centre of the universe - the dreaming

The autumn here is one of those mutable, changeable things. It's rather like your grade 2 (or any grade, really) teacher who was nice but who had a hair trigger and a handful of chalk.  There's nothing like taking a hunk of chalk in the head when all you're trying to do is find out what's going on at recess. Maybe this is why I'm not the sort of person who is good at planning things (always been more of a spur-of-the-moment person) because Mrs. B could hit a fly off the ceiling fan at thirty paces with a piece of chalk, and she wielded that power like a superhero whose mother has just been taken for ransom by people with one-syllable names which are usually used as nouns. Maybe I was conditioned against making concrete plans because every time I tried to discuss recess plans (what game we'd be playing, whose marbles were most vaunted, whether the girly girls would lower themselves to playing Red Rover, or whether they'd stick with hopskotch on the uneven sidewalk) I got dinged in the side of the head.

Anyway, that's totally what autumn is like. Sometimes, it's bearable. Sometimes, it's very pretty. Sometimes, it even smells really good. But more often than not, it's just kind of there, winging chalk at you from across the room and trying to get you to do long division.

So I decided that I should probably go to the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall. It's one thing to send the kids to school with last year's usable school supplies; it's another thing entirely to claim that the shoes they wore last year for gym must have shrunk in the sun. Stupid feet. I don't remember if I first saw the gorgeous, sexy, and wicked-smart Ms. A at the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall, or if I managed to literally run in to her.

You see, I don't like crowds of people. I especially don't like crowds of people I don't know. God-forsaken damnable shopping malls are particularly awful. So are their first-cousins, effing big-box hell stores. So after I'd been at the God-forsaken damnable shopping mall, I really had to unwind, so I decided I'd take a long, relaxing walk in the park at Depot Division. (That's the RCMP training barracks.) I think I must have met Ms. A at the mall, because I remember apologising to her for having to leave so soon, and she asked what my plans were, and I told her "to go for a long, long walk in the park at Depot Division", and she said, "I've never been there!", and I said, "you should come!"

So Ms. A and I wound up on winding trails that reminded me of the Kinsmen Park in Prince Albert, or that city's graveyard on the hill; the trees were tall and deciduous, shedding their golden and yellow leaves on the pathways. Groundskeepers came by with mulching machines and blustry machines that cleared the leaves from the paths, because the baby Mounties need the paths clear for their joggery. Which gave me an idea. I started running. I haven't run (unless something was chasing me) since sometime in grade nine when I realised how painful it had become, since the advent of ten pound breasts. But it felt great, and I had someone to talk to!

Later, as Ms. A and I sat on a small hill beside the path, laughing and talking about all manner of things, we leaned our heads together conspiratorially and began kissing each other. The leaves were surprisingly warm to lie down on, and the baby Mounties were surprisingly not interested in a) kicking us out of their park for trespassing, nor b) staring at us making out.

Much more happened later, after we'd left the park. But I'm not the sort to dream and kiss and do stuff and tell.

Labels: dreams, fall, Sex dreams about Brad Wall

last night a golden, low slung
heavy-hipped moon peeked
through naked branches,
peeked at me and winked.
She had a secret
"it comes," she whispered
through the leaves.

the river snaked under her golden glow
long, dry grass chattered back:
"it comes"
the grass held no secrets,
but the river,
ah the glass river
hid a cipher beneath
the moon's perfect reflection.

stars too shy to shine
not a bird to whistle
before September's heavy-hipped moon
and her sister the glass river
and the silent secret song
they share.

Labels: fall, poems

The first time the man on the right in this photo (heretofore referred to as "Uncle B", not his real name) said to me, "cenobyte, you need to learn to water-ski", I said, "Okay! That sounds awesome!"

It didn't *feel* awesome. It felt terrible. I'd watched *him* ski, and my Da, and I'd watched woman after woman try ("did they try and fail?" "They tried and died."), and it seemed like something only a chosen few could actually do. Then my aunt got up and stayed up. Then, Uncle B said, "it's your turn!"

"We'll start," he said, "in the shallows, so you can get your skis on."

"These bloody things float all over the place!" I hollered. My skis were flipping catawompous, banging in to each other. The lifejacket was bulky, gathering up under my chin, the zip poking me. The lake was chilly (but "like glass. Just like a mirror," Uncle B said. Apparently, that was a good thing. Less surface area or something when you crash at speed.) but not cold.

Uncle B's boat was white with blue stripes, and a window that opened. If you were very, very good, he might let you sit on the hood of the boat up at the prow, and hold on to the rails while he drove. There was a little step in the split window to let you do just that. If you were very, very good.

"Keep your skis together!" he called.

"I can't! They're like magnets at opposite poles to one another!"

"What?" pause.

"It's difficult. They keep flipping around," I edited myself. I was, after all, only eight years old.

"They'll straighten out once we start to pull you."

"Great!" I called. Great, I thought. They'll straighten out when the boat starts pulling me. That propellor churning up the weeds and fish to a great roiling bubbling green mass. Then the skis will straighten out. Then I will stand up out of the water like Venus on the half-shell, and I will cut through the mirror waves and be free and powerful and a skier. Great.

"Bend your knees!" He called (He being Uncle B., not God. Well, God *might* have called out 'bend your knees', it's difficult to be sure about that. What with the sound of the engine and the waves lapping and the shivering and the skiis knocking together and my teeth chattering and wondering why the hell I'd agreed to do this stupid, stupid thing).

"They are bent!"

"Like you're sitting on a chair!" He hollered.

"I have the idea."

"Do you remember the signs?" He called.

"Yes!"

"Show me 'faster'!" He shouted. Thumbs up. "'slower!'" Thumbs down. "'I'm okay!'" Hands over head in a pointy little arch. "Go home!" I just about gave him the finger, but chose instead to pat my head. The proper sign for 'go home'. "Okay. Keep your knees bent!"

"We've been over this!" I shouted back.

"Rope between your skiis!"

"Gotcha!"

"Keep your skiis straight!"

"That's becoming increasingly difficult!"

"Ready?"

"Umm..." Wait. Was that out loud? What had I just shouted? Did I shout, as I wanted to shout, did I shout, in fact, you know what? I've changed my mind. I think I'll take these skiis up to the dock and just stand in them and pretend I'm skiing. I have a very active imagination. Really. I can learn to ski next year. Is it *imperative* I do this now? I think the skiis and I just aren't seeing eye to eye. Foot to boot. If you will. No. That is not what I've shouted. I've shouted "HIT 'ER!", which in skiish means "Go! Go like the wind! Go like a bat out of hell! Go! Go! GOOOO!"

The engine burbled. It cut the water. I felt the boat pull me.

"I'm going to tow you a little ways first. Hang on! Don't stand up until the boat goes faster!"

I clutched the rope in white-knuckled fingers. The skiis cracked together. The tips crossed. What did they tell me about the tips crossing? I couldn't remember. Shit! I couldn't remember. They'd told me something Very Important about the tips of your skiis crossing and it was gone. Something about if the tips of your skiis cross, your throat will be instantly slit when the one safety mechanism inherent in water skis (they float) fails because of the...don't cross the tips, they said. Don't cross the tips.

I wrenched my ankles around. Tips officially uncrossed. The rope was tense, sitting up out of the water as the boat pulled me. Like the Titanic, I rolled in the boat's wake. Side to side, awkward. Clutching the rope. Feeling my feet, strapped to three feet of wood, pushing against the water. Against the water. Not slicing through it. Not skimming it. Pushing against it. Against the solid water. I heard the engine cough once, twice...the rope leapt into the air. I pushed against the solid water, pushed, extended my legs...

I realised I was holding my breath. My eyes were closed. I felt the spray from the boat against my face. Opened my eyes. Everything was green. I took a breath. Mouth full of water. Weeds slapping against my face. The rope went slack. I bobbed to the surface, sputtering.

They're laughing. In the boat. They're laughing.

"You didn't let go of the rope!" Uncle B., says. It's half-question, half-disbelieving statement.

"You told me to hang on!" I cried, coughing.

"Yeah, when I'm towing you. But if you don't get up, you have to let go of the rope! You were skiing on the bottom of the lake!"

"I noticed." My face flared. Had I not been submerged in cold lake water, it would have flushed. Anger burst into my chest, pushing my heart hard against my ribs. "This is stupid."

"Try again," he said.

"No." I said.

"Come on," he said.

"No." I said.

"Just let go of the rope if you don't get up."

"No," I said.

Everyone in the boat stared at me. They had expectations. They could all water ski (well, not my mother. She couldn't do anything that involved water, speed, heights, or physical activity/co-ordination except dancing. Also, my grandfather couldn't ski. He was blind, deaf, and had breathing problems. Also, 78. Neither could my grandmother ski. She was busy dying of cancer. But everyone else could ski).

I wanted so much to be like them, to be part of the family that shared my mother's maiden name. They'd had pictures done once, and I desperately wanted them to ask me to be in the photos. "What about me?" I'd asked in my excited six-year-old voice. "When's my picture? When do I get to sit with you?"

"You can't," my mother told me. "It's only for the Cs."

"But," I said, not understanding. "But I'm half C!"

But I was never really a C. They'd say, "oh, she's so much like a C," and then I would be part of their club. I would be a full-fledged member of laughter and fun and merriment. I'd have STORIES told about me. I'd tell stories one day. I was a C! But if I couldn't ski...if I couldn't do it, maybe I wouldn't be a C. All the Cs could ski. Except for the above mentioned people, all of whom Cs. My Da was a B, and he could ski. My uncle, a T, and he skiied (he lost his glasses, rings, watch, and damn near his trunks when he bailed once, but he still skiied). They could ski with the Cs.

"Fine," I spat. "I'll try it ONCE MORE. Do you have any other great advice for me you've forgotten to share?"

Uncle B. grinned. "Yeah. Let go of the rope if you don't get up."

And so, I skiied.
Not that time, not the next, nor the time after that, nor the time after that, nor the time after that. But eventually, I got up. And I skiied. And I was a C...better than that, I was a B, and I could ski.

This is not a photo of me skiing. This is a photo of Cousin Ess. He is also a C, which is still important, but in a different way.

Labels: boat swimming, fall, lake, vacation

So, apparently Bob the Builder has muridaephilic boots. Do you know how I know this? Because Stitchface (otherwise known as The Nipper) is watching Bob the Builder. Do you know why? Because he was practising his ability to plummet earlier today, and while he had thought far ahead enough to push a mattress up against the bottom of the stairs, and what Galileo didn't talk about on the Tower of Pisa is that while objects of the same mass fall at the same rate, objects with greater air resistance fall much slower, owing to the friction between the air and...well...the falling mass.

Unfortunately, Stitchface is not particularly air resistant. In fact, he's made of fairly compact material that plummets rather well. Doubly unfortunate that he is also comprised of some fairly gangly bits that stick out at odd places. Well, in today's plummet practise, Stitchface somehow missed his mark and landed wonky on his ankle.

It doesn't seem to be broken, just twisted. But Dear God, the histrionics. Pass the Golden Globe; this kid is going to be up for an Oscar soon.

Labels: fall