terry fox run update
I would like to thank all of the kind people who have pledged their cash and support for my Terry Fox Run adventure. Including offline donations I am up to $220 -- and that's before hitting up relatives.
A few of you have mentioned that you would like to sponsor me, but that the form isn't built to accommodate UK (or other country) addresses. I wrote to the webmaster and this is the response I received:
"Thanks for your concern about the donations. There were preliminary inquiries to having countries from around the world being able to donate online and there were various issues regarding security and encryption. We are still looking at our options and I will keep your email address and inform you if the situation changes."
So, it appears that it is unlikely that the form will be changing any time soon. If you live in another country and still want to sponsor me, then please send me an email and we can work something out.
31 August 2002, 12:08
train ride from toronto to georgetown
The woman was dressed in a trendy black power suit with hair fashionably but conservatively upswept, and expensive shoes and handbag that boldly stated "business woman". She was completely accessorized.
The train was packed with commuters and people escaping the city for the long weekend. Since the woman and her colleague arrived late, they were forced to sit apart: the colleague two rows behind me and the power suit across the aisle from me.
Until this point, the train was surprisingly quiet. People were already settling into their seats, readying themselves for a well-deserved snooze. But the power suit was oblivious. She turned in her seat to shout past me to her colleague behind. It is so stuffy in here. Not even a few seconds pass and, Could this train go any slower?
For the first half of our journey, her mouth didn't stop moving, drowning any hopes I had of participating in the conversation with the three people I was travelling with. Her nasal and brash voice bellowed back to her colleague -- But I absolutely hate the roads up here. I don't know how you can get anywhere..
In my head I was screaming Would you please have some consideration for those around you and please shut up. But of course I didn't because, frankly, we're just not like that "up here".
30 August 2002, 19:08
lunchtime
The office is so quiet. Everyone else decided to have their lunch on one of the tour boats at the base of our building -- the one that charges five dollars to sail around the harbour for an hour and five dollars for each bottle of beer.
I am sitting here in editorial bliss working on reviews for the Toronto International Film Festival, as I sip on my club soda, and glance up every once in a while to watch the canoe school trail a dotted line across the harbour and the sailboats putter past the perimeter of the Island airport.
I certainly won't win the socialite of the office award, but I have beauty in my eyes and trance in my ears. And I stop to enjoy happy moments whenever I can get them.
29 August 2002, 12:08
twilight
Because a cold has been tormenting me for the past 4 days, I have held off my morning gym routine until today. And during my warm-up stretches in the half-light of the living room I realized that suddenly the days are shorter. I now wake up in twilight and not dawn. Soon it will be dark -- and cold -- when I crawl out from underneath the big, warm duvet and force myself to think of treadmills. And soon it will still be dark an hour later when I stumble back into the apartment, perspiration reflecting the light in the hallway, and not the morning sunlight from the living room window.
29 August 2002, 07:08
re: a poem
Poetry has not come easily to me lately. It's not that the words are not there -- they are ever-present and swirling inside my head -- I have just chosen to ignore them. Although I have been prolific in the blogging department, I have not allowed myself to commit the act of poetry.
The poem in my previous post is something that has been with me for months. Today I decided to let it out. It is nothing like my regular poems -- I'm not even sure if it sounds like my voice.
I suspect that most poets would say that poems are based in a small amount of fact, but that finished product is mostly creative imaginings. Embellished truths. Fiction, even.
Since it describes real events and captures an actual moment in my life, perhaps my poem might not even be a poem at all.
28 August 2002, 22:08
a poem
Sitting across from my father 24 hours before he will die
Darkness in the small, square room
that been home for 12 days.
A few hours into Sunday morning.
As he sits in the chair beside the bed,
light from under the bathroom door
illuminates his chest; it lights him like a spirit,
but not yet a ghost.
No, not yet.
Sometimes he sees me,
sometimes he sees only memories --
in a private slideshow flickering on the wall:
people and places in parade.
A fire. Newfoundland. An orange suit.
Sometimes he speaks to the faces
in the patterns on the wall.
Very rarely his voice is meant for me.
I ask too many times if he is ok.
I don't know what else to say.
He picks flowers from the blankets
and hands them to me;
invisible blossoms that gather into
a bouquet that I cannot hold.
Sometimes the flowers become bugs,
and I must mime the act of throwing them away.
He is so much like a child:
fidgeting, anxious, easily distracted.
Speaking sentences one minute, but
filling the next with alien phrases
pulled from the air like apparitions.
Almost an apparition himself.
He gets up, hugs me, and sits back down.
He pulls on imaginary socks and shoes.
He tells me that he is ready to go home.
In 24 hours his chair will be empty.
28 August 2002, 22:08
epiphany
Sometimes it takes a series of seemingly unrelated events to force your brain to subconsciously connect the dots, one by one, into a sudden and very clear picture. A specific comment from Alexandra. The invitation to participate in Vaughan's "consequences" experiment and my subsequent trip down memory lane. An email of praise from a stranger. And today, an intriging job posting from Trevor. Right now I am thinking, Maybe I can do it. Maybe it is time that I considered taking all of these words and allowing them to speak to other audiences. Maybe it is time to consider new and more fulfilling ways of bringing home a paycheque.
27 August 2002, 20:08
running for the cause
I've been thinking about it all summer, and of course I have left it miserably late, but I have decided to participate in the annual Terry Fox Run for Cancer Research on September 15. My dad used to walk in the Fergus run; the last year he was able to participate, he was proud to win the local award for the collecting the highest pledge amount. Little did we know back then that the disease for which he raised so much money would be the same disease that killed him this past April.
So I am doing it for my dad. And I am doing it for all the moms and dads that my friends have lost. I am doing it for Trevor, his Mom, and the many other people in his family and mine who have fallen victim to or have known too well the face of cancer. And I am doing it for people that I know and people that I don't know whose lives have been or will be affected by the disease. And, of course, I'm doing it for myself because, frankly, I have to do something to start healing.
If you would like to sponsor me, you can do so here or, if you don't want to use your credit card, send me an email and I'll add you to my paper pledge sheet. And please don't feel obligated to contribute money. Encouragement and positive thoughts are welcomed, too.
26 August 2002, 21:08
words
The voice on the radio was warm and funny. And the words he spoke held tremendous truth for me, echoing the thoughts and perceptions I had in my own head about what it means to be a poet and how people perceive poets in North America. He talked about how poetry chooses a person, and not the other way around. How inspiration is inconsistent, appearing when it wants. How since the last century or so people do not consider poetry a true profession. What else do you do? How poets never consider themselves poets until someone bestows the title upon them. Here is my friend, Billy. He's a poet. And then he talked about the arrival of his first words at age nine, and that although he has written since then, it wasn't until he was forty that he actually considered himself a poet.
This morning as I was composing my consequence entry for Wherever You Are, I remembered my first words at age eight; once I let them choose me, they never left. Willing words. Faithful friends. And I remember the day when I knew for certain that I was going to be a poet to the outside world: in the Autumn of 1997 when I excitedly tore open the envelope containing the letter that my poem Richmond Street was going to be published in one of Canada's finest literary publications, Grain Magazine. Seeing my words in print and then my little bio on the back page containing the phrase "Canadian poet" was validation and euphoria -- the best drug imaginable.
26 August 2002, 12:08
my preference is not picton
Because it is our wedding anniversary tomorrow, I wanted to surprise Trevor this weekend with a little getaway in the country -- or county, in this case. I researched all of the inns and B&Bs within a two-hour radius and decided upon Prince Edward County.
Our B&B, Timm's Grandview Manor, was luxurious with lovely furnishings and gorgeous grounds, and both places that we ate -- Sir Edward's Pub and The Hidden Bistro -- were quite scrumptious. Good thing, because to us the town of Picton and its surrounding area were sadly lacking in charm, beauty, (except for some really beautiful old houses) and activity. The countryside appeared unkempt, and the tourist attractions seemed contrived and mediocre. And Picton proper felt like any southern Ontario town -- however, one without a picturesque downtown or interesting shops/attractions. There just didn't seem to be anything that appealed to thirty-something couples like ourselves.
Trevor and I were discussing that we must have been spoiled growing up in the Fergus/Elora area where it is actually "quaint" and the surrounding countryside is filled with lovely natural treasures and pretty villages.
Regardless of the disappointment for the area, we managed to have a lovely time (as the two of us tend to do in each other's company) in our royal room and during our food and beverage outings.
25 August 2002, 14:08
2:56 pm, friday
It is a positively gorgeous day outside. Warm, but the wind carries a whispered warning of Autumn following close. There are a few whitehorses on the lake cresting above the glittering blue, and sailboats are scattered over its sparkling surface. The sky is a brilliant cerulean dome.
Just a few hours to go and I'll be outside, the wind whipping my hair into my eyes, the final breaths of summer on my face.
23 August 2002, 14:08
storm cloud
Lately I have been feeling like Pig Pen from the Peanuts comic strip -- except that I am not walking around in a cloud of dust; I have a big black storm cloud hovering around me wherever I go. And unlike Pig Pen, I don't enjoy the cloud that clings to me. In fact, I'd like very much for it to bugger off. Lately I'm easily irritated, cranky, snarky, and ready to cry at the drop of a hat. Certainly not the ideal party guest
I was told that there would be good days and bad days. I guess since I have managed to keep things under control for so long that the bad days have accumulated and now they are lined up in succession, waiting their turn -- the bastards. I close my eyes and see them lined up like customers in a bank queue, tapping their feet, glancing at their watches, and sighing out loud with eyes rolled to the ceiling.
I would very much like to crawl into bed and have someone wake me when all the bad days having finished their business so I could stop snapping at co-workers, snarking at people I love, and causing people to feel as though they have to walk on eggshells around me (because they do).
Oh lookee: a storm is rolling in over the lake. Just in time for my walk home. At least I'll blend in with my surroundings.
22 August 2002, 17:08
cracked
The shell is wearing thin. Slowly the cracks are wending their way over the surface like tiny tributaries. A spidering of hairline fractures, opaque, whisper-thin and fragile. Waiting to break.
22 August 2002, 16:08
an episode
It was just a little bit of silliness -- there was no meaning to it. A group of people near my desk bantering back and forth about colons and getting them checked*. They were just having a good time, laughing and enjoying some verbal jousts of toilet humour. No harm was meant. But as I sat in my cubicle trying to ignore it all, tears quietly filling my eyes and the familiar pressure expanding inside my head, it made me realize just how close to the surface my sadness sits.
* I should note here that my dad died from colon cancer.
21 August 2002, 14:08
rodent theives
This morning, just before going into the building where I work, I saw a small grey squirrel scoot onto the sidewalk in front of me, then leap back onto a patch of grass, eyes scanning for my next move. It was then that I realized that my mammal sightings have significantly decreased since moving to the city (imagine). Other than the ducks and geese splashing about in our basin and in the lake, and the occasional skunk waddling through the parks after dark, there aren't many creatures to count.
So today, when I was walking back from lunch, I paid careful attention to a pair of clever arboreal rodents scurrying up the cement wall of an apartment building. I wondered what could possibly motivate them to scale the face of a building with perfectly good trees nearby. And then, just above one of the 5th floor balcony walls, I saw the target of their excitement: wooden stakes surrounded by green leaves. Tomato plants -- and probably a small garden of other tantalizing tidbits waiting in reward for a smart squirrel. How on earth did they know what awaited a vertical climb up a cement building? And what will the apartment gardener think when he/shes notices pilfered vegetables from their enclosed, cement-walled garden, just above a parking garage?
20 August 2002, 17:08
scanning the sidewalks of the "blog-osphere"
I was so excited. And since Wednesday -- I have been waiting, wondering, What is the article going to be like? Will they use anything that I have said? But the time, like it does, kept ticking away, as I waited and wondered some more.
Thanks to a comment from Ryan (and not fom anyone at teh magazine) I was alerted to the fact that the Newsweek article for which I was interviewed was now online (an in the August 26 print issue). I entered the URL with baited breath and (egotistically) checked to see if I was quoted anywhere in the article. And there is was:
"I read about what people in Poland, New Zealand and the U.K. have done on a particular day," says Barbara Fletcher, 33, a Web designer in Toronto. "Some people can go on and on about something they found on the sidewalk. It connects me to people I would never meet, and I guess people feel the same way about my blog."
Ugh. Of all the reasonably-intelligent things I managed to spit out (in between the drivel quoted above) -- about connection, Movable Type, and the journal as an artform and media tool (and, more personally, about my dad and being part of a blogging couple) -- I worry that this quote makes blogging sound mundane, trivial, and goofy. Which is the opposite of what I feel. Why oh why did they use the sidewalk quote?
Some might say that I should be pleased about being mentioned in Newsweek, and, yes, part of me is pleased. I guess that I am just a little disappointed that my name (and not my URL, of course) appears in an article that misses the mark in its examination of what the blogging community is all about -- at least, the one I understand and love. I don't consider myself to be living in a blog-osphere. I live here.
In these words.
19 August 2002, 18:08
online liaisons
Like millions out there, I have been online in various capacities since 1996. And throughout my web travels I have stumbled into and become involved in various methods of online communication: from newsgroups and mailing lists, to IRC and IM, and, most recently, blogs. I like virtual communities; they bring a sense of connection and belonging, and faciliate freedom of speech and artistic expression, but without the social morays attached to hanging out with real, live people.
During our IRC days, Trevor and I actually invited people from the US and the UK to stay with us. Usually it worked out ok -- and sometimes it was wonderful -- and there are no horror stories to report. To others we probably seemed naïve (and maybe stupid) but we felt that we had spoken with our chat-mates long enough to accurately assess their characters. And since we had similar interests, it made sense to bring some reality to the virtual friendships.
But what haunts me are stories like this. The computers of two missing girls from Soham, Cambridgeshire are now under scrutiny for any evidence of their online conversations because the police believe that the girls may have inadvertently chatted with their abductor. I can picture the scenario: two girls finding a like-minded girl who enjoys the same things -- right down to the same football club. And, since they have chatted for a while, and they have so much in common, it makes sense that they should make arrangements to meet -- to bring some reality to the virtual friendships
It sounds too familiar. But the difference is that I am an adult, and I know that there are evil, twisted, perverse, and conniving people out there posing as other people. Little girls looking for friends online probably do not.
And it is chilling.
18 August 2002, 13:08
the rockstar
It was a little surreal tonight watching someone that I know as a person -- but whom thousands of others know as a "rockstar" -- singing and playing on a large stage in front of me and 13,000 other people. I sat in the middle of the music, the lights, and the swells of cheers, clapping and squeals, and I kept thinking that this was the same person with whom Trevor and I have had many engaging conversations over beers. The same person that I sometimes see enjoying lunch with his girlfriend on the other side of my cube wall. To us he's an intelligent and witty person. A regular guy. But to so many other people who haven't had the pleasure of sharing a beer and a chat with him, he is somebody famous. How strange is that?
17 August 2002, 23:08
is there a pine tree in stall number 3?
Lately I have noticed that the womens' toilets at work smell like pine. It does not resemble a perfumey cloud of "pine-fresh" aerosol spray used to mask a less pleasant smell; nor is it remotely similar to the cardboard-y imitation pine odour delivered by those pine tree shaped air fresheners for cars, popular in the 70s. It doesn't even hint at Pine-Sol or the caustic stench of any other cleaning products tarted up with a bit of "outdoor fresh scent". What it does smell like is camping: the heavy, organic scent of pine, grass, and earth that clings to the skin of campers or to anyone who has just spent a night in the woods. It's not necessarily an unpleasant smell -- just a strange one to linger in the ladies'.
So I just allow the strange piney smell to summon fond memories of hiking and camping trips, and try not to think about what could be causing the coniferous odour.
16 August 2002, 16:08
addicted to bits
Well bites, actually. Usually after dinner when we're sitting in front of the TV, I get a yearning for chocolate. Not a big, stuff-your-face-with-gobs-of-sweet-stuff craving. Very rarely do I buy a chocolate bar, and I often avoid desserts. But when the feeling hits, what I am looking for are just a few morsels of chocolately goodness -- and Hershey's peanut bites are the best (with Skor Bites a nioce second). However, I see on the site that there are now Kit Kat bites. Which means, I'm in trouble.
15 August 2002, 19:08
cavendish
All week I have been thinking about the rocks, and the grasses, and the ocean. I keep remembering the heavy smell of the sea, and the sound of whales spouting water and breath into the dark evening. A harsh but gorgeous landscape that reminds me of Ireland, but is so distinctly Canadian. The flicker of fires by the lake, and the laughter of my family.
It was where my parents took their last trip together in September to visit my aunt and uncle in Cavendish. A place that meant so much to dad that his memories regularly surfaced during those last difficult weeks of delusions. Even when he didn't know who we were, he spoke of water, fires, and Newfoundland.
Tomorrow my Mom and her two sisters are flying to Cavendish, all three bearing their own separate losses, but hoping for some solace in a place they all love. Part of me so desperately wants to go, but even if we had the money to get on the plane, I know that now is not the time for me. I am not ready to set free the trembling confrontations, nor to face the memories that await me in the rocks, and the grasses, and the ocean.
15 August 2002, 18:08
a surprise in my inbox
Imagine my surprise when, after dragging myself home through the thick, smoggy air from another dreary day at work, I opened my email to see the following subject line: "may i interview you for a newsweek story on blogs".
At first glance, I assumed that it was spam, because I couldn't believe that anyone would be that interested in my little blog. Then I wondered if perhaps one of my crafty and technically-talented blogging friends was toying with me. But no. There it was: a request from a reporter in California who wanted to interview me for Newsweek about how blogging has affected my life. Newsweek. Wow.
She called me and I babbled on for over half an hour -- giddy as a school girl -- about my love of blogging and bloggers. When I told her that my husband blogs, too, she spoke with Trevor for 15 minutes. There might even be pictures.
If anything comes of it, I'll post an update. For now, I'll just allow myself to feel excited about it.
14 August 2002, 19:08
uprooted
My grandmother has been mentally acute and in possession of a photographic memory for as long as I have known her. She was a "normal school" teacher in her younger days, and has always managed to keep up on politics, church, and our heavily-branched family tree. She has also been known to keep everything, and all of her pictures, trinkets, and newspaper clippings have always been stored in carefully-labelled boxes in her basement.
Up until the week after my dad died, she lived just a block up the street from my parents' house. It was then that she announced that she was ready to go to "the home". I half-suspect that she had grown tired of waiting for someone to suggest it. And with my dad no longer around to keep an eye on her, she decided it was time that the responsibility shifted to someone else.
So, my aunt, uncle, and mom helped her sort through the things she has collected over a lifetime, dividing up treasures and discarding anything that would not fit into the cardboard boxes destined for her new room. I imagine that it was a difficult time for her, parting with all the things she had saved for decades.
I've been to visit her a few times since her move, and each time there is a slight, but noticeable change in her mental state. While often she recollects events with ease, sometimes she appears to be sifting places and people through a mental seive, hoping to find the solid bits left behind. She is more confused now. And sometimes more like a child.
My dad's death and her subsequent shedding and uprooting must have felt like the world was spinning off its axis. Losing a son, her home, and her things was perhaps too much all at once. She seems miles away from everything -- and from herself. And from me.
14 August 2002, 16:08
"Take what you need and be on your way
And stop crying your heart out"
The epiphany came on Friday morning when I had left my desk in a rage and found myself on one end of a pay telephone spewing expletives and gibberish between sobs to a patient, empathetic husband. And, mid-rant, it suddenly occured to me that the situation does not need to continue, and that I need to stop waiting for the problems to correct themselves. It's been two years now, and nothing has improved.
Sometimes you just need to find yourself precipitously close to the edge of a nervous breakdown to finally realize that you need to take responsibility for changing what's screwing up your life.
13 August 2002, 17:08
for the record
I was born with ginger-coloured hair. Not red, my parents adamantly defended, but ginger. Soon my follicles found their way to white-blonde, then wavered between golden- and strawberry-blonde until I hit early adulthood -- always redder in the winter and blonder in the summer. Since age 25, the mop has started to become slightly darker, and I have fought back in small acts of defiance by way of highlights. However, let's be clear: my hair is not dishwater blonde or dirty blonde. I always keep my locks squeaky clean, thank you very much.
12 August 2002, 23:08
a festival of scots
When I was younger, Highland Games weekend in Fergus meant that it was a good time to leave the town: find a person with a cottage, go hang out in the city -- anything to escape the few days when the population exploded from 6,000 to 50,000. But living in other places -- mostly cities -- for the past twelve years, I have new appreciation for cultural festivals, as well as for celebrations that were a part of my childhood (I guess that's a sign of getting older, isn't it?).
The Fergus Highland Games haven't changed much in 15 years -- except that now it's the Fergus Scottish Festival and Highland Games and it's held in another part of town. It is still the largest festival of its kind, complete with caber tossing, hammer and stone throwing, tug of war matches, highland dancing, and hundreds of honking bagpipes at all corners of the park. The concession booths sell Scottish-themed gifts and crafts, confectionary imported from the U.K., kilts and hats and flags. And, of course, everyone is stuffing their faces with meat pies, chips, and mushy peas -- all washed down later in the beer tent whilst listening to a Celtic band.
I must admit that my skin still tingles when a chorus of bagpipes swells into Amazing Grace. Perhaps it's because I remember my extended family traipsing over to the park, the rides to the Legion on the "drunk bus", eating and celebrating, and being immersed in groups of people talking like my grandfather in that funny accent. I always wanted to learn highland dancing (but mostly because I loved the shoes). And I always wanted a kilt. But I never wanted anything like this:
Well, I probably did, but I don't now.
11 August 2002, 13:08
bus moment
I looked up from my book and was instantly seized with that too-familiar terror of not knowing where I am (it's one of my phobias: ending up in a strange place and not being able to get back home). I have made this the trip from Toronto to Guelph hundreds of times, but when I looked out the bus window, we were hurtling down the highway past box buildings and hydro wires that I had never seen before. I thought to myself, Did I get on the wrong bus? Have we been bus-jacked?. But then, the often-absent side of my brain took over and started to consider alternate routes, and rational reasons for not being on the highway I know like my own hands.
Within a few minutes I realized that we had taken the 407 (a somewhat questionable toll road diversion) and that we were going to be re-joining the good old 401 within a few kilometres. So I settled myself back into the novel, concentrating on the words, and not on the man who had suddenly started snoring in the seat behind me.
10 August 2002, 10:08
Fed up and going to Fergus
Work's got me in knots and I need some time with my Mom. So, I'm heading west -- to Fergus. If I feel so inclined tomorrow, I may post about a visit to the Fergus Scottish Festival and Highland Games. Take care of Trevor while I'm gone.
09 August 2002, 13:08
fall girl
For a few minutes on the walk to work this morning, I smelled Autumn in the air and I tingled with thoughts of pullovers, jackets, and boots. I always look forward to the seasons when I am not exposed to so much skin.
07 August 2002, 22:08
ethically-challenged
Yesterday, when I asked my boss why I have such a heavy workload lately, he replied that my work ethic was to blame. Apparently in the world of business, being agreeable, doing good work, and meeting deadlines attracts even more work to an employee. Hmmm. Sounds like my work ethic and I need to sit down and have a little chat.
07 August 2002, 18:08
ringing in my ears
Every day, her voice is always quiet on the other end of the phone, the timbre wavering between melancholy, apathy, and an attempted happiness that feels summoned from a place where joy is desperately sought but rarely attained. For her sake, I try to sound happy, but I suspect that my voice broadcasts like an amateur actor: well-intentioned but melodramatic and inappropriate. We enjoy the comfort in each other's voices narrating the events of our workdays or weekends, sharing stories about the family and the dog their various antics, catching up on neighbourhood gossip, chatting about the grass and the garden and things that need to be fixed around the house.
But we never talk about him or how we live in our worlds without him.
06 August 2002, 20:08
music is only air passing by your ears
We didn't have the $110 each for a ticket, and by the time we reached the grounds, almost 4 hours after the show had started, paying $40 each for scalped tickets didn't appeal to us either.
Ontario Place offers free admission after 5:00 PM, so we wandered onto the grounds, and (once again) scouted out a shaded spot on the grassy hill that offered a limited view of the east side of the Molson Amphitheatre stage, listened to the hypnotic thud of the DJs, and waited for the next act to begin.
Lying on the grass and watching the sky darken through the tree branches, Bowie's voice blew around us -- sometimes loud, sometimes muted. The intensity of the music changed with the direction of the wind and when I mentioned that the sounds followed the patterns of the breeze, Trevor reminded me again: music is only air passing by your ears. As the sounds swirled around our heads, Trevor drummed the air with sticks, and we sang out loud to the lyrics when they blew straight at us.
After Bowie, we walked around the DJ tent where brilliant light flashed between cracks, music throbbed, and security guarded every entrance. Trevor found me a blue glow stick and I wore it back to the hill where, in between security guard interruptions, we watched Moby on the large monitor, watched portions of the light show, and listened to a almost windless set from our obstructed (but free) vantage point.
Afterwards, we walked home in the dark along the lake, where boat lights, a few stars, and my glow stick were the only things illuminating the night.
05 August 2002, 22:08
racing shame
Absolute terror. The pungent smell of fear mixing with acrid smoke, nostrils caustic with the encroachment of inescapable flames. Of death. Early yesterday morning at least thirty-two horses died in a horrific fire at the Woodbine Racetrack. Some died instantly. Some were set free by a groom, but ran back to their stalls (and also to their demise) seeking comfort and refuge. The panick-stricken animals that managed to escape ran blindly onto highways. Veternarians treated the surviving horses for burns, smoke inhalation, and injuries sustained from the chaos of escape. Some were euthanized. The trauma felt by all 192 creatures is unimaginable.
In the news today, the Woodbine CEO expressed his sadness and recognized that "these horses are like people to a lot of people" -- that owners, trainers, and groomers see their horses as family. And then he announced that racing would resume at the racetrack today. Today, while the barn still smoulders. What kind of family would force one of their members to go back to work the day after suffering such trauma? Where is the concern about the potential shock and emotional aftermath? To race those horses again so soon, if ever, is cruel and callous, and demonstrates to me that it's the love of the money -- and not of the animals -- that holds the reigns.
But then again, I guess that I always felt this way about animals being used for business and sport.
05 August 2002, 12:08
mysterious man on the pier
The first time we left the apartment today it was almost dark. Watching the ominious black clouds lumbering overhead, we decided to take a short walk down one of our usual routes along the pier. And as we wandered along between the lake and the boats, we suddenly noticed a muscular man dressed in black hoisting himself up over the 8-foot high locked wrought-iron gate-cages that secure entry to the boats. He seemed rather nonchalant about scaling the gate and walking to the end of the mini-pier where all of the boats floated in darkness and silence.
Listening to Trevor recounting the incident to the Marina Quay Office a few minutes later, it felt as though we were key witnesses to a deftly-executed criminal activity. Afterward, we joked about being responsible for breaking a crime ring, and now needing to worry about repercussions. However, I must admit every few minutes on the way home, I quickly glanced behind us to ensure that we weren't being followed. Obviously, I've been watching too much TV.
04 August 2002, 21:08
warning: explicit content
Search engine referrals from the past week:
Even better: I have the "honour" of being the first-ranked site in Google for lounging in latex photos and skimpies.I guess that I am mistaken in my assumption that I maintain a respectable journal. How soon will it be necessary for me to plaster my once-modest blog with labels warning of mature content?
04 August 2002, 18:08
"your chairs are your enemies"
That's what the David Rudder and the Moses Revolution sang to the crowd at the free Harbourfront Rhythms of the World concert this evening. The band were adamant about keeping people dancing and enjoying themselves -- Trinidadian style. While swaying (and not dancing, due to roti consumption) to the Calypso music with which I am suddenly becoming very familiar, I looked around at all of the people dancing around us -- the usual tourists, the afternoon's Carnival paraders, Trinidadians and Jamaicans, and people from a myriad of cultural backgrounds. Everyone was having such a wonderful time, and their expressions of joy and lack of inhibition made them beautiful to watch.
The whole free-spirited vibe of today's events has certainly left me feeling full, exhausted, and happy.
03 August 2002, 23:08
we came. we saw. we "jumped up".
It was a spectacular party. Although we didn't arrive until 1:00 PM, the Carnival/Caribana parade had been going on since 10:00 AM. The heat was intense, but it didn't seem to affect the hundreds of thousands of people lining the street watching the most colourful and lively parade of the year. As each live act, DJ, or steel band passed by, people jumped up and down, danced, and waved vibrant-coloured flags. The rhythm of the music pulsed through the crowd. Spicy aromas of various Caribbean delights filled the air. And the street was filled with colourful and beautiful people.
Photos
Read Trevor's account and check out his photo gallery.
03 August 2002, 19:08
two sides of this morning
The gym in our building is on the second floor of a building that runs between the two apartment towers. There is a row of windows along the front and two smaller windows in the back of the gym, allowing a good portion of natural light to fill the space. The equipment is arranged so that people have a good view of both the TV and the bank of windows that face the lake across the street.
Today, looking out on a morning washed clean by a heavy rain, a few boats dotted the glittering water, with the Island Yacht Club a fitting backdrop. Sunlight warmed the people jogging or walking their dogs along the drying sidewalk.
During a break I took a look out the back windows where usually all there is to watch is a busy expressway stretching above a busy street. This morning, however, I noticed a disheveled man and his scruffy dog just waking from sleep by a concrete pillar in the shadow of the expressway. The man rolled up his sleeping bag from the damp ground and started to change so I looked away.
It felt strange to be watching two drastically different lifestyles from one vantage point.
02 August 2002, 13:08
and now i'm a card-carrying member
The man arrived at the door at the pre-arranged time, and came to our apartment wearing a Steamwhistle t-shirt and sandals. (He didn't look the part.) We were his last visit of the day, and he looked tired but hopeful. Throughout the twenty minutes he spent in our living room, he talked with the voice of a writer: fluctuating between consumptive passion and self-consciousness. Joking. Serious. A little wounded. Terribly genuine. He spoke and we listened. Trevor spoke and we listened. And at the conclusion of his visit, we pledged our support, signed our receipts, shook his hand, and shut the door.
01 August 2002, 22:08
pfw, me, and rediff
I was tickled right down to my big toe this morning when I heard from Anita that the Rediff article for which I was interviewed was published this morning.
01 August 2002, 12:08