31 May 2009
One can never do enough
27 May 2009
Revelations
Yesterday, I saw the Canadian War Museum. It's a building of interesting architecture (there's Morse code incorporated into the design, which I decoded for my colleague DD). It's strangely larger on the inside than it is on the outside, because it's built like a bunker.
There was only one clown.
I did not make it through without losing it and breaking down in tears, but I didn't really try all that hard to do so.
Then it was to Byward Market to eat and hang out at Zaphod Beeblebrox (yes, I know, it's gimmicky. But it's gimmicky in a way that makes me want to go there *all the time*) and have a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster (which was *terrible*, although rather sweeter than I had imagined. I would have used tequila rather than JD) and a Slartibartfast (marginally better, although still pretty disgusting).
I will be making a post At A Later Date entitled : "Things I Learned in Ottawa". Stay tyooooned.
There was only one clown.
I did not make it through without losing it and breaking down in tears, but I didn't really try all that hard to do so.
Then it was to Byward Market to eat and hang out at Zaphod Beeblebrox (yes, I know, it's gimmicky. But it's gimmicky in a way that makes me want to go there *all the time*) and have a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster (which was *terrible*, although rather sweeter than I had imagined. I would have used tequila rather than JD) and a Slartibartfast (marginally better, although still pretty disgusting).
I will be making a post At A Later Date entitled : "Things I Learned in Ottawa". Stay tyooooned.
Labels: Ottawa
24 May 2009
The Nation's Captial, or How a Taxi Driver Nearly Killed Us All
Seriously. We took a taxi downtown yesterday, and you wouldn't *believe* how intense this guy was. He was all cutting people off and then yelling at them out the window when they wouldn't let him back into the lane he'd just cut them off from getting in to...he just about hit a pedestrian...there was no smooth, elegant ride downtown - he took it rather personally that a bunch of the roads were closed for a marathon.
In fact, he took that *very* personally. Every five minutes or so, he'd tell us that "all the roads are closed. All of them. Everything downtown is closed. Everything." while driving on a road that was clearly not closed.
Add to the milieu the fact that he had this seashell (a la "Fahrenheit 451") in his ear that he was chattering to the whole time. Do you know what he was chattering about? He was talking about how all the roads were closed and he couldn't get anywhere because it was "bumpertobumper".
It was all terribly silly, and we didn't die, but we also didn't get to take a bus tour because, you guessed it, all the streets were closed.
Normally, I am not Nervous in taxis. Last night, I was clutching the Jesus Christ handles and composing a letter to my children, to be written from a vegetative state. I was choosing short, easy words I could write with my mouth if need be.
In fact, he took that *very* personally. Every five minutes or so, he'd tell us that "all the roads are closed. All of them. Everything downtown is closed. Everything." while driving on a road that was clearly not closed.
Add to the milieu the fact that he had this seashell (a la "Fahrenheit 451") in his ear that he was chattering to the whole time. Do you know what he was chattering about? He was talking about how all the roads were closed and he couldn't get anywhere because it was "bumpertobumper".
It was all terribly silly, and we didn't die, but we also didn't get to take a bus tour because, you guessed it, all the streets were closed.
Normally, I am not Nervous in taxis. Last night, I was clutching the Jesus Christ handles and composing a letter to my children, to be written from a vegetative state. I was choosing short, easy words I could write with my mouth if need be.
Labels: piss in your eye, when there's weather
23 May 2009
Ashamed
So Ottawa is gorgeous. I think I might be just about the only person in the entire country who's never been to Ottawa.
But here's the deal: I'm terribly ashamed that I have forgotten (or never knew) rather a lot of Canadian history. I wish Darren were here to tell me who all these folks on all the statues are (there was one that I told Pirate Dan was Hamlet. Turned out Hamlet never came to Ottawa, and the statue was of some guy who drownded trying to save a drownding woman. Sure looked like Hamlet). And why there are a series of canals. And what's up with the beer tent on the grounds of Parliament. And who it is who feeds the white cat hanging around the Parliament buildings. And how old this place is anyway. And how many folks live here.
I know I could probably look some of this stuff up on Wikipedia, but it's not the same. Maybe I'll ask a passer-by.
Note: Did not find Steve's office. Surmised he is kept in basement filing room, doing filing.
But here's the deal: I'm terribly ashamed that I have forgotten (or never knew) rather a lot of Canadian history. I wish Darren were here to tell me who all these folks on all the statues are (there was one that I told Pirate Dan was Hamlet. Turned out Hamlet never came to Ottawa, and the statue was of some guy who drownded trying to save a drownding woman. Sure looked like Hamlet). And why there are a series of canals. And what's up with the beer tent on the grounds of Parliament. And who it is who feeds the white cat hanging around the Parliament buildings. And how old this place is anyway. And how many folks live here.
I know I could probably look some of this stuff up on Wikipedia, but it's not the same. Maybe I'll ask a passer-by.
Note: Did not find Steve's office. Surmised he is kept in basement filing room, doing filing.
Labels: Ottawa
21 May 2009
Please, God, send them to me.
I was driving home after work this afternoon.
No, that isn't right.
My heart aches. I don't want to listen to the radio until the tempestuous news cycle is finished with this. In fact, I don't even want to share it with you. I'm going to, though. A three-year-old boy went missing in Abuquerque. His mother confessed to burying his body in a playground. She did this after she had laid down with him on the play structure, placed her hand over his mouth and nose, and strangled him. She had second thoughts, and performed CPR on him, and revived him. Then, she strangled him again. The CNN news story is here.
The woman reportedly told police she didn't want her son to grow up feeling unloved and alone.
So she killed him.
I cannot stop thinking about this woman and her little boy.
On the heels of the vitriolic rant posted here a couple of days ago, I am beginning to wonder...to seriously wonder what the hell is going on. What kind of hell do you have to be in to murder your baby? What kind of hell did she go through when she was a child to convince herself that her child's death would save him from the horrors of a life she herself cannot endure. What kind of hell will she live through for the rest of her life?
The pictures in my head are vivid and horrible.
I don't want to hear or read any comments about how the mother should be put to death or sterilised or tortured. I don't, in fact, want to hear anything about this. I want to turn off the outside world right now, but I can't unhear the report. I can't unread what I've read ...unknow what I know... This will be all over talk radio and newspapers and blogs in a few hours, if it isn't already, and yes, I am contributing to that. I am contributing because my soul is shaken. Because maybe in writing about this, I can calm my thoughts.
What I want is ...I want the mother to heal. I want her to be rehabilitated, not vilified. No, I'm not insinuating she's not guilty, or shouldn't go to prison if found guilty. No, I'm not saying that she oughtn't be punished.
She will never know her son's joyful, pure laughter. She will never kiss his soft cheek. She will never hold his hand in the park again. No first day of kindergarten. No bike rides. No splashing in puddles, no endless board game afternoons. No clutching hugs, and no little voice saying "I love you, Mummy". She has taken the greatest gift, the greatest honour someone can be given, and she has destroyed it.
And I need to believe that she has done this thing because she honestly (however delusionally and mistakenly) believed she was protecting her baby. I need to believe that.
Two years ago, a frightened and messed-up young woman gave birth to a baby in the toilet in a local store. She left the baby in the toilet and left the store.
Another woman abandoned her baby on a -29 February morning in 2007. She waited and watched until she saw someone in the house of the doorstep she left her daughter on.
Please, God, send them to me. These broken spirits, these children whose mothers cannot bear them.
If I could be mother to the world, believe you me I would. If I could gather up each of these children in my arms, I would.
All alone I didn't like the feeling
All alone I sat and cried
All alone I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I heal this heart of sorrow
All alone I raise this child
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water and a million years gone by
-Beth Nielsen Chapman, "Sand and Water"
No, that isn't right.
My heart aches. I don't want to listen to the radio until the tempestuous news cycle is finished with this. In fact, I don't even want to share it with you. I'm going to, though. A three-year-old boy went missing in Abuquerque. His mother confessed to burying his body in a playground. She did this after she had laid down with him on the play structure, placed her hand over his mouth and nose, and strangled him. She had second thoughts, and performed CPR on him, and revived him. Then, she strangled him again. The CNN news story is here.
The woman reportedly told police she didn't want her son to grow up feeling unloved and alone.
So she killed him.
I cannot stop thinking about this woman and her little boy.
On the heels of the vitriolic rant posted here a couple of days ago, I am beginning to wonder...to seriously wonder what the hell is going on. What kind of hell do you have to be in to murder your baby? What kind of hell did she go through when she was a child to convince herself that her child's death would save him from the horrors of a life she herself cannot endure. What kind of hell will she live through for the rest of her life?
The pictures in my head are vivid and horrible.
I don't want to hear or read any comments about how the mother should be put to death or sterilised or tortured. I don't, in fact, want to hear anything about this. I want to turn off the outside world right now, but I can't unhear the report. I can't unread what I've read ...unknow what I know... This will be all over talk radio and newspapers and blogs in a few hours, if it isn't already, and yes, I am contributing to that. I am contributing because my soul is shaken. Because maybe in writing about this, I can calm my thoughts.
What I want is ...I want the mother to heal. I want her to be rehabilitated, not vilified. No, I'm not insinuating she's not guilty, or shouldn't go to prison if found guilty. No, I'm not saying that she oughtn't be punished.
She will never know her son's joyful, pure laughter. She will never kiss his soft cheek. She will never hold his hand in the park again. No first day of kindergarten. No bike rides. No splashing in puddles, no endless board game afternoons. No clutching hugs, and no little voice saying "I love you, Mummy". She has taken the greatest gift, the greatest honour someone can be given, and she has destroyed it.
And I need to believe that she has done this thing because she honestly (however delusionally and mistakenly) believed she was protecting her baby. I need to believe that.
Two years ago, a frightened and messed-up young woman gave birth to a baby in the toilet in a local store. She left the baby in the toilet and left the store.
Another woman abandoned her baby on a -29 February morning in 2007. She waited and watched until she saw someone in the house of the doorstep she left her daughter on.
Please, God, send them to me. These broken spirits, these children whose mothers cannot bear them.
If I could be mother to the world, believe you me I would. If I could gather up each of these children in my arms, I would.
All alone I didn't like the feeling
All alone I sat and cried
All alone I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I heal this heart of sorrow
All alone I raise this child
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water and a million years gone by
-Beth Nielsen Chapman, "Sand and Water"
Labels: babies, breaks my heart, just wrong, Wishes
19 May 2009
This disgusts me
Watching a documentary called "Painted Babies at 17". It's about these young women who were in 'beauty' pageants when they were ...well... infants. You know the kind I'm talking about. Parents and grandparents (usually mums and grandmums and aunties) tart up these gorgeous little girls and trot them out on a stage to sing and dance and trained-monkey their way into the "hearts of the people". I'm sure they haven't changed that much - four year old girls doing little waggly-arse dances and singing sexually suggestive songs.
They put enough makeup on these poor kids that they look like really bizarre, crushed-face twenty-five year old women. It makes my heart ache.
If there is a Hell, it is a constant beauty pageant, where you're never pretty enough, never talented enough, you never have a permanent enough fake smile. Someone else always has a nicer dress, sparklier shoes, whiter teeth. I can't imagine all the money that people spend on this shite.
And you know what the parents say? The parents say "oh, she loves it! She wins cars, money, cruises..."
Right. Because a FOUR YEAR OLD needs a CAR.
Oh Christ. One of these girls is singing this song: "I see people working, and it just makes me giggle/I don't have to work; I just have to wiggle, because I'm a blonde! Don't you wish you were me?"* My teeth are grinding. GRINDING, people. **
So let's take a step back and reflect on what these parents are teaching their children - the women who will be ...well, judging from what the young women are saying now, the women who will be married to the men who will be running the country in ten years.
Value 1) Physical looks are paramount. If you have a blemish, you're going to lose.
Value 2) You are more valuable if you can sashay and wiggle.
Value 3) Your appearance will get you everything you need in life.
Value 4) Pretty clothes are more important than free will.
Value 5) The more sparkly crowns you have, and the bigger they are, the better a human being you are.
I've heard people say before that beauty pageants are child abuse. I tend to agree...not just because parents are forcing their daughters to act like sparkly blow-up sex dolls, but because they're teaching them *horrible* things. Sure, you can make the same argument for parents who push their kids into *anything*, whether it's hockey or swimming, or the army. And the minute I see a parent teaching their kids that the better you *look* as a hockey player (snicker), the better you'll do, I'll probably laugh out loud. Yes, it's a little questionable to force or to pressure your children into anything. But seriously. Pressuring your children into this horrific bleached, tanned, manicured, taped, plastic promenade is, frankly, fucking disgusting.
My friends who have girl children are teaching their girls to be strong, intelligent, able women who value justice and morality over gorram false eyelashes. I shudder to think what becomes of these pageant girls as they become women. I shudder to think.
Anyway. I'm screaming inside. What is the matter with people who think this is okay? What's the matter with people who don't see how wrong this is?
No three year old should have to ever wear makeup for any reason. No four year old should have her hair bleached and backcombed and coiffed like that. No five year old should sing those songs or dance like that, and I don't care how many people say that the only people they're performing for are judges and parents. It's disgusting.
Just. Stop.
___
* The full, horrifying lyrics reprinted here, for your viewing displeasure. It does please me that whoever transcribed these lyrics can't actually spell "Blonde":
Because I'm a blonde I don't have to think, I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks
Don't have to worry if I'm getting a man if I keep this blonde and I keep these tan
Cause I'm a blonde yeah, yeah, yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I see people working and it just makes me giggle,
cause I don't have to work, I just have to wiggle
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-O-N-D
Cause I'm a blond don't you wish you were me?
I never learned to read and I never learned to cook
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me, but I have this philosophy, "So what?"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I see girls without dates and I feel so sorry for them cause whenever
I'm around, all the men ignore 'em
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
They say to make it you need talent and ambition, well I got a tv show, and this is my audition;
Umm. . . okay. . . what was it?. . . ummm don't tell me. . . oh, yeah, okay "Duck Magnum, duck!"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I took an IQ test and I flunked it of course, I can't spell BW but I got a Porsche
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-I-N-D
Cause I'm a blonde don't you wish you were me?
I just want to say that being chosen as this month's Miss August is
like a compliment I'll remember for as long as I can.
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA but my goal is
to become a veterinarian cause I love children
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Girls think I'm snotty and maybe its true
With my hair and body, you would be too
Cause I'm a blonde B-L- . . . I don't know!
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah!
**As God is my witness, if I ever hear anyone singing this song in anything other than a disgusted or mocking tone, I'm going to break some teeth. Not my own.
They put enough makeup on these poor kids that they look like really bizarre, crushed-face twenty-five year old women. It makes my heart ache.
If there is a Hell, it is a constant beauty pageant, where you're never pretty enough, never talented enough, you never have a permanent enough fake smile. Someone else always has a nicer dress, sparklier shoes, whiter teeth. I can't imagine all the money that people spend on this shite.
And you know what the parents say? The parents say "oh, she loves it! She wins cars, money, cruises..."
Right. Because a FOUR YEAR OLD needs a CAR.
Oh Christ. One of these girls is singing this song: "I see people working, and it just makes me giggle/I don't have to work; I just have to wiggle, because I'm a blonde! Don't you wish you were me?"* My teeth are grinding. GRINDING, people. **
So let's take a step back and reflect on what these parents are teaching their children - the women who will be ...well, judging from what the young women are saying now, the women who will be married to the men who will be running the country in ten years.
Value 1) Physical looks are paramount. If you have a blemish, you're going to lose.
Value 2) You are more valuable if you can sashay and wiggle.
Value 3) Your appearance will get you everything you need in life.
Value 4) Pretty clothes are more important than free will.
Value 5) The more sparkly crowns you have, and the bigger they are, the better a human being you are.
I've heard people say before that beauty pageants are child abuse. I tend to agree...not just because parents are forcing their daughters to act like sparkly blow-up sex dolls, but because they're teaching them *horrible* things. Sure, you can make the same argument for parents who push their kids into *anything*, whether it's hockey or swimming, or the army. And the minute I see a parent teaching their kids that the better you *look* as a hockey player (snicker), the better you'll do, I'll probably laugh out loud. Yes, it's a little questionable to force or to pressure your children into anything. But seriously. Pressuring your children into this horrific bleached, tanned, manicured, taped, plastic promenade is, frankly, fucking disgusting.
My friends who have girl children are teaching their girls to be strong, intelligent, able women who value justice and morality over gorram false eyelashes. I shudder to think what becomes of these pageant girls as they become women. I shudder to think.
Anyway. I'm screaming inside. What is the matter with people who think this is okay? What's the matter with people who don't see how wrong this is?
No three year old should have to ever wear makeup for any reason. No four year old should have her hair bleached and backcombed and coiffed like that. No five year old should sing those songs or dance like that, and I don't care how many people say that the only people they're performing for are judges and parents. It's disgusting.
Just. Stop.
___
* The full, horrifying lyrics reprinted here, for your viewing displeasure. It does please me that whoever transcribed these lyrics can't actually spell "Blonde":
Because I'm a blonde I don't have to think, I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks
Don't have to worry if I'm getting a man if I keep this blonde and I keep these tan
Cause I'm a blonde yeah, yeah, yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I see people working and it just makes me giggle,
cause I don't have to work, I just have to wiggle
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-O-N-D
Cause I'm a blond don't you wish you were me?
I never learned to read and I never learned to cook
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me, but I have this philosophy, "So what?"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I see girls without dates and I feel so sorry for them cause whenever
I'm around, all the men ignore 'em
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
They say to make it you need talent and ambition, well I got a tv show, and this is my audition;
Umm. . . okay. . . what was it?. . . ummm don't tell me. . . oh, yeah, okay "Duck Magnum, duck!"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
I took an IQ test and I flunked it of course, I can't spell BW but I got a Porsche
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-I-N-D
Cause I'm a blonde don't you wish you were me?
I just want to say that being chosen as this month's Miss August is
like a compliment I'll remember for as long as I can.
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA but my goal is
to become a veterinarian cause I love children
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Girls think I'm snotty and maybe its true
With my hair and body, you would be too
Cause I'm a blonde B-L- . . . I don't know!
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah!
**As God is my witness, if I ever hear anyone singing this song in anything other than a disgusted or mocking tone, I'm going to break some teeth. Not my own.
Labels: Bad Mojo, just wrong, kids
18 May 2009
One of those things people say
13 May 2009
Wednesday, 13 May 2009 - Seeing
I have seen things today, in the flickering shadows of dusk; in the cast-askew glance into the middle distance. The first, as I approached our home, a tiny black bird, or perhaps a bat, darting over me, just past my right ear. When I looked back, there was no bird, nor bat, nor butterfly. A trick of the light, perhaps. Or a mysterious flickering thing.
The next I saw as I walked past the window. A flash of white; a ghostly figure gliding out of view just outside. Steam, maybe, or someone outside looking in, someone from some other time, some other where, peeking in my windows, wondering who I am, and why my spectral image is wandering past the window, trespassing so close to their place, and without so much as a tiny piece of bread dipped in honey.
There are others, of course. The sigh of starched cotton, a disembodied giggle. Sometimes, things that go missing turn up again in odd places. Why, for instance, would I have put my car keys on top of the door frame? I wouldn't, of course, because I can't even reach the top of the door frame. His Nibs could, but he's such a terrible liar.
The next I saw as I walked past the window. A flash of white; a ghostly figure gliding out of view just outside. Steam, maybe, or someone outside looking in, someone from some other time, some other where, peeking in my windows, wondering who I am, and why my spectral image is wandering past the window, trespassing so close to their place, and without so much as a tiny piece of bread dipped in honey.
There are others, of course. The sigh of starched cotton, a disembodied giggle. Sometimes, things that go missing turn up again in odd places. Why, for instance, would I have put my car keys on top of the door frame? I wouldn't, of course, because I can't even reach the top of the door frame. His Nibs could, but he's such a terrible liar.
12 May 2009
Music Education
Along with introducing The Captain and The Nipper to the Clash and Joy Division, it's important to me that they both have a healthy dose of folk music and protest songs. So this past couple of weeks have been Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Peter Paul and Mary, and yes, even some Joan Baez. So we were watching some videos tonight before bed ("If I Had a Hammer" has been one of the nightly songs for the last two weeks), and we watched the following version of that same song. As the video began, The Nipper, who usually only has eyes full of watching, points his still-chubby pointy-finger at the screen and says: "Hey look! They're singing in cheese!"
I just thought that was pretty awesome, and I figured you'd want to share the awesome. So here you have it: Peter, Paul, and Mary with "If I Had A Hammer" in a cheese:
And no, that does not mean the music is cheesy. It means they don't make stage props like they used to.
I just thought that was pretty awesome, and I figured you'd want to share the awesome. So here you have it: Peter, Paul, and Mary with "If I Had A Hammer" in a cheese:
And no, that does not mean the music is cheesy. It means they don't make stage props like they used to.
Labels: cheese, music, The Nipper
11 May 2009
Days Like This
I remember days like this
Hot sun blasting through winter-grimed panes
Trees budding, grass green in the field.
We were instructed
"Look here," at lessons scratched on greenboards
pencils shaved to stubs.
How could we look there?
Our eyes drawn by golden light
birds, butterflies, and the breath of fresh, sweet breezes.
Wriggling bums and
muscles aching to run,
bubbly voices fluttered in our chests.
In fifth grade
my desk was third from the back
in the row closest to the windows.
Were I there now,
there again, my mind would still wander
out into the sun, out into the breeze.
Hot sun blasting through winter-grimed panes
Trees budding, grass green in the field.
We were instructed
"Look here," at lessons scratched on greenboards
pencils shaved to stubs.
How could we look there?
Our eyes drawn by golden light
birds, butterflies, and the breath of fresh, sweet breezes.
Wriggling bums and
muscles aching to run,
bubbly voices fluttered in our chests.
In fifth grade
my desk was third from the back
in the row closest to the windows.
Were I there now,
there again, my mind would still wander
out into the sun, out into the breeze.
Labels: spring, verse, when there's weather
10 May 2009
The first day of spring
I don't care what THEY say...the day when we celebrate the effacement and thinning of cervixes all over the western world is the day I consider to be the first day of spring.
Labels: spring, strings, when there's weather
07 May 2009
GiST #17/365
Items 1 - 3 (Uhura counts for two because she forgot):
Items 4 - 5:
Items 4 - 5:
Labels: 365 Days of Grace, star trek
04 May 2009
The problem
I've been listening to protest songs and all the peacenik, commune-loving hippie music I can get my hands on (it all started two days ago with the 'anarchist' bookstore purchases ("Turning the Tide" bookstore in Saskatoon has all kinds of interesting things), and then yesterday with the celebration of Pete Seeger's music, which pretty much had me slamming my hands against the steering wheel on the way home, cross with myself for having allowed my disgust for armed conflict to weaken over the past ten years.
Yes, it's true...I *am* the filthy hippie - that's what my friend Jenn's husband Ian calls me. I'm not sure if he thinks of it as a derogatory nickname or not, but it really isn't. I'm going to go make some granola, turn up the Peter, Paul, and Mary, and I'm going to wander around the house today wearing as little as possible. I'm'a do my best to commune with the earth and think derisive thoughts about governments' military policies.
I'm going to go and think and dream about how I can make the world a Better Place (I know, and you can just save the comments about how not being a tree-hugging communist will be a good start). Right now, The Nipper and I are sharing a pot of Vanilla Tulsi tea while I attempt to get rid of the sick that Saskatoon gave me.
Yes, it's true...I *am* the filthy hippie - that's what my friend Jenn's husband Ian calls me. I'm not sure if he thinks of it as a derogatory nickname or not, but it really isn't. I'm going to go make some granola, turn up the Peter, Paul, and Mary, and I'm going to wander around the house today wearing as little as possible. I'm'a do my best to commune with the earth and think derisive thoughts about governments' military policies.
I'm going to go and think and dream about how I can make the world a Better Place (I know, and you can just save the comments about how not being a tree-hugging communist will be a good start). Right now, The Nipper and I are sharing a pot of Vanilla Tulsi tea while I attempt to get rid of the sick that Saskatoon gave me.
Labels: equal rights, hippies, i cock, the importance of arts and culture, The Nipper
02 May 2009
That thing I heard
Someone told me once that you leave a part of yourself everywhere you've been, particularly in those places that have touched your soul. This leads me to wonder how many fragmented shards of me there are wandering this city. If I should meet myself, walking along the riverbank, shirtless, would I know myself? Assuming I remember that particular fragment, perhaps.
But what of all the times I have, by now, time and again, forgotten? What is it that causes us to remember some things, some times, while others are lost forever?
The little boxcar house that's now burnt to the ground - someday will they film ghostie programs there, and wonder who it is laughing in the middle of the night? Will they ask that shard who it is? Will that memory of me-who-was bang on the wall, once-for-no or twice-for-yes? The two-storey white and green house with the strange little room at the back; do the people there smell things burning on the stove that have no right to be burning? Hashish and cigarette smoke?
This has been a time of remembering, these last few weeks, and it gives me pause to wonder: what is it like to grow older? Do you ever lose the sense of who you *are* as who you *were*? Does it continue changing?
Honestly, I am tired of this moving forward, always moving forward. I am tired of this forward motion. Do you, like I do, wish that there would be a grand suspension of everything? A cosmic hiccough that will give us time to catch our breath? I am always concerned with the future being a time of loss, a time when all there is is for me to remember things that were. How, then, I ask, do I begin to look forward with joy? How do I cast my senses forward and not see a time when there are kisses and snuggles from little children, instead taking joy in the knowledge that they, too, will someday have little ones of their own, to run laughing through the mud-filled yard, into my open, waiting arms? How does that happen?
01 May 2009
Electric buses
I am positive this is the bridge that used to carry the trundling electric streetcars over the deceptively calm South Saskatchewan River. I rode on one of those electric buses once. I left my book in the back window. It was "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn". Of course, my book wasn't there by the time I rode the bus back across the river, and I was devastated; it was a tome my grandmother had suggested to me, and I did everything my grandmother suggested.
An afternoon of heavy, heart-rending sobs in the strange little stone house on King Street, and then back to the hospital after supper. My grandmother smiled at me. "You know, it's funny," she said.
"I don't think it's funny at *all*!" I moaned. "Huck was trying to thread a needle."
"No, sweetie. I think it's funny that you're this upset about it; it's just a book!"
But it wasn't just a book. It was the escape I'd brought with me, the fantasy that took me away from this city with its construction and sirens and Too Many People. It was the way out of this hospital with green and yellow walls, with people moaning in darkened rooms, curtains fluttering around beds that could hold anything, with any number of arms. "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" was my release from the knowledge that my grandmother was shrinking, growing smaller and more brittle, outshrinking her false teeth. While we slept in a fancy house on a fancy street in a fancy city, Nama was busy dying. It was not 'just a book.'
She must have seen that on my face. She patted the corner of the bed, and I sat close to her but not with her - I couldn't snuggle up beside her because she was covered in Gentian Violet, and didn't want to get it all over 'hell's half acre'. She'd drawn me a picture of the 'little chink doctors' who'd all come in to watch her dying - it was a learning hospital. That picture was in the book, holding my place. She'd drawn it in a shaky hand, and the stark white paper was stained with violet streaks - like my grandmother herself; her vibrant and brilliant soul streaking across the white plains of death.
"You know, I have that book."
I nodded glumly.
"I'll ask your uncle to bring it from home."
"Okay," I whispered. What I really wanted to say was please stop dying. I don't know how to do this without you. I haven't heard all your stories. You haven't taught me about cinnamon buns yet. I can see you dying; I know with every ounce of you that slips away.
She held my hand, squeezed it, her teeth clackety when she smiled. "That's one of my favourite books, too. Maybe when I get out of here, we'll find you a new one."
"Yeah," I said, and tried to smile.
I knew, even though she did everything she could to lie about it, even though everyone in the family lied to me about it. About the shadow of death skittering around the room, hiding in the shadows behind the curtain, under the sink in the bathroom. There was always a part of me that wondered what would have happened had I not lost that book.
Twenty-four years ago, with the ice still on the river, just like today. I know you are free, now, but I wish I knew when this would get easier.
An afternoon of heavy, heart-rending sobs in the strange little stone house on King Street, and then back to the hospital after supper. My grandmother smiled at me. "You know, it's funny," she said.
"I don't think it's funny at *all*!" I moaned. "Huck was trying to thread a needle."
"No, sweetie. I think it's funny that you're this upset about it; it's just a book!"
But it wasn't just a book. It was the escape I'd brought with me, the fantasy that took me away from this city with its construction and sirens and Too Many People. It was the way out of this hospital with green and yellow walls, with people moaning in darkened rooms, curtains fluttering around beds that could hold anything, with any number of arms. "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" was my release from the knowledge that my grandmother was shrinking, growing smaller and more brittle, outshrinking her false teeth. While we slept in a fancy house on a fancy street in a fancy city, Nama was busy dying. It was not 'just a book.'
She must have seen that on my face. She patted the corner of the bed, and I sat close to her but not with her - I couldn't snuggle up beside her because she was covered in Gentian Violet, and didn't want to get it all over 'hell's half acre'. She'd drawn me a picture of the 'little chink doctors' who'd all come in to watch her dying - it was a learning hospital. That picture was in the book, holding my place. She'd drawn it in a shaky hand, and the stark white paper was stained with violet streaks - like my grandmother herself; her vibrant and brilliant soul streaking across the white plains of death.
"You know, I have that book."
I nodded glumly.
"I'll ask your uncle to bring it from home."
"Okay," I whispered. What I really wanted to say was please stop dying. I don't know how to do this without you. I haven't heard all your stories. You haven't taught me about cinnamon buns yet. I can see you dying; I know with every ounce of you that slips away.
She held my hand, squeezed it, her teeth clackety when she smiled. "That's one of my favourite books, too. Maybe when I get out of here, we'll find you a new one."
"Yeah," I said, and tried to smile.
I knew, even though she did everything she could to lie about it, even though everyone in the family lied to me about it. About the shadow of death skittering around the room, hiding in the shadows behind the curtain, under the sink in the bathroom. There was always a part of me that wondered what would have happened had I not lost that book.
Twenty-four years ago, with the ice still on the river, just like today. I know you are free, now, but I wish I knew when this would get easier.
