste and delete a large amount of text faster than in reality)
• storage (I can save multple copies of a document in different places without adding to the clutter of my desk which may lead to the document's potential disappearance, especially if it's a loose sheet of paper)

I didn't grow up in an environment that was dependent upon computers and I didn't have the luxury of having portable electronic devices. Because I don't have any portable electronic devices, I keep a notebook with me and whenever inspiration strikes, I write. My travel time is rather long so I spend my time writing out stories, poems and, of course, blog posts.

When I was at the bus depot waiting for my bus, I was writing a poem when suddenly this young guy--I'd said he was a senor in high school--asked me what I was doing. I told him I was writing a poem and he replied, "You don't see that anymore." He even said he thought poetry was dead! I gave him a confused look and said, "No," and continued writing before I lost my thoughts.

I've included this Ted Talk which helped me write this blog post. I hope you enjoy it as much I did:

This project began with this single photo by Victor Garibaldi:

And is continually explored by Éric Soucy (aka FI3200) and myself (aka The (Only) Red Wolf).

The Goblin Tunnels are underground portals belonging to another dimension. Different creatures live in them and they enter our world to cause havoc and to bring things, and people, back into the Goblin Tunnels.

To see past installments, click here and here. Victor and Éric produce the mind-blowing photographs and I provide them with the occasional written piece (poetry and stories).

Warning: Here is the latest installment but to better understand the following story, please read "Resurgence" first.

IN MEMORY OF DAVID BOWIE: 1947-2016

My eulogy to David Bowie:

Last week when David Bowie's latest, (and now last), album Blackstar came out, I watched the video he did for his song "Blackstar" and I found that the video was jam-packed with religious symbolism; this was odd even for Bowie, in my opinion, because I have listened to a wide range of Bowie's music and observed his changing styles and themes and his consistent ones and felt that something was off. I wondered, why is there so much of this theme? And as I listened to his other songs on the album, my suspicions and questions grew. Why are there so many repetitions of death and death-reated things like tombstones and heaven? Watching Bowie himself in his video of "Blackstar" also made me wonder why he looked so much older.

It was only this morning when I heard news of his passing and his 18 months of battling cancer and I was deeply saddened. ANd as I played his various albums to personally commemorate his achievements, a thought struck me: "Black. Star. Black often means death and star is a synonym for a celebrity. Was his album connected to his illness?" and like a flash, I went onto the internet and immediately found this article that matched my train-of-thought:

http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2016/jan/11/was-david-bowie-saying-goodbye-on-blackstar

And it is confirmed that Blackstar was his "parting gift":

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/celebritynews/12092542/Bowies-last-album-was-parting-gift-for-fans-in-carefully-planned-finale.html

We all say "thank you" to you, David Bowie, David Jones. He was a brilliant writer to whom I shall always turn to help me write, to help me stay true to myself and to comfort me in my sadness.

It got me. After weeks of hearing people cough, running away from people sneezing and washing my hands constantly, the cold somehow got a hold on me.

After several days of having a cold, my mind is eventually swept under waves of confusion, repetition and forgetfulness. Out of these three types of waves, the one I hate the most is repetition. Things said, seen or heard will repeat endlessly in my mind and I lack the energy to push it away and focus on something else. It's as if my mind cannot absorb the usual information it receives so everything seeps in at an extremely slow pace. Being only the third day of having a cold, I mostly have clarity, however, the want to stare at a wall all day is tempting right now as well as going back to bed.

I wonder if it's best to have a cold as school recommences since there aren't any projects yet, heavy studying or exams to complete.

Colds turn writing into very long chores because thinking is difficult enough without having to focus on what it is you have to write about. And when I'm finally finished writing and I go back over my work, I'm not even sure I'm making any sense. Reading is equally arduous; the mind wanders constantly before you realize you're still holding the book without a clue as to what it says.

Unfortunaltely, colds are an occupational hazard for us writers. And students.

Here's to your health!

Everyone needs to do something creative each day. I don't mean you have to write a book or do a painting each day. Simply writing diary entries, messing about on design apps or reading is enough; it's whatever outlet you feel you need to use in order to feel like yourself.

Restraining your creative impulses only creates a build-up of negative energy that leads to destruction of yourself or of relationships with those around you. Creativity is as important as exercise. It must be done a little each day.

We all need to do activities that help us escape, either mentally or physically, our present life. That's why we create in the first place. We need a place where we can go to cope with sorrow and anger or to celebrate our happiness. I have several creative activities that I do depending on my mood or the amount of free time I have. Among other things, I birdwatch. Here are some of my snapshots:

American Goldfinch

Cedar Waxwings

I also write poetry and short stories. And, of course, blogging is another one of my creative activities.

So, keep creatiing!

In high school, one of the many assignments we had to do was write a story about living in Montreal and dealing with the fighting languages of English and French. Here is my short story about a girl who breaks away from her mother's way of thinking in order to begin living her life to the fullest extent.

L'irruption into Freedom

The words flowed well. The drums were powerful; the guitar electrifying. The rhythm helped her feel stronger even though she knew it was only temporary. She understood the meaningful lyrics despite her oblivion to the entire language. As the song ended, her strength slowly drained from her and she was brought back to her problem. A problem which she faced daily ever since she could remember.

Véronique sat in the booth alone with her Walkman. She finished her fries and replaced her Walkman in her bag, zipping it shut. Nearby, Véronique could hear a group of teens talking. They were speaking English, she knew. She knew because she often listened to English music behind her mother's back. Véronique wanted to join in the conversation but couldn't because of the boundaries her mother had set ever since Véronique had begun to speak. She lived in Quebec and could not fathom why the French will not accept any other language.

After dumping her trash, she walked home. The weather was frosty and bleak. The wind blew against her. As soon as Véronique arrived home, the phone rang.

-- Véronique ? C'est Michelle. C'que tu veux aller au Centre Ville 'vec moi et André ?

-- Euh... je...j'peux pas.

-- Ah, OK. Ben, bonne journée, Roni !

-- Oui. Toi 'si.

The phone's dial tone rang in her ear. Véronique wanted to go downtown but her mother forbad her because she believed English was the only language spoken there. Véronique felt the weight of the house's emptiness. Her father was at work and her mother was probably running errands.

If ever you feel inadequate as a writer or you're trying to stay true to yourself, then I recommend talking to a good friend or searching the internet for motivational videos and/or music. The writer Neil Gaiman delievered an inspirational speech in 2012 to university graduates. Writers and fellow artists, lend your ears to this video:

To those of you who, like me, are chasing a dream that is seemingly out of reach; who have entered countless collaborations with the hopes of "making it";

who have dozens of unfinished creative projects hidden in an arbitrarily-named folder on your desktop;

who have endured internship after internship completing arduous tasks and hoping that maybe--someday--the company will find it in their budget to hire you; who, despite the monetary struggles, skeptical family members, disappointments, and failures, have still not given up--this blog is for you.

You're reading this because you can't help but feel a disconnect with people that surround you.

This is not to say you lack sympathy or sensitivity (you have plenty of that), but as an avid observer of the human condition, you are a spectator peering through a looking-glass--one with compelling characters whose stories are waiting to be told.

You're reading this because you are hell-bent on telling those stories.

If this is you on some level, then I may have some words that will inspire you to push and thrive, in spite of your inner doubts and latent fears.

For now, I leave you with this video-- a speech by Neil Gaiman that I wish I had heard years ago:

I have not travelled as much as I would like. I have been to Ottawa twice and Boston once, but those were school trips and although the trips held some interest for me, I was not allowed to go where my heart desired. On these trips, I brought with me a journal (I collect them) and recorded my thoughts. My favorite type of journal is the oversized one made by Peter Pauper Press which the bookstores Indigo and Chapters also sell.

What inspired me to bring a journal on my travels were the Nancy Drew mystery games made by Herinteractive. In most of the games, the mystery begins with Nancy reading a letter she has written to her friends, father, housekeeper or boyfriend and in later games, she has a journal which gamers can refer to for observations, phones numbers and the like. In the Herinteractive Merchandise store, you can even purchase a Nancy Drew-themed journal which, of course, I had to have! I long to fill my journals with my travels to Ireland, England, Denmark, New York, Venice, Australia...the list continues. That's another reason why I am so in love with those Nancy Drew games; with their combination of music and graphics, the countries Nancy visits fuel my want to travel.

It was late afternoon on a crisp September day. I was standing in front of the old Forum, half a block up from St. Catherine and Atwater, waiting for a friend to emerge from the Mêtro for a quick dinner downtown. Montréal's weather was changing suddenly, as it often does between seasons, and some people were still wearing shorts and sandals, while others had found their jackets and pullovers, and even the occasional long winter coat.

A river of people burst by, it was the height of evening rush hour. Ahead, a small-framed man in a brown windbreaker sat in a wheelchair, a head full of combed-through Brylcreamed hair, holding out an empty carton coffee cup. He looked up. No one slowed, no one looked at him, he was seemingly invisible, on the edge of the stream of commuters, an object eluding collision. As the rush receded, he lowered his cup and then his gaze, and disappeared into the infinity spot, his eyes swimming about two feet ahead...gone. Then he came back, animated by a game nonchalance, he smirked, "Am I going to have to hurt somebody?"

I choked off a guffaw; I couldn't suppress that knife into the heart. What will it take to be seen, to be valued and validated...how many miles?

People use books everyday. Books are our teachers, our entertainers. They are the key to the past and a window into the minds of others. Books contain stories and knowledge. And "knowledge is power" (Sir Francis Bacon).

Proteins bars--check. Bottled water--check. Toilet paper, Nutella, money belt, pepper spray, antibiotics, Malaria pills--check.

Eighteen hours later, in May of 2013, my five close friends and I stood outside the Mumbai airport well after dark, beads of sweat dripping from our brows in the 35-degree weather. Our luggage full of "essentials" was glued to our sides as we searched for a van cab that could accommodate all of us.

But in Mumbai, no such cab existed. We were reluctant to split up, even if it was just for a 10-minute drive to the hotel. For months, we had heard horror stories in the media about India - from robberies, to gang rapes, to murders. "Why India?" our families couldn't help but ask concernedly. "It's dangerous. They're dangerous," they'd say. But we were adamant. For almost a year, we educated ourselves on the culture, the customs, even the languages. It was a fascination we couldn't properly explain.

In any case--our romantic notions aside--once we had suffered the dreaded Indian Visa application process, we felt we had reached a point of no return.

Sometime in your life, you most likely will receive an offer to sign on to a project that undermines your value as a professional. Do you accept the offer since it will beef up your professional resume or do you decline on principle?

On one hand, if this project involves a charitable organization, it might be a no brainer. You would not only be gaining valuable experience, you might argue, but you would also be making the world a better place.

On the other hand, what if you were hired to design courseware for one of the richest global corporations in the world and offered not only below minimum wage compensation at the Masters or PhD level, but below the U.S. dollar level wages per hour?

Recently, a company contacted me to design online courses intended for retail employees to help them gain a leg up in a competitive world.

In one of my classes in cegep, we had to make a portfolio of whatever medium we were interested in and we had to present it to the class. I wrote several short stories and for my presentation, I read one of them. It was Friday and our last class of the day so my classmates were tired and somewhat anxious to go home, but when I read my story, (I had turned out the lights so people would relax), no one interrupted or were on their phones trying not to be seen. They were all listening. Afterwards, there was a Q&A period and several of the students said that they enjoyed my presentation immensely because it reminded them of when they were in elementary school and listened to their teacher read a story. They felt nostagic because they are always preoccupied with social media and everyone is so busy. They enjoyed being able to relax and imagine again.

In the following video, Susan Cooley talks about stories helping youths find themselves and how much stories and writng have helped her in her own life.

Let your imagination run rampant.

Today, we remember all who have fought in war and who are currently fighting. I have included some intersting facts about the author of "In Flanders Fields", John McCrae:

"On December 8, 1915, Punch magazine published a poem commemorating the dead of World War I. "In Flanders Fields" was written by John McCrae of Guelph, Ontario, after his experiences in the trench warfare around Ypres, Belgium.

...

McCrae published other poems before the war in McGill University's University Magazine. "In Flanders Fields" is one of a collection of poems published posthumously in 1919 as In Flanders Fields and Other Poems.

He was educated at the University of Toronto and in 1900 was appointed fellow in pathology at McGill University in Montréal. He later became a physician at the Alexandra Hospital and assistant physician at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montréal."

Source:

https://www.historicacanada.ca/content/heritage-minutes/john-mccrae?media_type=&media_category=35

Lest we forget

Reading the works of the Early Romantics, (Blake, Wordsworth and Coleridge), brings me closer to nature and helps me feel peace. However, I believe that in order for one to fully comprehend their words, one must feel them. One must find a place away from the sounds of people and traffic. Quiet the mind, listen to the chirping birds, rustling leaves and breathe in the wind that has blown for eternity. Only then can one read and feel nature's meaning. It may take some travel, but it is well worth the trouble.

In honor of the Early Romantics, I wrote a short poem about the constant struggle between city and country:

Forgetting Romantics

Dare I dream of yesterdays?

Trees wholly ablaze

And Man's burdens falling away,

As the silence, save that of a stream,

Refreshes mind, body, soul of today.

But they round up the unknowing mules,

Encompassing within rigid rules

To erase memories of winds so cool;

Yet clear is the baaing of sheep,

The graduated fools.

How the curtains shut and remain,

Making our souls writher in their chains

And our minds wander among barren plains.

Aging flesh hanging, falling away,

As we, tortured rebels, become insane.

For several years, I kept a hand-out my secondary two teacher gave out. It was Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken". We had analyzed it in class and I decided to keep it, without knowing why:

The Road Not Taken

Growing up, I frequented two places daily: home and school. People's reactions to my behaviour and my interests always made me feel like I was not normal. I preferred being alone to being with people I didn't like and that made me weird. The stories I wrote which were full of emotions were also considered weird. People spoke over me and tried to force their opinions onto me. I didn't have any support; I was alone.

Five years later, I was in cegep and started my first job in a boutique. As I became acquainted with the staff, I found that my manager, although he was a photographer as opposed to a writer, shared my interests and I, at last, had found one solid connection in life. After reading two of my poems, he said, "It is a harduous path [following your heart] because only the bravest choose these paths. But it is yours..."

Two years later, I was listening to the soundtrack from one of my favourite television shows, Quantum Leap. The show features a man who is able to leap into other people's bodies throughout time and, in order to leap out again, has to fix things in the people's lives to change history for the better. The show demonstrates that leaping can be lonely and one of the songs on the soundtrack, "Fate's Wide Wheel", features loneliness as its main theme:

Fate's Wide Wheel

There has been a lot of talk in the news these past few months about who will be the next James Bond. Consider this: what if James Bond was an alias for a woman?

You might ask how can the world's greatest spy be a woman if he was introduced as a male character? Believe it or not, there is a fan theory which validates and encourages the existence of a woman 007. According the James Bond fan theory of continuity, the only logical way for the James Bond movies to make sense is if James Bond is not the name of an actual person, but a code name given to a new agent after the previous James Bond's death or retirement (Smokingcage). Assuming the fan theory is correct, there is no logical reason why James Bond could not be an alias for a female agent.

But what would a female James Bond even be like?

Twenty-first century entrepreneurs require global vision, a vision where dominance only the bottom line and fully realizing the potential of your brand requires imagination and agility, crossing borders and extending market domains.

Few brands achieve a winning global formula, one that comprises of flexibility and brand identity; old-school promoters perceive market expansion as offering more risk than reward, or brand dilution rather than domination. However, entrepreneurial success in 21^st century global markets demands Olympian agility and fitness. A case study in global excellence, Mansion Group, an online gambling company based in Gibraltar, is a success story worthy of examination.

Nowadays I'm back at university in Montreal where, apparently, no one holds hands in public anymore. Over the past two years, I haven't seen one instance of it, not one. That is a high degree of conformity, of acquiscence, in the practice of an act that generally shows connection and affection; admittedly, it can have other motivations. I have seen a lot of texting on campus, hands clasped over the mesmeric screen, head bowed, thumbs fumbling and flying on the wings of text. Has our love affair with the little screen, on the little screen, replaced this simple act of affection? Has hand holding gone digital?

In truth, I'm not fond of the reductive 'public display of affection', or PDA, because of its emphasis on display, a thing done for show. If it's done in public, others will very likely watch, but that doesn't mean it's for display. Whether it's for or on display, in the end, "all behavior is communication".

Perhaps not-holding hands on campus is a by-product of academia's ethos; the body is there primarily to carry the head around to lecture halls and faculty meetings, or possibly, since universities are now so focused on corporate accreditation, hand holding is frowned upon just as it is in the corporate world - sours allegiance to the brand. Do your hands belong to you when you're on the job? Be that as it may, hand holding is clearly dèmodè in this, our digital revolution.