centre of the universe - the dreaming

I'm sorry that things didn't work out the way we all thought they did. Ha-ha, that's funny, isn't it? Yeah. Well. I know it can be tough, being something that a lot of people don't like to believe in. Maybe we can talk about it another time, over cappucino?

Listen, two trips to the hospital in as many days is just...well it's a bit much. It was bad enough having to wait with a sick and sweaty, tired four year old in a strange hospital in a down we don't know at all. But six hours in an emergency room to get three stitches?

I know I'm complaining. I shouldn't. Just...maybe...I wonder if maybe we could work something out between us - just you and me - as friends?

I'm pretty sure Stitchface would appreciate it. He's totally done with hospitals and doctors now. Really. Done.

Anyway, let's talk about it soon, okay?

Thanks,
cenobyte

Labels: kids, letters, sicky mcsickerton, The Nipper

Tuck-in time, with songs
three songs; you're sick.
I stroked your hair back
off your hot, damp forehead,
And caught a glimpse of
the man you will become.
Be good to others; if you have a good heart
goodness will follow you.
Ask many questions
love often, and well.

Labels: I have to go, kids, poems, The Nipper

"D- did WHAT!?" R- said, a hint of laughter in her voice. R- is Bri'ish, and her accent is best when she's talking about something ludicrous.

"He jumped out of a tree, and now he can't remember where his parents live, and his dogs need to be let out to go pee, and..."

"What the hell was D- doing jumping out of a tree?"

"Well, he was...plummeting. So I'm wondering if you know..."

"No, I mean, first, I can't even imagine him *getting* himself *up* a tree, but what the hell was he THINKING?"

"Um. Well, there's this poem," I said, twirling the phone cord around my finger.

"Stop twisting that damned cord over your bloody fingers!" My mother shouted from the living room.

"Ow," said D-.

"Sorry," I said.

"What?" R- asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Anyway, he read this poem about boys jumping out of birch trees and gently lowering themselves to the ground as the trees bent."

"...huh." She replied. "Bet the tree broke..."

"Heh. Yeah, it did. Anyway, do you know where his parents live, because we have to go and..."

"How far'd he fall?" she asked.

"Oh, about ten or fifteen feet," I said.

"Jeesus. Did he break anything?"

"Just his memory. Anyway, d'you know where..."

"His WHAT?"

"His memory," I said. "He got a bit of a concussion, and..."

"A BAD concussion," D- shouted from the couch. "Ow."

"...and he can't remember where his parents live and we have to go let the dogs out," I finished quickly.

"Oh. Well. They live on such-and-such street, but I don't know the number. Maybe if you got the phone book..."

"Got it! Thanks, R-!"

I got D- back into the car, then drove across town to his parents' place, answering the "where are we going?" questions every few minutes, and sighing at the "I remember someone named J-" comments. D- had to fiddle with every key on his chain before he could find one that opened his parents' front door. But when he got the door open, the dogs ran out at us, stopped for a moment to lick our shins, then bolted outside.

"Are they always this excited to see me?" D- asked.

"Yes. Especially when they really have to pee." The dogs took a *very* long time peeing. After a few cuddles and pettins, I insisted D- go to the clinic. He claimed he was fine, until I asked him where *he* lived, and after a blank stare, he got himself into the passenger seat.

The clinic wasn't too busy, but we had to wait for half an hour or so, and when it was D-'s turn, he asked me to come with him. I was decidedly uncomfortable.

"What if they have to check for a hernia?" I asked.

"You can step out for a moment," he said.

"What if they have to..."

"Please, just come with me," he said. I went with him. He sat on the examination table, and the doctor came in after another twenty or so minutes. While we waited, we went over the facts together, many of which were still a bit woozly in D-'s memory.

"So," the doctor said as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over the tops of his glasses at the chart in his hands. "Which of you is D-?" He waited for a brief moment before laughing. "I always say that," he said, "when I first meet my patients."

I stared. D- grinned weakly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"Well," D- began, "you see, it's kind of a strange thing that happened."

"There's a poem," I began.

"By Walt Whitman," D- continued.

"No - Robert Frost," I said.

"Right. Robert Frost." He said. "About jumping out of trees..."

We both stared at the doctor expectantly. The doctor returned our expectant stare with one of his own. "Yes?" he said.

"Well," I began.

"I kind of..."

"He thought the tree would just bend and lower him gently to the ground, like in that poem."

"You didn't..." the doctor began.

D- nodded gravely. "I jumped out of a tree," D- said.

"You did WHAT!?" The doctor said, eyes wide.

"Well, I just...in the poem..." D- began.

"In the poem, the trees gently bend and lower the boys to the ground. But the trees in the Red don't do that." I said.

"I chose the wrong sort of tree," D- continued, "or the wrong size."

"..." the doctor said, staring. "..."

"He hit his head," I said. "He lost consciousness for about two minutes. He's experienced dizziness, headache, and memory loss."

"And memory loss," D- said. "Lots of that. I think."

The doctor stared and stared. "Normal people," he began, "Normal people do *not* jump out of trees."

D- just sat there, nodding sagely.

"Poets jump out of trees," I said, helpfully. The doctor shot me a fiery look. "Um. But poets...know the right...sorts of trees...and they don't....get....concussions..." I let the discussion slowly fade away.

The doctor checked D- over, muttering now and then about stupid people, and stupid ideas, and didn't we know that the brain is a delicate, delicate organ, and why on earth would you jump out of a tree? And sometimes he said something about literature being dangerous if it's going to be all jumping out of trees from here on in. And what do they TEACH you in school these days? Aren't there poets who don't write about jumping out of trees? Don't they know how DANGEROUS that is?

Finally, the doctor stood up, told D- to quit reading poetry and to take some aspirin and rest for a couple of days. He said, "most of your memory should come back, but you could have done permanent damage. PERMANENT DAMAGE; do you understand that?"

"Oh yes," D- said. "I think my tree-jumping days are numbered."

The doctor glared at him.

"He means over," I offered. "His tree-jumping days are over."

"NORMAL people," the doctor pontificated insistently, "do not *jump* out of *trees*."

And that was the time my friend D- jumped out of a tree because a poet said it was cool. Just goes to show you how dangerous books can be.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Umm...D-?" I asked tentatively as we drove up the hill.

"Yeah?" he said, his arm across his forehead.

"Where do your folks live?"

There was rather a long pause. "My, uh, parents live with me?"

"No, but that's where your dogs are."

"I have TWO dogs," he said.

"You do."

"They like dancing."

"Um. Okay. But we can't let them out to pee if I don't know where they are."

"They're ...at ...my ...parents' ...house?" he asked tentatively.

I paused for a moment this time. "Yes. Yes, your dogs are at your parents' house."

"Ah," he said, and leaned back in the seat, putting his arm over his forehead again.

"D-?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"Where is your parents' house?"

"You mean you don't KNOW!!??"

"No, not at all."

"Oh GOD!" he panicked. "The DOGS!!"

"Hey, you know what? We'll go to my house, check out the phone book, and you can tell me which address looks familiar. How many W-s can there *be* in the phone book, anyway?"

He stared at me.

"Yeah," I conceded. "I know. IT's a common name."

He closed his eyes and covered his face with both hands. "Come on, D-," he said, "you need to remember this...." after a few moments, as I was pulling on to my street, he sits up bolt-straight. "I KNOW!" He shouts.

"You DO!!??" I ask, excited.

"Yes! I jumped out of a tree!" He shouted.

"I know!!" I shouted back.

"Because I read about it in a poem!"

"By Walt Whitman!" I was very, very excited.

"Or Robert Frost!" He announced.

"Yes!"

He was grinning widely at me. I nodded a couple of times, encouraging him to continue. "What?" he asked.

"Well, where do your parents live?"

"Oh, I have no idea," he said, still pleased with himself. "Why, are we going to see them?"

I sighed, pulled into my mother's driveway, and shut off the car. "Let's just go see," I said, "before we go to the clinic."

"I have a concussion!" he announced, his smile growing.

"Yes, you do." We walked into the house. He was *much* steadier this time. He didn't even need my help, although I walked close to him in case he got dizzy. The screen door banged closed behind us. My mother sat in her favourite chair, perched in front of the picture window.

"Hi kidlet," she said. "Hi D-."

"I have a concussion!" D- announced, happy as a pig in poop.

My mother glanced up at him. "Do you, now?"

"Yup! I jumped out of a tree!"

My mother glanced over at me. "There's a poem," I began.

"Robert Frost," my mother said.

"Or Walt Whitman," D- said, still grinning.

"No, it's Robert Frost," my mother said. "It's called Birches."

"I told you no good comes of Walt Whitman," I said to D-.

"But," my mother began, stubbing out her cigarette, "the boys in Birches did not get concussions."

"Well, yes," D- continued, sitting on the couch as I went to find the phone book, "I suspect my technique needs some work."

"He chose a tree that was too big," I called from the kitchen, "and the wrong sort of tree. And it broke."

"So, really, you plummeted out of a tree, more than jumped out of a tree?" my mother asked.

"Well, the plummeting was precipitated by the jumping," I called back.

"And now I have a *very* bad headache," D- said, still grinning, "and I can't remember a thing!"

My mother stared at him, a smile touching her lips. When my mother smiled, her mouth turned down instead of up. "cenobyte certainly has some interesting friends," she said.

"Ah-HA!" D- called, wincing at his own volume. "Your name is CENOBYTE! I knew I'd figure it out eventually."

"Actually, my name is Millicent," I replied. "cenobyte is just my nickname."

He stared at me for a minute. "I see you've forgotten that cenobyte is full of shite," my mother said.

"Yes, I had forgotten that," D- said.

I showed him the phone book. There was a choice of several W-s, but only four D-- W-s. "I'm not sure," he said. "I can't remember."

"Well, would you like to have a cool drink and just sit for a minute and try to remember, or would you prefer to go to the clinic?"

"I think I'd just like to sit for a minute."

My mother lit another cigarette. "You could ask R-," she said. R- was friends with D- as well, and she taught with my mother.

I phoned R-.
"Hello, R-," I said. "This is cenobyte. I'm wondering if you could help me with ...erm... a rather strange request..."

Labels: living in a tree, vacation

We sat together under the tree, the broken tree, for a little while. Every now and then, my friend would say, "Gee, I have a bad headache," or "this is a very odd day". I sat beside him, agreeing with him that it was indeed a very odd day, or that it made sense that his head hurt, owing to the fact that he had a concussion. Then he looked at me, his eyes wide, and said, "What day is it!?"

"Tuesday."

"Oh," he said, seemingly calmer. Then, "Er, what *month* is it?"

"July".

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if I have a job."

"Yes," I answered, "you do. You work mostly evenings, but your schedule is open until Saturday."

"You seem to know quite a lot about me," he said. "Are we romantically...inclined?"

"We are not," I answered hastily. Perhaps too hastily.

"Ah," he said. "I see. Is your name...J-?" he asked.

"No," I answered, momentarily feeling very bad indeed. Then I realised he wouldn't likely remember how quickly I'd insisted we were not romantically involved. "But J- is a friend of mine. She works with you."

"Ah," he said, "because I think I remember J-."

"Mmmm." I said. Earlier that day, we'd quarrelled a little over the fact that he wouldn't shut the eff up about J-, and I was quite tired of it.

"You know, I have the *worst* headache," he said.

"Would you like to go to the clinic now?" I asked.

"I think I'll just sit for a moment. If you don't mind my asking," he said, "what am I doing out here in the woods? And what, furthermore, are you doing here with me, if we are not romantically inclined?"

"We were walking together. Hanging out. Then you decided to jump out of a tree. That did not end well for you."

"I don't suppose it would," he said. "Walt Whitman wrote a poem about young boys climbing trees and they would hold on to a branch, or the sapling's trunk, and then let go with their feet, and the tree would bend gently and lower them to the ground."

"Well," I said, "I've always said that no good comes of Walt Whitman."

"Or maybe it was Robert Frost," he said. "I have the worst headache."

"I think it's a good idea for us to go to the clinic," I said. "After all, it is Tuesday."

"What's special about Tuesday?" he asked.

"Headache days at the clinic," I replied. He glanced suspiciously at me, then started to laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed in half an hour. I figured things would be okay, then.

Slowly, I helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, and a little dizzy. He leaned heavily on me as we climbed the forested hill on the way back to the car. "I think I'm starting to remember, now," he said. "I remember someone called J-."

"Yes," I said, a little out of breath from half-carrying him up a hill and across a field. "I suspect you do. You wouldn't shut up about J- earlier."

We rested often, and discussed things like headaches and trees and Walt Whitman. Sometimes we discussed Robert Frost, as well. Once, I broached Gerard Manley Hopkins, but that caused a great deal of consternation, so I backed down. After a couple of hours, we were in sight of his car.

"Oh look," he said. "A car! Perhaps we can flag them down, and..."

"That's your car," I said, tired, sweaty, and a little short of temper.

"I see," he said. "In that case," he reached into his pocket and drew forth some keys. "One of these ought to do the trick."

I grabbed the keys out of his hand and shook my head at the look of offense he shot me. "You can't even remember your name or where you live. You can't stand up on your own. You have a concussion because you JUMPED OUT OF A TREE. I am NOT letting you drive."

"That's probably a good idea," he said. Then, as soon as he opened his door, a look of fear crossed his face. "Oh my God," he said.

"What!!??" I asked, suddenly alarmed at his ashen look.

"I have DOGS," he said.

"Um. Yes?"

"I have two DOGS!"

"I know."

"We have to go back for the DOGS!!"

"Oh, ah, yes, well, you see, your dogs are at your parents' house right now. In fact, we might want to stop there first so they can pee."

He sighed heavily in relief. "That's good to know. Do you know J-? I think she works with me."

I sighed heavily and started up the car. I was a tad rusty on driving standards, but after a few bunny hops, I got us going. "This is a nice car," he said. "What year is it?"

"Um," I said. I glanced over at him.

"This is *my* car, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. Completely. I'm driving because you have a concussion."

"Oh! That would explain this terrible headache I have."

"Which you got from...."

"...jumping out of a tree?" he asked tentatively. I was very pleased.

"You remembered something! Good for you!" I exclaimed. It was a very Princess Bride moment.

"You know, I could have sworn I have dogs," he said. "Two dogs. Little things."

"You do have two little dogs," I said. He glanced around the car. "They're not here right now because they're being featured in a commercial for pet food, and their handler says it's best if you're not there to distract them, so we came for a walk in the woods," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Of course. I remember."

I glanced at him. "Do you also remember that you perform in the lounge at the hotel in town?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I sing Elton John songs."

"And Kim Mitchell," I said.

"Only in the summers," he said.

It should be noted that my friend was the night auditor at the hotel in town, didn't sing Elton John tunes, and his dogs were never featured in any commercial. I am a bad, bad person.

"Do you remember my name?" I asked.

"You know, I'm terribly bad with names," he answered.

"Well it's okay, owing to your having a concussion and all."

"I have a concussion! That would certainly explain this headache. It's a doozy."

"My name is cenobyte," I said.

"I knew that," he said. "It's just that I'm really quite bad with names. What day did you say it was?"

"Tuesday."

"Ah. That's good then. I work on Friday, I believe. Hopefully this headache will go away by then."

I glanced at him. We were driving through the city now, toward his parents' house. "You remembered something else!" I said.

"Well!" he said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. "Good for me."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

It was difficult not to panic, really. We were several kilometres away from the car, through hills and hummocks and light forest. My friend was not a big man, but I was fairly certain I couldn't carry him the whole way. I began looking around for something with which I could lash together some boughs to make a travois. I figured I could use my (and his) shoelaces and strips from our shirts, etc., if I had to.

I was kneeling with one knee at either side of his head (but not in a naughty way. Sicko), making sure he didn't move his head too much. Staring down at him, I sighed.

"Sometimes those are very difficult questions," I said. "People struggle with their identities all the time. Sometimes for their whole lives."

He closed his eyes. "My head *really* hurts," he said.

"Well, that makes sense. Do you know what happened?" I asked.

"I was hoping you knew that."

"I do. But I'm trying to assess how bad your concussion is."

"Oh. I have a concussion, then?"

"Yes. You do."

He tried nodding. I put my hand on his forehead and told him, "Please don't move your head. I'm not sure if you have a neck injury."

"A neck injury?!"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes. "You know, looking up at these trees, it reminds me of a poem I read once."

"Was it the one by Robert Frost? About young boys climbing trees?"

"Or maybe," he said, "it was Walt Whitman. How did you know that?"

"I'm terribly clever," I replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

My friend glanced around, trying not to move his head. "My neck doesn't hurt at all, you know," he told me. "I think I can sit up."

"I should get you to sign a waiver," I said.

"A waiver?"

"Because all those people who broke their necks thought they were fine and then the people with them let them move, and SHABANG!" I shouted. "All busted up forever."

"I see." He stared up at the sky. After several minutes, he asked, "if I *have* hurt my neck, what can you do?"

"Well, I hadn't really got that far. I suppose I'll stabilise it as best I can with splints and fabric, and go for help."

"I must be very lucky to know you," he said.

"Oh, of course you are. But maybe," I said, "maybe you actually *don't* know me. Maybe I'm just a kind stranger who happened upon your nearly lifeless corpse in the woods."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said. Then he closed his eyes again. "Do you know why I have such a bad headache?" he asked.

"A better question is, do you know why?"

"Did I..." he began, "have an accident?"

"Yes, you did!" I was very excited. I thought perhaps he was remembering something.

"I'm guessing, you know," he said.

"Oh."

"It's more likely than having been lured into the woods by a beautiful young woman who then hit me over the head with something very heavy, only to have her nurse me back to health."

"There could have been two women," I suggested. "The first one bludgeoned you, and then perhaps I happened by and took pity on you."

He opened his eyes and stared up at me. "That's ridiculous," he said.

"It's no more ridiculous than jumping out of a tree," I said, somewhat insulted that he'd shot down my flawless theory.

He closed his eyes again. "People don't jump out of trees," he said, as he rubbed his temples.

"Careful," I said. "You're moving."

"I think I'm okay to sit up," he said. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hurt my neck."

"Yeah? How are you sure of that? What happened, anyway?"

"You know, that's the strangest thing. I don't remember."

"Tell you what. I'm going to just wrap this sweater around your neck, okay? I want you to keep your neck as straight as you can."

"That's very kind of you," he said. Then he looked at me quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Yes," I said. "Do you know you?"

He furrowed his brow. "Well that's odd, now. I couldn't tell you my name. Huh."

"Your name is D- W-," I said. "You were named after your father, who is also D- W-, but they don't call you junior. They call him D--, and you D-."

"Oh, that's nice," he said. He began a slow attempt at sitting up. "I'm sorry, it's just that I have such a bad headache."

"That's all right. It's what happens when you jump out of trees."

"What!?" he asked, shocked.

"Sometimes, when you jump 20 feet out of a tree, you end up hitting your head and getting a headache. Due to the concussion."

"I guess that makes sense," he said. He was sitting up, leaning against the selfsame tree he'd leapt from. "I can't imagine why anyone would jump out of a tree. That's ridiculous."

"Maybe I lured you out into the woods, and then bludgeoned you."

He glanced up at me. "That's a more likely explanation. Who jumps out of trees?"

"Robert Frost might," I said. "Or maybe Walt Whitman."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Birches" by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

A friend of mine and I were walking in The Red, and he said, with a wistful look on his face as he stared up at the tall young poplar trees, "You know, I read a poem by Walt Whitman about these boys who jumped out of trees, and the trees would just lower them down to the ground."
And I said, "No good comes of Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Well, maybe it was Robert Frost."
And I said, "He's no Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Is that a good thing?"
And I said, "Absolutely."

I think this friend of mine may have been trying to impress me with his vast knowledge of poems about young boys who jump out of trees. And then my friend shimmied up a poplar tree. I think he was also trying to impress me with his vast tree-shimmying ability. Then my friend grabbed the tree up above the teeny tiny branch he was standing on, and he jumped out of the tree.

And the tree bent, and bent, and bent, for about ten of the twenty or so feet he was above the ground. And my friend shouted: "Look! It's just like in that poem by Robert Frost!"
"Or Walt Whitman," I called. "And no good comes of Walt Whitman!"

And then the tree, which was just a bit too big, and also the wrong sort of tree, snapped in half.

And my friend plummeted to the ground.

And the top of the tree he'd been holding on to plummeted to the ground after him.

And he hit the ground. And his head hit the ground. And the tree hit his head. And he lay there for a while. Probably he was thinking of Walt Whitman. Or Robert Frost.

I went to him, and made sure he was breathing (he was) and that his heart was beating (it was) and that he had no compound fractures (he didn't) and that he wasn't moving his head (he wasn't moving anything). Then I did the knuckles-on-the-sternum thing and I called his name, and he opened his eyes and he said, "Hello."

I thought that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a man who's just jumped out of a tree to say. "Hello," I said. "How are you?"

"Well," he said, looking up at me, "My head really hurts."

"You lost consciousness," I said.

"I did?" he asked.

"You certainly did," I said. "I was a little worried."

"Oh," he said. "That's nice of you."

We stared at each other for a moment.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Not a clue," he said.

"Do you know who *you* are?" I asked.

"Not so much," he said.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

I am beset by a strange sadness - a kind of melancholic longing; but I am entirely unsure what it is or whence it's come.

Heh.

Whence.

Anyway, that's really it.

Sometimes I dream of swimming, and this is freedom. This is pure freedom.

The experts tell me this is indicative of being immersed in your own emotions, and that people going through therapy often dream of swimming.

I was at a cottage I'd been at before, in my dreams; it was a conglomeration of Sarah's grandmother's cabin, and the dream version of a house I used to live in in Saskatoon. But in this dream, the lakefront was more like our cabin at Candle Lake - there were overgrown rose bushes and tall, tall poplars and pines. And the lake came up along the path and wound around behind it, and there were no rocks in the water, but the reeds....the reeds were tall. They stood up out of the water high enough that you could only see the shoulders and head of someone standing in the shallows.

I ran toward the lake, diving into the water when it was just past my knees; I dove through the reeds and the weeds and extremely disgusting stuff on top of the water - really it was almost a marsh. But there was someone out in the water I wanted to see...someone I wanted to talk to. Swimming was difficult - the weeds pulled at my arms and wound around my legs. They tried to slow my pace, to hold me back. At first, I shrugged off their clutches and sliced through them, diving, even, through the tenebrous water.

But I couldn't reach the people I was trying to see - I couldn't break through the weeds into the open water. I ended up trudging back through reedy mud, onto a dilapidated dock that partially submerged when you put weight on it. The dock flared out to a small spring-fed pool at the side of the cabin, and there, I would often see deer 'round the edges, drinking from the pure, cold pool. This day, a fawn had tumbled in, and was thrashing wildly trying to get its spindly legs back on shore. Its eyes were wild, and it bleated in terror.

I dove into that pool, pushed the fawn out onto the bank, and pulled myself out on to the sinky dock. But I couldn't swim. The only thing left for me was the too-hot cabin and a collection of card games.

Labels: boat swimming, dreams, lake

This.

THIS is the day I'm very, VERY upset at having lost three years' worth of videos and photos. The kids and I cleaned out some toyboxes, and I packed up some baby toys. These are not the ones for the giveaway bin; these are the ones for the 'keeping forever' bin.

**sigh**

I'm really not good at this.

So then I was looking through bins down in the basement to see if we had a spare one for the keeping forever baby toys, and I found the bin of keeping forever baby clothes. That still smell like my babies. Who are no longer babies.

It's happening too fast. Too damned fast.

Look, I was built for the first part; pregnancy, labour, wee little sprogs. Nursing and swaddling and diapering and carrying-in-a-sling. I'm good with toddling and holding hands and singing songs and kisses and cuddles. I'm *very* good with kisses and cuddles, in fact. I'm good with staring into wide eyes, watching for smiles, listening for little coos and whimpers and watching for sign language. I'm built for protecting these little critters, and holding them.

Not so good with putting away the little clothes and little toys and memories. Really, really not so good with that.

I know what you're going to say. You're going to say - learn to love watching them grow. Learn to love helping them become the people they will become. There are joys at every age. Think of how proud you're going to be when...

Yeah.

Bullshit.

I mean, sure I'm going to be proud. Of *course* I love watching how they change and grow. But this really, really hurts. I really don't like it. For all that I natter on about embracing change and marvelling at the newness of the world every day, I HATE this change. They're changing too fast, and I am changing not at all. Their worlds are exploding outward, rushing forward, while mine is growing smaller, spiralling ever quicker into its own centre. I can't hold them forever.

And these times, times like this, it is just me, however narcissitic that sounds. But that's how it is - it's just me, because I can't explain...not at all well...how terrified I am that I will never learn to just look forward with joy. How it feels like a million endings, each just as painful as the last. I have lost count of the nights I've passed without sleeping, just sitting with an empty book on my lap, trying to figure out how to write about them, about how I feel about them, about how they have and will continue to change the world. But there are no words for them, because those are their stories, not mine to write.

So I watch them. And I hold them, and cuddle them, and wonder and marvel at their growing independence. But I mourn also; at once knowing there is no greater joy than holding for the first time a new person...knowing I have been blessed twice...and fearing that the mathematical/graphical representation of everything after that point is a descending line. Each new joy is just a little less joyful than the one before it, from the moment you first meet that new person. It's by no means a steep line, but by God, how do you top that?

You don't, and that's the blessing and the curse of being a mum, I think.

To be honest, I'm a little surprised I don't burst into tears every time I look at them. Stupid mixed-up tears of happy and sad.

Labels: Bad Mojo, kids

Labels: the importance of arts and culture, true story

So there's this interesting blog post from my friend Smarty Pants about what he would do if he had more money than sense.

Which got me to thinking,what would I do if I had more money than sense?

Well. After buying myself all the accoutrements (a current pool, a truck, an alpaca) and paying off the debts and the debts of my friends and family (this is quickly becoming one of those "so far, you're displaying an awful lot of sense, cenobyte" things, which just goes to show how much money I'm talking about here), I would deck out my house in all the latest 'I'm'a live off the grid' stuff. I might buy a banjo and a checkered shirt and some coveralls and sit on my porch with a still beside me and play country tunes, but only in the key of D sharp.

I'd buy my friend Coyote a house, but instead of a basement, there would be a series of tunnels, all painted white, with doors every four feet that enter in to rooms that are exactly 6' x 9'.

And for my friend Jenn, I'd hire a British nanny. But it would be a boy nanny, and the terms of his employment would be: "make sure those girls learn hockey".

I'd also buy a quarter section of land to be used only for explosions. And I would name that quarter section of land "Upper Twillingsworth". Lower Twillingsworth would be the name of my current pool.

Also, I'd hire a personal trainer to lose weight for me while I went for liposuction.

What would you do if you had more money than sense?

Labels: more money than sense

a-LARPing he will go,
a-LARPing he will go,
Hi-ho the derry-o,
a-LARPing he will go.

He'll play a yickky Nos,
he'll play a yickky Nos,
Hi-ho the derry-o,
He'll play a yickky Nos.

The cheese stands alone,
the cheese stands alone,
hi-ho the derry-o,
the cheese stands alone.

I could go on, about the Nos being the cheese, or how no one is actually the cheese; I just always rather favoured the cheese line, and always wanted to be the cheese when we played "The Farmer in the Dell". Have I mentioned how much I love cheese?

Okay, so anyway, yeah. His Nibs is off playing ...*sigh*... the LARP equivalent of herpes. Don't get me wrong. I dearly love some of the people with LARP herpes. I don't hold it against them. And I'll still LARP with His Nibs afterwards; I'm pretty sure I'm immune. I was immunized a few weeks ago. It's just that...i really, really don't want to play Vampire. And there aren't that many options at the moment if i do want to play something in the city.

So there. I've said it. Publically. Not on the suuuuuper seeecret blog, not just hand-waving and ranting in small groups.

I don't want to play Vampire.

Check that. I'm willing to try **WARNING! EXTREME NERD MATERIAL FOLLOWS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.** New World of Darkness, depending on who's running it and who's playing. I freely admit that I am an elitist when it comes to gaming. Because this is my free time. I mean, I can have a good time doing just about anything (seriously, man. Peanuts in a cup. Most bestest entertainment EVAR), including stuff I don't like. Mostly because I decided a long time ago that I'd much rather enjoy myself than not. Wow, that was weird to type. Was that as weird to read as it was to type?

What I mean is, rather than be at lagerheads (snicker) with the folks running the game and/or the other folks playing the game, it makes more sense to choose to participate in a game that doesn't cause you stress. So by 'elitist', I guess I really mean 'utilitarian'. But not in the sense of 'utilitarian' like crotchless pantyhose; I mean 'utilitarian' in the sense of 'maximising happiness and/or minimising unhappiness'.

Crotchless pantyhose are the best thing since...erm...well...split crotch bloomers, I guess. Which in turn are the best thing since no underpants at all. Wow. How'd I get *here*?

No, I'm not standing here saying "neener neener; my game's better than your game", because a) I do not have a game; and b) well, really, I don't have a game.

I just know what I don't like. Um. And I'm comparing it to a venereal disease. Which is kind of douchey of me, I guess. Sorry about that.

Labels: crossing the line, LARP, piss in your eye

Here are some words just for you, then:
When people say "it was just Hell"
they don't know what they're talking about.
Or maybe they do,
but then they don't know what Hell really is.

you do.

There is a story
it is a story of creation
one of the great myths
where the wife of the child of the sun
pulled a turnip from the ground.
Even though she was told not to.

The turnip left a hole in the ground
Which, to the humans, was the sky
And the woman fell through the hole
And couldn't see her husband anymore
Not ever again
Because she was on earth and he was in the sky
with his mother, the wife of the sun.

This story reminds me of you.

It is you in the sky, looking down through the hole
That that woman made when she pulled the turnip
your mother told her not to pull.
You are sad, but
there's nothing you can do.
You hold your children on your knee, and you tell them
of their brave,
proud mother.

And your mother, the wife of the sun,
she holds your children on her knee
and tells them of the great spider who lives
just beyond that hole where the turnip used to grow.
She tells them, "never go near that hole".

But this isn't about your mother
the wife of the sun.
It's about you.
You are the son of the sun.
Your challenge is not to blaze too brightly;
just shine enough to light a few fires
to cast enough light
to read by.

Labels: poems, ring made from a spoon

I'm watching CourtTV.

I know. It's a disease. First, it's the American small-claims court programs, now it's CourtTV. I can't explain it. I probably need help.

So anyway, I'm watching CourtTV, and they have, of course, a courtside reporter talking about the testimony in the court case we've just seen. You know, one of those reporters who have to be really good at watching things and then talking about what they've just watched. The kind of person you HATE to have at movie nights because they're always chattering on about how "this is my favourite part! The woman in the hallway looks down the stairs - RIGHT THERE! - and she sees that the carpet isn't where it's supposed to be. It's quite revealing."

Or, worse yet, "Did you notice that in that scene we just watched, the woman looked down the stairs and notices that the carpet isn't where it was supposed to be? That indicated to me that the woman either suspected someone ...or someTHING, ha ha ha, was in the house with her, OR, more likely, that she was overcome with guilt at having had a quarrel with her daughter earlier in the night."

No popcorn for you, sister.

Anyhow, so I don't know if this reporter actually went to school for repotery, or if she got her microphone at the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box, but she's wearing enough makeup that I couldn't tell what nationality she is, or even if she has any actual skin. And while the flags behind her were flapping away in the wind, her hair **did not move**. I find that extremely disturbing.

So you KNOW that she smells like hairspray and perfume. And that she uses scented products in her laundry.

"Where is this going, cenobyte?" you're asking. "It's your own damned fault if you choose to watch CourtTV."

It is! I know! You're right! But stay with me for a minute here.

So she starts flapping her hands in front of her face as she's relating what's just happened in the courtroom in case you missed that segment. Then she starts twitching, flipping her helmet hair around all over the place. Perhaps 'flipping' isn't the right word....

Anyway, she is apparently beset by a plague of locusts. Or a mystery of noseeums (which has GOT to be the very best word for 'little tiny biting insects' ever), or a scratch of mosquitoes, or a herd of flies or something. And I'm thinking "That woman probably smells like a buffet for every insect within twenty miles, and she probably doesn't even realise why."

On a completely unrelated note, the next time I have a party, I want to invite the ShamWOW/SlapChop guy in attendance. He has a HEADSET, people. A headset. Also, he says the stupidest things ever. "You're going to love my nuts" always makes me grin. And he's a complete letch. I always imagine that before "Vince" (apparently that's his name) landed this sweet, sweet job as the most annoying infomercial guy ever (the OxyClean guy died, apparently), he was some dirty street kid pickpocketing and smoking butt-rollies, swearing at the people who had money and didn't know what to do with it.

Labels: actors, advertisements, stupidity

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

In the evenings, the sun lit up the hills. Golden fire facing east, and the water smooth as glass. You can dive off the end of this dock (as long as you do a surface dive, you're good); in the mornings, the sun sparkles off the water - it is a lake full of diamonds. Very distracting for someone so distracted by shiny things...

Water lapping lazily at the shore and the whisper of wind through rattling poplar leaves - what better to lull you to sleep, to send you precious dreams and unexpected visions? And in the morning, the welcoming scent of fresh coffee. Family, laughter, comfort, new folks, old folks, plenty of steak and lobster (cousin Ess knows "a bunch of Newfies" who send him fresh (still living) lobster and crab every year. Cousin Ay made a thirty-gallon tank that fits on the BBQ pit. Lots of lobster), golf, swimming, canoes, boats, tube rides, and, best of all, tossing both kids in the lake and swimming out after their giggles surface.


In the evenings, the sun lit up the hills. Smoke and fire facing East. The sun has dipped just below the rolling hills. At any moment, you kind of expect the roar of an uncontrollable grass fire to race through, in the wake of herds of deer, rabbits, skunks, and little bluebirds. In particular, a skunk called Flower, with buddies Thumper and Bambi.

MMmmmm. Roast venison.

We had that!!

But srsly. This sky was pretty amazing.

I didn't really want to leave, to be honest. But I have this interview, see, with this guy what wrote some books I really like. So I had to come home. And this was my view as I drove home along the muddy, noisy gravel road.

*sigh* I've missed you, Valley. But why could you not come with a lake that also includes my cousins, aunts, and uncles?

Bye, lake. See you soon.

Labels: Home, lake, skies, vacation

The lake is gorgeous, rain and sun.

Waited twenty minutes for the dial-up to work for me, so's I could post this for you. Forgot to line up a bunch of posts for the Away Days.

cenobyte may come back here next week, too.

Labels: lake, vacation

To the lake!
To the lake!
To the LAKE!!!

(back in a week or so)