Kaleidoscope Eyes

When I was a teenage rebel my drug of choice was LSD. I blame John Lennon.

The punks that I hung around with had easy access to all kinds of shit to get you high, and I sampled my share of things. But I was still a bit of a Boy Scout, so I made a point of reading up on recreational drugs at the local library to see what exactly I might be in for. 'Acid' was immediately appealing due to it's non-addictive nature, and studies showing acid use caused no permanent physical harm. In fact, the same claims are being made today that LSD has no lasting chemical effect. Take this article from Answers.com, for instance. Psychological trauma? Maybe. But no physical damage. What a relief. I did loads of this stuff for most of 1985-1988! Ah! böwakawa poussé, poussé...

But wait. Even though Jim Parker over at Do It Now agrees with the consensus about long-term effects, he also has this to say:

"How acid produces its effects is still only partly understood. But among its other effects, acid alters the action and supply of serotonin, a neurotransmitter that the brain uses to make sense of all the scents and sights and sounds that filter into us from the world out there. The result is a lowered threshold for sensory stimulation, and a temporary overload of central nervous system circuitry."

Interesting. Acid screws with your serotonin. That made me sit up and take notice. Because when I was in Homewood learning to cope with my clinical Depression, my psychiatrist Dr. Lit determined that I wasn't producing anywhere near normal amounts of serotonin in my body. The daily meds I take to stay sane do just that-- boost my serotonin levels. I have to tell you... my gut is telling me there is a direct connection. And what did Mr. Parker mean by "still only partly understood"? Isn't anyone investigating what this drug does to peoples' serotonin? Turns out there are. Many researchers now believe that LSD use causes Serotonin Syndrome.

Looks as though my trips down the rabbit hole may have taken off a part of my head.

House Of Bricks

My partner Kate asked me the other day why I hadn't phoned my maternal grandparents. Their pet cat (a flame-point siamese named Taboo that used to be mine) had just been put to sleep, and my mum said I ought to call them. But I didn't. Which is weird because I adore them so much. I'm wondering why I never make an effort to stay in touch.

Maybe it's precisely because I idolize them that I find it hard to be close. After all, they've stayed together through thick and thin their entire lives, and I've had two failed marriages and a couple of nervous breakdowns, and only see my kids a few days a month. I feel like a massive disappointment, though they've never suggested anything of the sort.

My grandfather Dennis Warren (b.1928) worked his way as a bricklayer from the poor mining town of Shirebrook, Mansfield, UK, to become City Planner for Brampton, Ontario, Canada. He remembers as a child eating orange peels out of the gutters near wealthier folks homes after Christmas, as it was his only opportunity to experience the exotic fruit. He rebelled from his mining family and chose instead to pursue life as a mason. It was this fateful decision that kept him out of the fray of WWII, as he was conscripted to help re-build London after the Blitzkriegs. Dennis met my grandmother, Doreen Avril Rowlinson (b.1926) while re-bricking her bedroom. They were still teenagers, and have been together ever since.

Post-War London was a hard place for a young family to thrive. Dennis set off across the Atlantic, and a year later was able to send for his wife, mother-in-law (Emily), daughter (Sandra, my Mum), and son (Jonathan) to come join him after securing building work in Canada. He continued to live peacefully under the same roof as his in-law-- who we kids called 'Nanny'-- for all but the last year of her life. He took care of all her needs for three decades or so, even when my grandmother got homesick and returned to England alone for a year before coming to her senses.

Doreen worked at the newspaper while Dennis rose rapidly in his career due to impeachable work ethics, soon becoming City Planner of what was then, in the 1970's, the fastest growing city in Canada. My grandfather always shouldered any kind of labor like a happy Draft Horse, and has rarely uttered a complaint. He was typically stoic when his pacemaker failed and had to be replaced recently. My grandma is the strongest woman I ever met, never letting the diabetes that slowly destroyed her health keep her from the things she loved, and never having paid full price for anything in her life. She could talk a traffic cop into reducing the price of a ticket! She rules the Warren clan as undisputed Queen, and she could be ruthless, unforgiving, and downright mean if you got on her bad side. But she was an artist who taught the children to paint, press flowers, and see the faeries flickering in the fireplace.

The house they lived in when I was little, 42 Scott Street, was a gorgeous old mansion with a gigantic English garden, basement pub, rooftop greenhouse, haunted attic, loads of secret hiding places, and crystal doorknobs that cast tiny rainbows throughout the house at midday. Minnows and crayfish teamed in the creek across the street, ready to be caught in our little nets and spend the afternoon in mason jars before Dennis repatriated them. My grandpa had a 'Den' with an ancient electric fireplace, shortwave radio, stained-glass window of a pheasant, roll-top desk, leather E-Z boy, and large safe that housed his coin collection. Scott Street hosted their legendary cocktail parties. And seances. It was a magical house that is the setting for the best of my dreams.

You can see how easy it's been for me to build up these beloved family members into personal legends. I wish I were half the man my grandfather is, and I'm ashamed for him to ever see I'm not.

But I declare here and now that they are my heroes, in case I never manage to screw up the guts to tell them myself.

To Your Health

Last night after our bi-weekly Dungeons & Dragons session at my Brothers' place, my good friend Vince and I went out for a couple of pints at the local pub. We always have 'important talks' over beer, and this was no exception. But this time, Vince was telling me he thought I should quit drinking. Hypocritical bastard.

Apparently my Brother discussed this with him recently, and they agreed to be concerned about me. It's not that I have a drinking 'problem', and it's not that my behaviour is a concern when I imbibe... but alcohol is a depressant (one that counteracts my medication, actually), and they think I ought to be less cavalier about the impact on my health. My Brother is confident discussing this behind my back because he knows full well I agree.

I've been struggling with the issues of drinking and smoking for a couple of years now, and have made efforts to quit cold turkey, with mixed results. Part of my poor success rate is because it's fucking hard to change old habits, especially ones connected to happy, fun memories, but I think something deeper is going on. I think my instinct to take better care of myself is doing battle with the freedom-loving, punk-ass kamikaze that lives in my brain. I feel like I'm 'supposed to' quit. And I've always bristled under rules and regulations. I'm rebelling from my own desire to be healthier.

I need to find a way to make it OK for myself psychologically to quit drinking and smoking for good. Even though stories like the one my friend Max just shared are scary, I don't fear death for my own sake, but for my kids. I need something stronger to help break the spell.

It's going to feel strange having 'important talks' with Vince over ginger ale.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

You know what? I've often been described as 'humble'. I've spent a lot of years playing down my accomplishments both in my mind and in public. For some self-loathing reason I've never been able to figure out, I don't feel good about anyone praising me or my work. I'm not sure if I believe words of praise directed my way are insincere, ill-informed, ingratiating, or merely neighbourly. But I just can't seem to take a compliment.

I would really like to change that. I would like to find some joy in discovering my work has impressed someone or positively affected them. So I'm going to start right now.

Publishers Weekly recently reviewed my new book Welcome To Oddville! and had these kind words to say:

"Drawings with a deliciously old-fashioned feel and atomic-inspired colors that pop off the page place readers squarely in the palm of Stephens's hand from page one of this stunner of a graphic novel. Much of the work consists of stand-alone comics in the epic newspaper broadsheet style of ages past; each forces Stephens to crescendo quickly to achieve the conflict/resolution style this short form requires; luckily, his artistry is more than equal to the task. Best of all, though, is the goofy, harmless brand of humor in evidence throughout, especially in the longer Welcome to Oddville strips starring precocious Jet Cat and her associates. At the end of one adventure, she happily chirps: "Well, we did it! Somehow a kid superhero, a grumpy snail, a vegetable ghost, and the head of a giant robot managed to team up and save the city." With his spot-on comedic timing, crisp can't-look-away graphics, and steady storytelling, Stephens proves that he is the whole package."

I love that review. Thank you, PW!

Sometimes I feel like I'm one of Canada's greatest cartoonists. I wish I could hold onto that feeling.

Shadows

This was important.

One winter when I was around 6 years old, my Mother, Father, Brother and I took a day trip out to The Rockwood Conservation Area on a blindingly sun-bleached morning. The trip had something or other to do with a job my Father was shooting. I remember he had his big old Hasselblad camera and tripod, and was using my Mom as the model. She was wearing a fur coat, white with grey.

My brother Matthew and I were told to bugger off and play, but not before repeated warnings to stay off the ice, as it was thinning in the late winter sunshine.

Like little idiots we headed over the hill and straight for the pond. Giggling dementedly, we dared each other to slip out onto its forbidden surface. Matthew was two years younger, and-- obviously in retrospect-- much lighter than I was. But I kept edging out a little further then him until I went through the ice.

I remember sinking right to the bottom of the pond. I remember sitting there looking straight ahead into the pure whiteness. At first I thought I saw a fish swimming toward me from a short distance. But as it got closer, I realized it wasn't a fish at all, despite it's snaky, to-and-fro motion. It was blackness. Smokey, organic, blackness, steadily making its was towards me. It was death, of course, but it didn't frighten me. In fact it was nothing but absolutely peaceful there under the ice of Rockwood.

My Father rescued me. I remember feeling for years that he had dived in after me like Superman, but I probably wasn't really in that deep. He was furious. More than usual, even. I remember shivering in the back seat of the car while we sped to the warm fireplace at my Grandparents' big house in Brampton, which was much closer than our faraway Toronto home. My parents screamed at each other the whole way, probably trading blame for my near-fatal accident. They split up soon afterwards.

I have never feared death. In fact, if anything, I have quite the opposite impulse. And to this day when I reach the depths of my depression, I can still see the blackness snaking towards me, offering peace.

I've struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. Certainly from childhood. I was diagnosed with MDD in 2008 after a nervous breakdown and suicide attempt, and spent two months in the Homewood Health Centre recovering. From Rockwood to Homewood, both right here where I currently live in Guelph. Is it a coincidence that I'm now a mere 10 minute drive away from that pond?

All I need is the promise of that warm fireplace to come home to, and I'll be fine.

It's Later Now

I turned 40 years old a few days ago and I've been doing a lot of thinking. In fact, I've been on an introspective kick all year. My life is probably at least half over, and it's time to really start taking care of myself.

I'm starting this journal/autobiography to collect all the weird bits of my life in one place.

My day job is creating fantasies. I spend a large amount of time daydreaming up crazy shit. This will be altogether different.