fishing
Early on a Saturday morning we would get into the Plymouth Duster with poles and worms and drive into the country, down back roads, dust tornadoes in our wake. Dad knew every concession, every old stone bridge, and every stream. We'd find a good spot, pull onto the shoulder of the road with the supplies, and start fishing. I don't remember what we talked about but conversations always flowed so easily between us that the topics weren't as important as the talking itself. The air was full of the sound of water rushing over stones, the serenade of cicadas, the occasional pick-up truck crunching on gravel, and the smells of hay, grass, and swamp. There was always enough glorious sunshine and brilliant blue sky. And everything felt perfect with Dad and I standing side by side, fishing lines dipped into water and warm sun on our heads and arms.
Dad had to push the poor worm on the hook, and take the poor fish off the hook. I didn't want to touch the poor dead fish, and I certainly didn't want to clean it. I rarely wanted to cook the fish, and I was always so petrified of choking on fish bones, that I never enjoyed eating it. I either wanted to take it up the street to my grandpa who was too ill to fish anymore, or to let my dad eat it himself. I was happy just to see his smile beside me at the dinner table as I contently ate my mashed potatoes and corn.
30 September 2002, 20:09
word
There is something about long lines of booths sporting literary journals and writing society leaflets that gets my heart all aflutter. Word on the Street is a book and magazine fair held during the last weekend in September in several cities across Canada. We've been to every Word fest since we moved to Toronto. It's nice to have the usually bustling Queen Street closed to traffic for a few city blocks, clearing the way for writers and non-writers, all who come in droves (often dragging strollers, children, and dogs) for literature. It warms my heart. Anyway, I'm a bit tired to go on about it right now. Suffice to say that it put a few ripples into the creative pond.
29 September 2002, 22:09
the sadistic (but contented) chef
Here's a secret about me: I love being in the kitchen. I love to touch food -- from the waxy smoothness of a red pepper to the powdery softness of flour. After a day at the office, there is something deeply satisfying about the the act of preparing food: in whipping eggs and milk into a bubbled froth, pressing a sharp blade down into the flesh of a tomato, or searing the skins of colourful vegetables in a hot skillet. When I am in the kitchen it is my creative time, my coming-down time, and maybe even sometimes my sadistic time. When I am in the kitchen, it is my domain: I am in control, I am creating, and I am happy.
In our very small apartment, the kitchen is almost part of the living room; there is a wall separating the two rooms with a cut-out area called a "pass-through". The pass-through allows me enjoy slicing and dicing and pounding and frying while still being able to chat with Trevor and guests, or to watch TV.
Be assured that when you come to our place you will be fed -- whether you want to be or not. I will make anything you like, plus ply you with snacks, stuff you with breakfast, and lavish you with dinner delights. Just be sure to stay out of the kitchen. I have nice sharp knives.
28 September 2002, 14:09
Rain
Rain. Finally.
27 September 2002, 11:09
human obstacles
I've always wondered what compels people to become obstacles for others. When someone is waiting for an elevator, why do they wait in the directly in front of the doors, preventing others from exiting first? When someone goes outside to have a cigarette, what makes them stand not to the left or right, but in front of the very doors from which they left the building, an obsruction to others who also wish to exit? And what message is sent to a person's brain, telling their feet to suddenly stop and their hands to rifle through a purse or briefcase whilst in the middle of a steady flow of pedestrian traffic?
I don't believe that becoming a human obstacle it is a purposeful act; on the contrary, I think that it's often unconscious. A person is distracted by a thought, wrapped up in their own world, oblivious to others -- and suddenly is preventing hordes of anxious people from reaching their destinations. But why are some people so unaware, and others accutely aware of those around them?
26 September 2002, 21:09
Up and down
Listening to Peter Gabriel's new album, Up, over and over today has been a rewarding, cathartic, and emotionally-draining experience. if you've heard any of it -- especially "The Drop" or "I Grieve" -- you'll know what I am talking about. When I listen to it, the floor of my soul is stirred, and all it's mucky contents rise to the surface. And because listening to the album all day has triggered so many thoughts and memories about my Dad, here's a poem that I am working on:
Bone scan
We are on the way
from the doctor's office to the hospital,
and I am loosening the flimsy tape
that seals the manila envelope,
and sliding out its contents.
The light from the windshield filters through
the transparent photograph
of illuminated ribs, hips, and vertebra:
a map of places that have been traveled
on my father's continent of bones;
landmarks and hotspots are circled --
the ink heavy, pooled, dark --
and dotted across the landscape.
At the bottom, the annotations
describe travel routes, terrain,
population density.
As we pull onto the highway
my mother asks me to put it away;
she and I both know
that this is not a map for tourists or explorers;
it is for invaders.
25 September 2002, 20:09
"thinking of you down in mexico..."
This is no place for you, mariposa querida. Two delicate slivers of orange and black opening and closing, tiny white dots like a million eyes. Catching wind under paper-thin wings, landing on a shrivelled weed. There is nothing here, to prepare you for the long journey ahead.
I am walking downtown to an appointment, and I see at least three of them: monarch butterflies hovering above the cars, trucks and exhaust from the busy intersection next to the expressway. I've witnessed many Lepidopteric tangos with flowers in the Music Garden up the street from our apartment, but not fluttering about in the downtown smog. What are they doing here? Everything is dirt, dust, and concrete. They should be anywhere else but here.
24 September 2002, 16:09
prolific poets
Every day I check their sites and wonder how they do it. How does he find the time to write so much verse? How does he find so many right words so often? How does she manage to produce a poem a day (or even every few days), plus maintain a strict schedule of journal, freelance, and fiction writing? How does he effortlessly churn out witty verses, one after the other?
I'm so, well... jealous.
I can remember being a prolific poet; however, I can't seem to recapture those glory days of abundant verse (note: not the adolescent angst period, but my mid- to late-twenties when I seemed to have so much to say). But, where I once wrote poems with a feverish pace, spilling words everywhere, now I seem to need to let them steep inside my head until they've reached a certain colour. Sometimes the perfect hue is reached, but sometimes I leave it too long, and the words have grown cold.
23 September 2002, 19:09
bistro 990, the king eddy, D.M., and me
Yesterday afternoon, when Trevor and I rounded the corner of Bay and St. Joesph's, there it was: the restaurant where five years ago I sat at a table eating dinner with a well-known U.K. poet/novelist who had asked to meet me. I was 27, shy, from out-of-town, lacking in confidence, in awe of my company -- and extremely worried if I had enough money in my purse to pay for food at one of Toronto's trendiest resaturants. Seeing Bistro 990 again after all that has happened since -- and having moved to the city three years ago -- caused me to stop for a moment and wax nostalgic.
In January 1997 I had been accepted to the Humber School for Writers correspondence progam, and was told that my mentor would be D.M. Thomas. All that I knew about him was that he was British and the author of The White Hotel and several volumes of poetry. While waiting for my course to start I did some research and discovered how widely-published and well-known he was. Then, I was struck with terror.
In February, the first letter arrived: a short introductory note with instructions for sending my work, and a request for a "self-portrait in words" and a photo (because the entire course was conducted via mail). From there it began: writing and air-mailing my poems to Cornwall, waiting a few weeks and receiving feedback about the previous batch. Within a few months the letters were much more personal and involved much more than the critique: asking questions, exchanging ideas, discussing the the nuances that make up a writer's life. I allowed myself to forget that he was a world-renowned author, and instead thought of him as an incredible teacher and friend.
In the summer he wrote and told me that he was coming to Toronto for a conference and asked if he could meet me. We'll drink a toast to our friendship and your future success. I was petrified but I went. Trevor drove me the two hours from London to Toronto, pulled up in front of the posh King Edward Hotel, and let me out.
My knees knocked as I walked into the gorgeous and lush bar. But once we were sitting down with drinks in hand -- he, some kind of liquor, and me, a $12 glass of house wine -- the talking came easily, like we were old friends. It was magical. Hours passed, and then he invited me to have dinner with him, his companion, and an actor/writer. Soon afterward I was in Bistro 990, listening intently to philosophical, literary, and intellectual discussions, drunk on pure, unadulterated awe.
Foolishly, I moved and lost touch with D.M. I think that I am going to go back to the bar at the King Eddy, order a glass of wine (which is probably $25 now) and write him a letter.
22 September 2002, 17:09
sensory overload
Hundreds of white and violet lights. Brilliant, transcendent, spirit-swirling music. Ash for the appetizer and Coldplay for the main course. A spectacular feast for the eyes and ears. All shows should take your soul and shake it like this.
21 September 2002, 22:09
immobile
Not five minutes into our walk, we were passing a car accident just before the Spadina on-ramp to the Gardiner Expressway. Minding our own business we kept talking and walking up the hill -- until a woman called across the three lanes of traffic to ask if either of us had a cell phone. Of course we obliged and stayed with the woman and two men as each of them used our phone to call the police, loved ones, or friends to inform them about each of their three variously-crunched vehicles. To add more drama to the scene, all three of the involved parties were late for some kind of event: from picking up a daughter to travelling to a wedding, and all were anxious to resolve the matter as quickly as possible.
Within minutes, several tow-trucks had arrived (no sign of the police), surveying the wreckage like vultures. More mobile calls were placed to loved ones and friends. And of course, this didn't matter to us; being involved in an accident can be frightening, frustrating, and unsettling, and we wanted to help out as best as we could. However, when we turned to see one of the tow-truck drivers chatting away on our cell phone (without asking us first), things seemed suddenly out of hand. We were already stunned that it was even possible to come across three Toronto drivers without cell phones, but to meet up with three tow-truck drivers without a mobile phone in working order was astounding.
I thought that everyone in this city had a cell phone glued to their ear.
21 September 2002, 17:09
flash
Although I am quite sick of the heat and humidity in the beginning of what is supposed to be my favourite season, I must admit that I don't mind nights like this at all: enjoying dinner and drinks and more drinks on a restaurant patio as heat lightning illuminates the sky -- like a hundred people taking a picture all at once -- and the occasional thunderclap rips open the darkness. And then the rain comes: torrents of water pouring onto the awning, splashing down onto the hot pavement and onto our still-bare legs. Then stillness and the full moon hanging in the hazy aftermath, flashes of light in the distance. Clothes sticking to our skin as we walk from the streetcar along the lake towards home. Giddy with drink and a September that thinks it's still August.
20 September 2002, 22:09
going bald for the cause
It's something that I don't think that I could do. Perhaps I am too vain. Or, maybe it's because I know how long it would take me to "recover" from the experience.
If she raises $1000 in pledges for the CIBC's Run for the Cure, Trevor's sister Wendy is offering to donate all of her hair to "Wigs for Kids", a not-for-profit organization that provides hair replacement solutions for children who have lost their hair due to chemotherapy, burns, and other medical conditions. And Wendy's thick and lovely long locks are enough to make two wigs for kids. So, not only is she running to raise money, she is willing to go bald for the cause.
I think that it takes a pretty special and brave person to do this: raise money, have their head shaved, and wait months and months for the peach fuzz to grow back into hair. I just wanted to say that.
19 September 2002, 17:09
blank & jones in my ears
When I am working, I need to listen to music. However, different tasks call for different types of music. If I'm coding, I am happy to listen to a variety of CDs and MP3 compilations that Trevor has created for me. This can include everything from 80s to his infamous ©Kith & Kin Christmas comps. But when I am editing, I need something very specific: wordless, meaningless trance. Namely, Digitally Imported. When I am painstakingly combing through text, picking at the snarls and tangles of style and grammar, trance is the only answer -- and the fewer the words, the faster the tempo, the better the edit.
18 September 2002, 15:09
a short update
Leak finally fixed.
Doctor prescribed some nasal steroids for ongoing sniffles.
Have decided to make peace with my inner monkey.
17 September 2002, 21:09
our city from the sky
We had a good time at the restaurant, as well as on the walk home down streets buzzing with people going out to clubs and shows, backlit by brilliant flashes of heat lightning in the sky. When we got to the parking lot to behind our apartment, my mom asked if anyone wanted to go up the CN Tower -- the famous 147-storey monstrosity that sits smack in the middle of the Toronto skyline, shows up on every postcard of the city, and draws hundreds of thousands of tourists each year. It also just happens to be a five-minute walk from our apartment building. My brother, his fiancée, Trevor, and I all thought that it would be a great time -- especially with the lightning flashing over the lake.
Twenty minutes later we were in the sky, looking down on the city at night. Mom hadn't been up there since my brother and I were little kids and the Tower was brand new. Trevor and I have both been up a few times over the years, but only as tourists -- not as residents. This time were able to excitedly identify buildings and neighbourhoods, and marvel at the dimly-lit curves of the lakeshore and bright rivers of light created by expressways. We peered down at our apartment building, the place where I work, and the even the Film Festival party glowing in oranges and pinks beside the lake.
The best part, though, was seeing my Mom smiling, enjoying herself.
16 September 2002, 18:09
it did not "fair" well
Around noon today we trudged up the soiled and squishy red carpet left out in the rain overnight from the Film Fest Closing Party and wandered into the Toronto Vegetarian Food Fair. We make an effort to attend every year -- if only to support local inititives that promote vegetarianism. And for all the same reasons I cited in 2001 the Veggie Fest once again proved to be ho-hum.
15 September 2002, 17:09
i made it
The best parts of the ten kilometres were the crickets, the smell of grass, trees, and wildflowers, and the silence. When you've lived in the downtown core of a city for over three years, you develop an intense appreciation for the lack of sound and the abundance of the kinds of perfumes that only nature can create.
The Terry Fox Run (which, btw, is an event that can be cycled, inline skated, ran, walked, or whatever) began on Ward's Island, travelled across the set of connected islands that make up Toronto Island Park, and then circled back. Although we strode at a strong speed (about 7.0 km/hour) we managed to enjoy the entire the experience. It was utter bliss not needing to worry about cars whizzing past, or hacking up a lung in the wake of car/bus/truck exhaust. There were no crowds, and people respected each other's space. Everything smelled heavenly, and I needed no cold supplies. It was a bit hard going at first, but right now I am feeling better than I have in a week.
Walking back home from the ferry we realized how tired we were; however, we didn't pass up the opportunity to eat lunch at the Toronto Vegetarian Food Fair. (Why let all of that exercise go to waste by not partaking in some curried delights?) I think that tonight will be the first Sunday in a very long time that I will get a decent night's sleep.
Thanks to all of you for your pledges of funds and support (I was able to raise $650). A big thanks also to Trevor for coming along for morale support (I'll rub your feet later, love).
15 September 2002, 14:09
leak
An hour ago, there were two men in our apartment taking out pieces of the kitchen wall. With a handheld saw they made incisions into the drywall then lifted out the square chunks: one hole at the top of the wall, and one at the base. With flashlights and mirrors, they peered in, searching for the pipe that is showering water into the store below us. As they cut, and poked around inside the venous arrangement of pipes, they seemed like exploratory surgeons, working through a hole in the skin, searching for the source of internal bleeding.
If we waited until Monday to fix this problem, your apartment would be a swimming pool.
14 September 2002, 12:09
we are all made of stars
Down beside the lake, along the area known as Harbourfront, large white tents have been appearing. The first morning I walked by, the metal seats were being removed from the amphitheatre and steel frames were laid out behind, all along the promenade. The next day I walked home under a canopy of white vinyl. Yesterday, I ate my lunch under one of the large tents, watching the progress of another, smaller tent being erected in the patio of an outdoor restaurant behind me. Back and forth, pale figures dressed in dark fashionable clothes flitted around with clipboards, asking questions. Organizing something. But what? One of the workers confirmed: the closing party for the Toronto International Film Festival.
Those two big tents are just for the stars, the worker had said, and then motioning to the small tent and emptied amphitheatre, and these are for everyone else.
Since last Thursday, the city has been brimming and shimmering with some of the shiniest of cinematic stars -- in town promoting their newest films and schmoozing about. Of course, living on the lake (which is nowhere near the film fest action), I haven't seen one famous creature. Not that I really need to.
But now the stars are coming to my neighbourhood for a big swanky party along the lake. This morning, as we walked past workers sweeping, leaf-blowing, and tightening bolts, we strolled under the huge white tent meant only for the "stars", I imagined the scene. In the dim light, amongst the black ties and dresses, jewelry glints from necks, ears, and fingers, and champagne-filled, crystal glasses sparkle against the backdrop of dark water. Being a star, and yet still needing so desperately to shine.
13 September 2002, 12:09
at last
It's a positively gorgeous day. Other than a few clouds clinging to the horizon, the sky is clear and light blue. Yesterday's wind has blown itself out, and the lake is calm, its stirred contents settling into a dark blue. All traces of humidity have dissolved in the fresh, cooler air. Soon it will be time for turtlenecks and jackets.
12 September 2002, 11:09
phone call
I usually called him at 9:30 in the morning so that I could catch him coming in from his chemotherapy appointment -- and before he began busying himself with the multitude of tasks that he usually had planned for the day.
This day was no exception: I dialled the numbers and waited to hear him answer in a solid, but curious tone which, after he heard my voice, always turned to gushy happiness. Hi sweetie! As usual, I asked him how his treatment went and how he was feeling, and then rushed into Have you seen what's happening in New York, Dad? I always made an effort to be up, happy, and optimistic for his sake, but on this day, the words gained momentum, tumbling out faster than I could find them. It was suddenly me who needed consoling.
With little concern in his voice, he told that in a little bit he would turn on the TV and see what was going on. But I knew that the household chores were going to take precedent. So we said our goodbyes, and his sing-song-y, unpanicked voice calmed me down, quelled my unnecessary fear, helped me to focus.
The previous two weeks had been filled with work lay-off nastiness. I had been worrying about Trevor's job, and even more about Dad's health. With the situation in the U.S., the world felt like it was falling down around me, but, as usual, the kind voice on the other end of the phone was there for me.
Today, I grieve, too.
11 September 2002, 12:09
tomorrow
I know what happened. I know that a great many innocent people suffered and died. I understand that it was a horrific event, and that the anniversary needs to be commemorated. I just don't want to see it again. I don't want to witness the horrific events -- carefully preserved on tape, on film, and online -- unfold over and over. We all remember what happened; and watching the horror again, a year later, serves no purpose to no one.
I have been reading that the families of September 11th victims have asked the media to stop showing the planes colliding with the towers. The reason? Each time they see that footage, they are witnessing their loved ones' deaths all over again. Imagine flicking on the TV and seeing the event that killed your husband or daughter on every station, how it re-opens the wound. I know the pain of loss; however I can't fathom reliving the violent moments of loss over and over on the TV, in the paper, and on the Web.
September 11th should not be a day of violence, hate, or blame. What it should be from now on is a day when victims of politics are mourned and remembered -- in the U.S. and internationally. It should be about about the people who lost their lives, and for the people left in the wake of a such a terrible tragedy. It should be about respect. And it should be about peace, and finding ways in achieve it in such a turbulent and uncertain time.
I hope that when I turn on the TV or my computer tomorrow I find a media company that has the guts to refrain from sensationalising the events of September 11th, and to instead create a tactful and respectable memorial to them and to their victims.
Tell the ones who hear no sound
Whose sons are living in the ground
Peace on Earth
No who's or why's
No one cries like a mother cries
For peace on Earth
She never got to say goodbye
To see the color in his eyes
Now he's in the dirt
Peace on Earth
They're reading names out
Over the radio
All the folks the rest of us
Won't get to know
Sean and Julia
Gareth, Anne, and Breeda
Their lives are bigger than
Any big idea
10 September 2002, 15:09
bloody sick and tired
If I were to start the sentence "I am bloody stick and tired of..." I could finish it off with any number of things that are wearing me down lately. But I won't get into the Canadian media and its September 11th gorgefest. Nor will I ramble on about the threat of layoffs at work (and the one-year anniversary of my employer laying off my husband and friends). Expect no mention of the wearing weight of grief and memory. Nor anticipate the devotion of even one pixel to complaints about the state of the economy, the environment, or the health care system. And there will be no references to previously-stated pet peeves.
I am bloody sick and tired of being sick and tired. Over two weeks now and I am still endlessly blowing my nose, coughing, fending off achy muscles, and trying to find enough energy to get up in the morning. How much longer must I put up with this bloody sickness, this bloody tiredness?
09 September 2002, 17:09
time to pry the eyes away
Suddenly we realized that it was 6:30 PM, and that we hadn't left the apartment since Friday night. All weekend we have each sat at our computers, back-to-back in our tiny office, taking time out only for a pay-per-view movie (The Royal Tenenbaums), a rerun of Saturday Night Live and two "TVography" shows about about Happy Days and Cheers.
Every other weekend minute not spent sleeping or eating I have been in front of the computer reading, writing, and coding. Weekend updates to [places for writers]. Dismantling SKIAscent and burning a history of the site to disc. Cleaning up old files. Reading blogs. Finding new ones like bluetealeaf and red mouth olive -- such beautiful, colourful names.
I also spent some considerable time reading and filing all of the electronic copies of my poems: banishing the crap to "old", sending the painfully unfinished to "fragments", plopping the validated works into "published", and leaving the rest unfiled and hopefully on their respective ways to publication one day soon.
And, even to my own amazement, I even wrote a new poem. That's two in five months. My, I'm almost becoming prolific.
08 September 2002, 19:09
and why not: some beer store love, too
Also in my fine home town, beer is sold at a different store on the edge of town (nowhere near the Liquor Store -- or any store for that matter). My Mom and Dad always called it the "In and Out store" because the parking lot had just an "In" and an "Out" sign and the faded "Brewer's Retail" sign above the doors had no character. Years later, when it became known as the The Beer Store the little cement box-store on the side of the highway was given a bright orange sign with the simple words, The Beer Store. No fussing about with fancy names in southern Ontario.
Beer Store trips were less-aesthetically pleasing than Liquor Store trips, but they were certainly more magical. The entire store comprised of two sets of metal roller wheels: one leading up to a cashier on the right and one leading away from the a cashier on the left. Behind the cashiers was a wall concealing the back room where empty bottles magically became full again. People strode up to the right cashier, sliding their case along the metals rollers, waiting their turn to receive the bottle deposit and to watch their empty bottles disappear through a mysterious hole into the back room. Then, over to the left cashier where money was paid, the cashier announced the order to the back room via a microphone, and the wait for the various orders began.
When my Dad wasn't looking, I used to press my cheek to the cold metal, palms spinning the multitude of metal wheels and watching the magical space intently, waiting for the chorus of clinking, and then jumping back from the jingling rush of rollers as a brand new case of full bottles came flying out from the hole in the wall.
Thinking to myself that I would be a grown-up when I could lift one of those cases from the rollers and carry it all the way to the car.
07 September 2002, 16:09
liquor store love
Near-silence, except for the occasional clink of glass meeting glass. Rows and rows of perfectly-aligned bottles: tall, slim red bottles; rounded cut-glass bottles, glittering in subdued light; large and opaque, small and crystal-clear. All of them filled with beautiful liquid -- some with vivid and fiery colours, some clear as water. Many with pictures of kings and castles and wild-looking animals.
I used to love accompanying Dad to the "Liquor Store" (honestly, that's what we call it in Ontario. Due to laws in Ontario, liquor is sold in its own store, governed by the LCBO -- even separate from The Beer Store where alcohol of the yeasty/hopsy variety is sold). It was a small store at one end of the main street, right bedside the Fergus Legion.
Usually on a Saturday morning, Dad would announce that he was going to the Liquor Store and I would dash to the car. Can I come? I loved the Liquor Store. I loved the pretty cashiers and the nice manager who always spoke to me. I loved the half-quiet where adults casually strolled up and down the aisles, deciding which beautiful bottle to take home. I didn't really care to know what was actually inside them; what mattered was the smoothness of the glass, the colour of the liquid. To me, the Liquor Store was an adult candy store.
I still look forward to my trips to the Liquor Store (and yes, a part of the joy rests in my partaking of each bottle's contents). But now I read labels, check for bottling details, locations, and dates. However, I still crave the tactile pleasure of running my fingertips along the seductive glassy curves, still marvel at the hues that alcohol can assume. And I still judge a beverage by its bottle.
06 September 2002, 15:09
purging
All of the candy and popcorn stands and games tables were packed neatly into white trailers. The animals were absent -- horses departed back to the farm, dogs sleeping soundly in their kennels. There were no children yelling from rickety rides; the Ferris Wheel and Polar Express and Tilt-A-Whirl and the Haunted House dismantled and carted away on transport trucks. All that was left was the trash -- being swept half-heartedly by city workers with yellow Xs on their orange vests -- and one roller coaster, standing like the lone survivor after a midway battle.
As Trevor and I walked through Exhibition Park in the wake of this year's festivities, we had to accept the facts: the Canadian National Exhibition has left for another year -- the grounds have been purged of most of it. And this inevitably means that it's time for Autumn.
I managed to do some of my own purging today: uncorking the bottle of grief and filling a few glasses; scrubbing the apartment, exorcising germs and dust bunnies; and clearing out my congested lungs and sinuses with a fast-paced walk through the remnants of the last bash of the summer.
05 September 2002, 22:09
mike is the message
Mike, I know exactly how you feel.
05 September 2002, 11:09
misplaced
I want to be on a plane. I want to be on my way to rolling green hills perforated by rocks. I want to walk in the midst of old buildings with stories to whisper as I walk by. I want to feel the cold salted ocean rush between my toes as I lift my arms into the wind and watch birds alight from craggy rocks. I want to smell the river that splits a city into two. I want to be sitting on a bench outside a chip shop on a cool evening, greedy fingers coated with curry, salted throat waiting for the splash of cider.
04 September 2002, 20:09
no bland nosh for this girl
Being a vegetarian for going on nine years, I've experienced a lot of bland and unimaginative food. I've been disappointed by the "healthy" vegetarian fare that was popular in the 70s -- in all of its flavourless and squishy grandeur. And I've been disheartened by pubs and restaurants that consider themselves vegetarian-friendly because they left the meat out of the lasagne, offer iceberg lettuce salads, or have a basket of chips on the menu.
Thankfully, restaurants are getting better at serving flavourful veggie fare, and recipe books are expanding their horizons by challenging cooks with creative spice combinations and meat alternatives. Personally, I have spent enough time in the kitchen to know that tofu can actually taste quite spectacular and that no food has an excuse for resembling sawdust.
So I was quite pleased to find out that a good friend Jim, a former vegetarian (yes, it is a shame that he fell off the wagon a few years ago, but I won't hold it against him), has a cache of delicious recipes. One of them that particularly surprised me is his fab Turkish Spinach and Lentil Soup. Something about the combination of the ingredients and the use of cayenne pepper and rosemary makes it a fabulous dish -- and it's even vegan. When I'm sick (like today) I crave it as a yummy comfort food. And when I make it, I can pretend that I am Nigella Lawson.
So there.
03 September 2002, 22:09
home
With a head full of snot and an empty bed awaiting my imprint.
03 September 2002, 14:09
sour grapes
Its journey began in Carbonear. It then travelled forty-five minutes by car to Cavendish, and then the one and half hours drive to St. John's. It then boarded a plane and flew for three and a half hours to Lester B. Pearson International Airport, then travelled for 75 minutes via an airport taxi service to Fergus. This afternoon, it rode for 30 minutes in a car to Erin, for 50 minutes in another car to Mississauga, and then boarded a train headed for Toronto.
Thirty-five minutes later, just a few steps off the train and just a ten-minute walk from our apartment, the unmistakable crash of breaking glass and the sudden splash of dampness on the back of my legs announced its demise on the platform. I turned to witness the carnage of glass shards soaking in a widening pool of blood-red black currant wine, staining the cement and dripping down onto the tracks.
Heartbreaking. All that distance and not a drop to drink.
02 September 2002, 19:09
september
The sun shines high above
The sounds of laughter
The birds swoop down upon
The crosses of old grey churches
We say that we're in love
While secretly wishing for rain
Sipping coke and playing games
September's here again
September's here again
01 September 2002, 09:09
otherwise engaged
My one and only (and younger) brother is getting married. Last Friday he took his girlfriend out to dinner for her birthday and proposed over dessert, and then brought her back to their house where a group of us were waiting in the darkness as part of a birthday surprise party -- where, as it turns out, she had the bigger surprise to offer.
I am really happy for him. They make a good couple. She is completely unlike anyone he has ever dated before, and I think that she is really good for him. I will, however, be interested to watch as the months slip by and our very different families meet more often and get involved in the planning. I have no idea what to expect. I just hope that my brother and his fiancée do what Trevor and I managed to do and have the wedding that they want -- where they want it and how they want it. Considering all the factors involved, I especially wish them well with that.
01 September 2002, 09:09