monday grumps: a point

There comes a point in one’s life when you capture yourself.

Like when you discovered East of Eden which catapulted you into reading, like when roadtrips with the family to Florida showed you a glimpse of a world worth seeing, like one day when your parents move to Toronto and you decide to move with them.

It is a decision with the belief of indefinitely, yet comforted by knowing that there is the option of returning. The funny thing is, you never go back.

Or at least not the same way you once were. Working in a Roncesvalles coffee shop, as far away from a life once lived, just to prove to myself that it can happen at home, I was reading about our different teas, where they are from and how they came to be.

“What you reading there?”

“Hey, Sandor, just reading about tea. Did you know that ‘tea time’ was invented by Anne, the wife of teh Duke of Bedford because she wanted a meal between a hearty breakfast and late supper?””

He smiled. “In the 60’s, I met the man who invented tea bags, lived along the Kingsway. He must have been 85 years old. I used to clean for him.”

Sandor is now the owner of the coffee shop building.

We can live a world and surround our selves with only the things and people that are a part of that world — choose a clique of friends and lean on them to bolster us up. But at some point, whenever that is, you look up and notice that life is not just about one thing, but learning many. It is without a need to stagnate to one notion, while still remaining true to one’s self.

Like a leaf that drifts in an autumn wind, like a snowflake that falls from dark clouds, like a notion with no motion, learning to let people be, exactly the way they are and find each one unique and beautiful and not as a means to an end, but an end in and of themselves, and to let them fall, so that they learn to pick themselves up. That, right there, is the point to being human.

Walking west along Dundas I looked over my shoulder and there was the CN Tower standing solitary amidst grey clouds. I couldn’t see its base, the ground it is rooted in, but I noticed it was pointing up.

sunday thought & monday grumps: inverted androids

Come over, come see us, we are nice, you will like us, said the Hal-bot.

Hey, how are you? Are you familiar with us, said the b-bot.

The ants were marching ’round and “round.

Buy this book, take this flyer, three back-issues for five dollars. Subscribe.

The noise made me numb, my brain was buzzing. The lights were flickering, but I felt like I had no life left. I was not hungry, but I ate. I was not thirsty, but I drank. I was awake, but was sleeping. Every so often I would hide from the sunshine and smiles in the tent, refueling on raisin bran muffins and Tim Tom Donuts.

“Hal, I’m dying out there. I need a break, I need to walk.”

“But, you are bringing so much traffic in?”

I stayed behind the table and sold some magazines and buttons, marking down each item sold.

“Did you write that down?”

“Yes, I did.”

I sold a tee-shirt, programmed to say fifteen dollars and Hal’s book, The Program, on special for five dollars.

“Did you write that down?”

I stopped. I switched on, turned to him — my boss, the senior editor — and told him, “yes. Obviously I wrote it down, you told me once, you don’t have to tell me again. You have to trust me.”

He stepped back and he could have fired me. Instead, he said, “ok, ok, just asking.” Come over, come see us, we are nice you will like us, he beckoned to some passers-by.

I noticed him smiling at each person with a stroller, waving to the kids and saying “Hello.” One of the passers-by knew him and came over to the table to shake his hand and talk. As I was busy helping some other perusers, I overheard the stranger ask about Hal’s kid.

As the day wore on, so did my energy. I was getting cold and grumpy and anti-social. Man, oh man, I kept droning.

“Did you bring a jacket?” Hal asked.

“No, I didn’t think of it. I wasn’t thinking at all.”

He slid off his shell coat and put it around my shoulders saying, “really, I’m not that cold.”

monday thought: happen

Make it happen. Squeeze it in and sit on it. Quickly, zipper it shut.

Turn around and walk away and listen for the pop.

Never look back.

monday grumps: bacon fat bourbon

In a glass jar on top of the fridge an inch of bacon fat awaits its purpose. It does not know what it will be used for, but slowly gathering form it knows it can serve someone use for something. It takes times, sometimes days, sometimes weeks, to reach its proportions. For days, sometimes months, it idles white and thick in its transparent container.

When someone glances at it, he is revolted but simultaneously craves the meat that it once was a part of. He thinks of sizzling and salt and the film of grease that coats his lips and stomach. He feels guilty for such desires. To him, the public display of part sludge-part animal is confusing. It has no aesthetic, but it does have purpose. Why it is not hidden in the cupboard, behind thick wooden doors and silver handles, is beyond understanding.

When enough fat has congealed and accumulated, someone will add it to a bottle of bourbon. Together the fat and the bourbon will dance in a broken down barn with the sound of harmonicas and fiddles, mounds of hay dusting the air through yellow and orange glows that come from the lamps that mechanics use to look at the underbellies of cars, the ones that have hooks and a cage to protect you from the heat. For days, sometimes weeks, they will roll together and share each others strengths in the moments spent in each others’ embraces, he bringing the smoke, she bringing the salt.

One day, their time together will have happened just so and someone will tip their world upside down, placing them in a deep freeze. The fat will rise to the top and congeal, once again, while the heat of the bourbon will keep free flowing. The bourbon will be emptied back into its bottle and the fat will be melted and put into its glass jar. The bourbon now tastes salty. It creates a velvet envelope around your tongue and will be added to cocktails to be sipped over good conversations and cigarettes. The bacon fat now smells smoky. It will wait on top of the fridge to be used for drop-cookies that will be eaten with teas and coffee. Both serve different purposes, yet both are enriched from their time spent together.

If they spent any more time together, they would have become too rich or too sour.

This should never be hidden.

monday grumps: sip

Crisp mornings call for cups of coffee, velvet smooth like caramel.

Taking the time to drink it in, watching the sun rise later than the day before, curling up for a minute before darting out the door.

last assignment.

My last class is on Wednesday. Frantic with preparing my parting words for the past few days has been mind bending. Do I want to express something one-sided and, well, two-dimensionally square?

The way I envision my final day is filled with gesticulations, punches into the air, “zing this” and “goodbye to all of thats.” For six weeks, I had been re-visiting was what it felt like to re-create works in her image, with her tools of opinions, to shape the putty she put forth.

My parting words, a paragraph where — and I quote — “neutrality cannot exist”:

“The old is new. Again. The omnipotent entertainment industry is inspiring us to get re-real with ourselves with a retro-fitted, attire-ly appropriate Tilda Swinton in the film “I Am Love” (2009.)  A Sorelle Fontana-ed Swinton plays Emma (formerly known as Kitcschi) who reclaims her Russian roots while living in Italy – because no one goes to Italy to re-discover anything – in this post-“Eat, Pray, Love” movie. We are supposed to be inspired by the skiddish snipping of her unhappy and superficially contrived life: Like her, if we endure long enough, we can cut our hair – because Heaven forbid we let it down – find fresh love in the hardened but lean arms of a younger man – spewing sweaty vitality from body and loins, – cut out our lifelong commitments at our own son’s funeral – by telling our husbands of 20-some-odd years that we are in love with Antonio (true character,) – gain the reassuring nod from our freshly-outed daughter – hair also freshly cut – we can live happily ever after – because that is the only way to reclaim the simplicity of childhood that we feel guilty for destroying. We can revolutionize our lives, cut off the heads of our tyrannical realities and start with fresh foundations!

Let us start all over again. Let us begin in Italy. First, with IKEA furniture we can snap-together the romanticized cottage-cozy homes that we see on sets. Then, with hourly-travel deals we can fly to the old world rather than exist here and now. Then, we can tell others how to eat, pray and love, just like we did. Then, we are happy. Then, we realize, after everything, there is no sequel and we did not get anywhere at all.”

When all I really wanted to say was:

“A pretentious display of doing something that is on everyone’s mind. But, sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

What I learned from class, what I bring to my desk, were things I should have known, but am sure would have realized at some point:

“When you read something, whether you like it or not, try to figure out why. Then, reshape it and make it your own.”

“Make every line count. Make each sentence work really hard to create your message.”

Zing.

What will probably happen on Wednesday is nothing. I will go in, hand in my paper, take a seat, then leave. Have a celebratory drink, contemplate, jot this & that, tug at my tresses, then go home and sleep. Wake up, go to work, come home, read and try to figure out why. Then, reshape it and make every moment count.

sunday/monday: last assignment.

WordPress is not letting me edit.

So, I cannot press the words.

Will press them tomorrow. If it lets me.

monday: &

Salt & pepper. White & black. Orange & blue. Ham & cheese. Birth & death. Cigarettes & drinking coffee. Bread & butter. Most things happen in pairs. When one pulls in a general direction, the other tends to follow, linked like a sterling bit between the corners of a horse’s mouth.

A balance needs to be reached so as not to run in circles. By always choosing one direction — one taste, one colour — we make one side stronger and the other weak because we forget about it. The weaker leg will be cut-off, as it becomes poisonous from gangrene, and it is replaced with a lifeless peg-leg: something to stand on, but nothing like a functioning foot. You can no longer run, but hobble and become cranky-argh!

“Could I get a pair of apples, please?”

“A pear and an apple?”

“No. Just a pair of apples. Wait. Yes. A pear & an apple.”

Sometimes, people will choose a life of solitude in order to never have a deadened foot, or worse, become it. Some of us like alone time and some of us do not. Alone, you are with your mind and, sometimes, it is light, but sometimes it gets dark. Sometimes it is a mixture of white & black. In the shade it creates things — good and bad and in-between and scary to observe. We come up with thoughts, conjure magical thinking, imagine a fantasy, over-analyze idiosyncrasies. Like blankets that solidify into stone, we throw ideas around and watch them pile around us, entombing us in the cool, dark centre. The chisel is our spoken word.

Nietzsche was a solitary man and as a result had a lot of ideas. He chose to write his ideas down, allowing him to share but not receive. Eventually, he went insane. But, he became famous, didn’t he?

Yesterday, despite the dark clouds drifting through the north, we decided to go to the island. The air was like a salty, sticky stew that gelled and tugged at your arm hair, made the flying wisps loosely noose around your neck, made you hold your breath while panting. We chose to head back to the island, the south side, where the land is low and the breeze is high, dark castles in the sky. This time, I got to choose where to go and, trusting the path that crossed the corner of my view, I veered off to the right. “Good choice, my dear.”

The beach was narrow and hardly occupied. At some moments, it was just the two of us. Sail boats scattered the southern vista swishing on top of the indigo water, like fresh fountain pens through ink. We sat underneath a tree using the trunk to cradle our bicycles and nubs of broken branches as hooks for our bags. We used the sand as a bottle holder and arranged our picnic on a palette-esque cutting board. “The gradient of the water is remarkable, with the blues, the greens, the white.”  It was remarkable, like something out of a story or a movie or a notebook.

We talked about general things — observations & thoughts & politics & art & people & gossip & the arrival of four ladies with tall cans & the young half-naked couple walking the beach picking up stones — not arguing, but challenging one another: “You’re right,” “You have a point,” “Look at it this way…” Ideas cannot exist until you say them with someone, it travels back & forth on the sterling link giving either side equal pull. Instead of your mind going in circles, it begins to think straight & forward.

A rumble to the right cut the sun out of sight. If I say it, it will be true: “It’ll blow over. It always blows over.” It got dark & the water looked deeper, as though a lid had been placed over our heads. A single bucket-sized drop commenced the fall of crock-pot condensation. We had one rain-jacket to use as our shelter, the hood our awning & eaves trough. The wind shifted sideways blowing shards of rain onto our legs. Lifting the flap, we saw the four girls taking refuge in the water, jumping in the waves, tall cans raised, sharing the moment. The half-naked couple was not within our view.

When the sky cleared & reminded us that it was blue, we threw the jacket off & waded into the water — warm & clear from fresh rain.

If I was alone, I would not have laughed so hard.

The adventure came to a close with bites from red ants & sand that had managed to sift in between our clothes & skin. It was time to go back to our comforts, to jump on our sandy steeds, both our legs pedaling against the grain in our cogs, back home to re-energize & balance.

monday grumps: seasonal lover

As a lover of sun and heat, I find myself weary of this ease into cooler temperatures. With warm days and cool nights, the weather is comfortable and unchallenged. The random lamentation of a fleeting summer is still brought up — particularly when sipping wine outside in parks or on balconies wearing long-sleeved shirts and sweaters, — but I think I speak for most when I say the change is welcomed. Some are looking forward to the fall, whereas others see this shift as a marker of an approaching winter. Leaving my third consecutive summer behind, tired of sweaty summer nights, I embrace the coolness. This is a new phenomena for me.

As a kid, I was always cold. During the winter months in the Ottawa Valley, I would wrap myself up in a blanket, insulated by my layers of clothing underneath and sit next to the roaring fire coming from our outdated, out-of-code, yet epically nostalgic, wood stove, curling my toes into the soles of my woolly-socked feet. I would protest the chores that had to be done, like feeding and watering the horses, preferring to stay close to the warmth of the hearth. Inside, I could curl into a cocoon and longingly dream of summer haze.

Yesterday, sitting on our balcony and sipping wine in sweaters, Tony mentioned his confusion of Cananda,

– I just don’t understand why, if given the option, people would choose to live in a country where it gets so cold. I am not looking forward to winter. It’s so cold.

– Perhaps their birth certificates dictate where they think they are supposed to live.

– Yeah, but b, you know better than that. We can choose.

He had a point. It made me wonder what compels people to stay in a country that boasts treacherous winters. Even though more than ninety-percent of the Canadian population lives as south as we can get — within 100 kilometres of the US border, — for the most part, we choose to stay. What do we get out of it?

I remember I had a conversation with Jameson many months ago about North American tendencies. We talked about the reasons that our culture is in the perpetual pursuit of progress that has been, until recently, unprecedented. For the past 100 years, it has been North America that has pushed the boundaries (technologically, culturally, territorially) not always in a good way.

Jameson & I,

– We are always in such a hurry to create things quickly. As a result, our products tend to lack a certain level of quality. Our ends are fleeting.

– Perhaps it is because we work with seasons. We use the warm seasons to plant ideas or money trees in order to generate as much as we can. Come fall, we harvest as much as we can so that we can hibernate throughout the winter. We inherently need to hoard our materials because we intuitively do not know when they will come again. So it is, we take advantage of everything and, perhaps, everyone. We have not quite adjusted to the idea of accessibility.

The comment made us both ponder the North American existence. He poured each of us a glass of Scotch and we shot them back. I think it was that day that Jameson, Maggy and I decided to head south before the winter sprang.

Three months has come and gone without a whisper. In three months, it will have been a year since the leaves started changing and new horizons were in my view. Instead of getting nostalgic and filled with pangs of longing, I feel excitement for the approaching season of sleepiness. Like the temperature, I have felt a shift. Perhaps I am romanticizing the Hell out of cold, dark days with cups of coffee and the tips of fingers poking out of blankets turning pages of paperbacks, but the idea of it makes me calm.

This fall and winter, I do not have school or an extenuating trip planned. I have small ideas of things I would like to do, but nothing that needs a regimented outline. There is no syllabus to organize my months nor a travel booklet to research. There is only the promise of the leaves changing and temperatures dropping and jackets and scarves and beds with two blankets and perhaps and maybes and turkey dinners and good people. Right now, for now, I look forward to that.

monday grumps: no more ticky-ticky

Life holds its breath. It goes red in the face, slowly exhaling, forgetting to let air in until necessary, until the last moments when, dizzy and faint, it involuntarily gasps, sucking with lips opened like a fish thrown back into the sea, or a swimmer jumping from the water in mid-butterfly stroke. The intake is fleeting. But, it is enough to survive submerged.

Coming home today was dizzying. Not only was I hungry, blood sugar plummeting, not only did I want to rush home and see Tala off, not only were there menial things, like emails and Facebook, to catch up on, not only did I want to chat with Tony and his mom, not only did I want to see L, not only did I have to pack for a night of adventures at Unicamp with STB and my ladies, but I wanted a chance to sit still. I wanted a shot of fresh air.

Yesterday, I had a chance to sit by myself in the park and indulge in R&R — reading and reclining. Today, was and will not be such a day. Such are most days and usually I feel inclined towards them. I think that this is me just fooling my self. I like breaks.

So it, this ticky-ticky, is annoying me. I am going to go and breathe.