centre of the universe - the dreaming

Ha! Did you see what I did, there? I said "Back-a-gain", which is a pithy take on "bakugon", which are overpriced, cheap, ridiculously silly collectible dolls action figures based on an over-budgeted, badly-written, ridiculously silly television programme. Brilliant. You may or may not be able to tell that Yours Truly spent some time in a toy store today. Want to know why? Because Yours Truly is a mook.

"WHOA!" Yours Truly said at a television commercial. "What's THAT?!"
"Those are Mega Beanz, Mum. You can play them and trade them and race them and everything!"
"They look RIDICULOUSLY FUN!"
"We should get some!"
"WE TOTALLY SHOULD!!"
"That's it," His Nibs cut in at that point, "No more coffee for you. Like, ever."

Anyhow, the short version of the hockey tournament is: Team played fantastically well, but didn't rank well. The Captain got a Player of the Game Award. That City pisses me off to no end, and I have not even the slightest inkling of ever living there again. His Nibs agrees. My Da is awesome.

Labels: hockey, Saskatoon

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?

Labels: questions, remembery, Saskatoon

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.

Labels: darkness, Nama, Saskatoon

Well, Saskatoon, it's been great. It's been grand. You know, sometimes I miss you, you old lug. But it's time for me to move on. I'll stick around for a while longer; there's somewhere I have to be until five o'clock tonight. And I know it'd be rude for me to mention those things that don't work for me any longer, so I won't. And I won't bring up those things that...well...there's a good reason I had to end things. But this visit has been good! It's nice to know we can still get along.

Listen, I want you to take care of some folks for me. I mean, just make sure they're doing okay and for God's sake, **be nice to them**. I mean, we both know that sometimes, you can be a little cold and self-centred. Okay, a *lot* self-centred. So just, you know, keep an eye out for these folks, because they're good to me, and they mean a lot to me. I won't lie to you; it'd mke me happy if they'd think pretty seriously about moving south.

Anyway, thanks for the nice visit. I know I didn't get to see everyone I probably should have seen. Hopefully some of them will drop in at Exhibition Park or whatever that place is called before five today.

Also, a note to my body - thanks for not doing the crampy thing again. That was truly EXTREMELY unpleasant. But is it entirely necessary to do the bloating thing so much that my fingers look like sausages? So much so that it hurts to wear my rings? I mean, is that *really* necessary? Really? Because I think it's pretty silly. How about if you don't do that anymore. That'd be great. Thanks.

Der Kaptin, Kate with one gold eye says to say hi.

Labels: Kate with one gold eye, Saskatoon, sausage fingers