the end of 2002

My message to the year 2002: Don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out.

I would like to be able to wax poetic and run my fingers through all of the wonderful moments of the year 2002, gleaning the silvery bits, plucking them up, and offering them up in my outstretched palms: glittery and shiny.

But that's not going to happen. However, I am also not going to do a 2002 retrospective. Anyone reading my life for the past twelve months needs not to be reminded of this past horrible year, the year that 365 days ago I told my Dad would be much better than 2001. And look where he is now.

New Year's Eve doesn't mean much to me other than the welcome fact of a holiday from work the following day. It is simply a nice evening to spend time with the love of my life, eating and drinking too much, and enjoying each other's company in all our respective sillinesses.

We have BBC Radio 1 playing over the Internet. We've played a few games of online Dominoes, and I suspect that a few games of Scrabble will follow sometime in the coming hours. A great big curry will be delivered soon and we will move into the room where Trevor has lit dozens of candles. Glassfulls of spiced rum will follow the meal, during which we'll tune into the TV to watch glitzy, second-rate TV programs ushering in 2003.

As the UK is just about to celebrate the arrival of 2003, I'd like to wish our UK friends a very happy New Year. Kiss someone you love. I'll be drinking to your health. And then I'll refill my glass, and toast your fine soil (which I hope we return to in the coming year).

Read Trevor's year-end message.

31 December 2002, 18:12

a glad tiding instead of a grunt

The cranky woman who works at the bagel bar of my local Tim Hortons -- the very one who freaks out on me when she messes up my order -- wished me a Happy New Year this morning. It must be the holiday season. Either that or someone spiked her coffee this morning.

31 December 2002, 11:12

a moment of light rain and irony

The walk home was dark blue and heavy with mist: the collective spray from the lake and sky dampening my face, wet fog clinging loosely to the island and veiling the tops of skyscrapers.

As I walked past the outdoor rink with its determined skaters slicing through widening puddles, Jimmy Cliff's voice sang out into the soggy twilight: I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.

30 December 2002, 17:12

missing

As Trevor and I were walking through the shops this afternoon, he said something to me that suddenly articulated a vagueness I had been feeling for weeks. An emptiness, a void. This Christmas just wasn't the same because so many people seemed to be missing.

He was right. Of course, my dad not being at the front and centre of my family's fesitivities was a painfully obvious absence. We were as prepared as we could be for that. However, there were other absences that made it feel like some gaping holes were ripped into the Christmas wrapping.

Trevor's sister and her family, having moved out west, were missing from his family Christmas. As well, his step-brother, Aubin, is spending this holiday season thousands of miles away in a very hot Australia. And, as always at this time of year, we especially miss Trevor's Mom in Florida. There were some old friends that we weren't able to visit -- one of which is my best friend from high school and her new baby. And I always miss my grandparents at this time of year, even though they have been gone for years. There has also been some anticipatory missing-ness as Trevor's dad and step-mom prepare to move west for three months. No longer will they be just an hour's drive away.

Thankfully we were able to have some great visits: enjoying the company of Trevor's large family; spending a few days with my Mom walking and playing Scrabble; having a great gab and wine-tasting with our Orange Room friends in Fergus; and enjoying a wonderful hike through the woods with Trevor's dad. These were happy times.

But this year especially, the absences were pronounced. Empty places at the dinner table. Vacant spaces on the floor by the Christmas tree. Silence where a particular laugh would fill the room.

29 December 2002, 19:12

a band of beavers

About forty-five minutes into our snowy, hilly trudge through a section of the Bruce Trail, Trevor's dad stopped us and pointed excitedly to an area to the right of the path. A small area of the woods had been clear-cut -- but not by chainsaws or axes. A group of younger trees had been gnawed into fine points, forming a row of carefully sharpened pencils stuck into the snow. The larger trees sported angled mouths, freshly carved, that gaped at us in disbelief.

The undeniable evidence of beavers.

One might think that Canadians see beavers all the time -- the big and busy and buck-toothed rodent being our official national creature -- but such is not the case for me, and I grew up near many backroads, woods, and streams. I may have had two or three beaver sightings during my lifetime, and only on a few other occasions have I been able to glimpse a beaver dam or lodge.

So standing there in the perfect silence of the snowy woods, surveying the absolute destruction by waddling 20-kilogram rodents, I felt proud and privileged. And quite Canadian.

28 December 2002, 18:12

silent night

The house is quiet now. My Grandma has gone back to the Seniors' home; my brother and his fiancée have left with their dog; Mom and her dog are fast asleep; and Trevor is watching the hushed-volume news in other room. Quiet after a day of busy-ness.

It wasn't as bad as I had expected. I have devoted too much energy these past few weeks worrying about what emotional turmoil today would bring. And, thankfully, not much of it came. Emotions were safely harboured underneath the skin. We maintained a light and positive atmosphere and kept busy (busy-ness is key). We played games, ate, and talked, the momentum of minutes pushing the day into night.

Into now. Into some quiet reflection of a very different Christmas day: the first one without Dad. His presence was so noticeably absent. But the memories were everywhere; every few minutes I found myself revisiting Christmases past: his excitement, his laughter. For me, he was everywhere. And instead of feeling sad, I was surprised to find myself feeling some moments of peacefulness at feeling his presence so near.

25 December 2002, 23:12

christmas eve 2002

After a day of shopping and cooking, talking and playing Scrabble, visiting the cemetary, walking the dog, and seeing Mom off to bed, Trevor and I took a long walk through town.

We walked around the dark and snow-lined streets of Fergus, as we have many times before, winding our way past familiar structures. So much has changed. And yet, so much stays the same. As we trudged past the houses on Trevor's old street he could tell by the decorations who still remained a resident and who had moved on. Through the windows he noticed renovated interiors and some that kept their familiar glow.

As we wandered through the other still-familiar neighbourhoods, and also past my Grandma's house that for the first time since I've been born is warmed by the lights of new residents, we remembered. We recalled past Christmases, recounted stories of our combined sixty-five years of holidays, and lamented the loss of childhood excitement and wonder. We talked about the people who we've lost and how that loss seems to be amplified by the Christmas season. So much has changed.

As we crunched through the snow and listened to the bells from the Presbyterian church ring a sad peace into the evening, I realized that things are going to be very different from now on. But it's going to be ok.

24 December 2002, 23:12

a little christmas gift for me

Just got an email notification that Small Spiral Notebook have launched their Volume 1 Issue VII Winter 2003 Edition, complete with three of my poems (and if may be permitted a small gush... X-ray Clinic, Wednesday Morning was selected as an Editor's pick!).

Also, I just stumbled across the Winter 2002 edition of Verse Libre which features my poems "Bearing fruit" and "Round".

23 December 2002, 13:12

sidewalk strummer

It was December 1999 -- just before our first Christmas in Toronto. Our friends were visiting the city to finish up some Christmas shopping, and since Trevor had to work, they invited me along. We were walking up the west side of Yonge Street alongside the Eaton Centre, when we came upon the ordinary scene of a man playing guitar in the street.

But this performer was much different from the usual Yonge Street fare. He was a romantic figure, clad entirely in black and clasping his guitar like a lover. In his long black coat, he leaned comfortably back with one leg against a mail box and the other on the ground, in the unmistakable pose of someone who has played a guitar for decades.

We stopped for a few moments to listen at the back of a small, but gathering crowd on the sidewalk. The sounds were incredibly familiar, but, as usual, I couldn't identify the voice. Afterwards my friend turned to me and said, Can you believe it? That was Joe Strummer.

A legend. And one quite happy to perform for small, but appreciative, sidewalk audiences on the cold streets of Toronto.

Trevor would have loved to have witnessed it.

23 December 2002, 10:12

a celebration

This afternoon we returned from celebrating Christmas with Trevor's family. It was a warm, relaxed, and happy time. I absorbed it all: watching the kids opening gifts, burying my face in the pungent pine of both (real) Christmas trees, eating, drinking, and engaging myself in countless conversations. It was all a welcome distraction from the anxious anticipation of difficult days ahead. But in the moments when I wasn't involved in holiday festivities, I allowed myself time to reflect on my own family Christmas traditions and the parts of the holidays that make me think of Dad. I discovered even more memories, and some of them I even shared.

I must admit that I had half-expected the gathering to be a little upsetting. I even worried about feeling envy at such a vibrant home, packed with family. But instead of jealousy I felt like I was in the centre of something beautiful. Being around happiness, excitement, and engaging conversations brought me a sense of peace -- one that I hope will carry me through the next five days.

22 December 2002, 18:12

restaurants on the "no go"

The real anniversary was yesterday; however we had plans to attend a close friend's party, so we put off celebrating until this evening.

At 6:30 I called Restaurants on the Go (ROTG) -- a service through which you can order food from a variety of restaurants in the city and have it delivered to your residence -- and ordered a nice veggie Indian meal from New Raj Nagar.

An hour (and $46) later the food arrived in a paper bag soaking through with oil. And the contents? A chicken, beef, and unidentifiable dish. I called ROTG to inquire about the whereabouts of the veggie meal. With no apology they promised a 'rush' re-order to the restaurant.

Another hour later there was no sign of the delivery. ROTG unapologetically insisted that they did all that they could do, and that they were very busy. I replied that the food was for a special occasion and that it had better be here in five minutes or I was going to get unpleasant. It was then 2.25 hours since I ordered.

When the re-order arrived, the delivery guy had the nerve to stand there waiting for a tip. Piss off, delivery man. We don't tip $10 for late food and customer reps that refuse to apologize for screw-ups.

We opened the newer oil-soaked bag to a huge disappointment; although all of the food was veggie (we think) the containers were half-filled, and the order was still wrong. And one container disturbingly resembled the emptied contents of someone's stomach. We had no idea what it was, but it certainly was not onion bhaji. Just as we were tucking into a less-than-satisfying meal, ROTG called to find out if the order had arrived. After describing the container with questionable contents, the rep apologized (finally) and indicated that there would be a $10 credit toward our next order.

Gee, ROTG. That made the whole ruined evening suddenly worthwhile.

20 December 2002, 22:12

can i get cucumbers on the black market?

Leave it to me to decide to make a cucumber salad for Trevor's family Christmas dinner when cucumbers are suddenly $2.99 each -- and I need 8 of them.

20 December 2002, 12:12

note to self

New Years' resolution #1 (in the event that I ever actually start making and following New Years' resolutions): do not devote tremendous stores of energy or emotion to any work-related issue. Remember: it's just a way to spend the hours between 9 to 5 in exchange for in a paycheque every two weeks. It deserves no more attention or effort than doing a decent job.

18 December 2002, 20:12

but do you leave a tip?

He rubs you the right way. She kneads you back into shape. For an hour they are bent over your knotted and gnarled back, gradually bringing feeling back into your fingers, mobility into your shoulders, and flexibility into your neck. They make you a new person, and bring so much relief to your poor, tired, and sorry self that you don't mind forking over the $75.

But, I had never considered this before until today: do massage therapists (RMTs, and not the other kind) expect a tip? I just realized that I have never tipped an RMT. I've tipped hairstylists, cab drivers, and various service industry workers, but never the RMT. Does this make me an ungrateful and pathetic client in the eyes of the healer? Or is massage classified as medical (I mean, you would never tip a dentist or gynecologist for heaven's sake!) and therefore exempt from gratuities.

I want to hear from you. The last thing I want is are the glorious fingers of an RMT feeling empty.

17 December 2002, 20:12

"Give me your eyes that I might see"

Through the window, from a mat on the floor of the gym, I watched morning dissolve into the sky behind the CN Tower. I know that it only took a few minutes for dark blue to dilute to grey, but it felt like I had lain there for hours. Thinking. Regret weighing me to the floor.

17 December 2002, 07:12

'see you on the other side'

And now the floodgates cannot hold
All my sorrow all my rage
A tear that falls on every page

Letting a little bit leak out every day or two helps. I didn't think that it would. Sometimes it feels like the warm prickling release of energy when a tense muscle relaxes ever so slightly. A small, but welcomed, momentary relief.

16 December 2002, 16:12

an omen?

Keep in mind my fascination with and respect for coincidence.

Last night, having spent the day shopping and posting the Kith & Kin 2002 CDs and my manuscript, we settled into the couch with the movie Birthday Girl.

A quick (but important) movie synopsis: a lonely British bank teller orders a Russian bride over the Internet; she arrives not being able to speak English and harbouring some secrets. A few days pass and the bank teller presents his new bride with a present: an English-Russian dictionary. After spending a morning killing ants with the heavy book, she decides to crack the spine and looks up a word. She is looking up the word "today" but when the camera focuses in on the page, all that I can see is the word directly above: "tocsin".

Tocsin. The title of my manuscript. The one I mailed that morning. Tocsin. It means "an omen".

Yikes.

15 December 2002, 17:12

heartbreaking. staggering. genius.

I started reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius at the Orlando airport, waiting in the emptied lounge for our delayed flight back to Toronto. From the first few pages I knew that parts of the semi-autobiographical story were going to be hard -- right from intial details. The narrator's mother was dying from cancer, and he was both caring for and grieving for her.

But the read went well. I was caught up in the uniquely (and surprisingly not annoying) stream-of-consciousness prose; and it carried me forward for hours, turning pages, almost oblivious to the passing of time -- at the gate and on the plane. It was a book I wanted to read, and I forced myself to stay awake into the early snowy morning at Toronto airport.

Having been caught up in Christmas and work, I didn't have time to finish it until this morning in the dull and quiet light of a Sunday morning. I even cried at the end -- a rare event involving me and a book. All along I had identified with the narrator's somewhat crazy thoughts about his dead parent, but the last few pages were startlingly familiar, describing almost to the exact detail the last few days of my father's life. The hospital room. The slowed breaths. The sudden moments of lucidity. The "death rattle".

But even though it sounds like a painful journey, it wasn't. Instead, it was a familiar, humorous, and uplifting read. Certainly a high-ranking contender for my top ten book list -- if I had one.

15 December 2002, 16:12

a thank you present

I can't believe I forgot to post this. But, better late than never.

As a special thank you to all of you who read this self-absorbed, rambling, ranting, and somewhat schizophrenic journal, I would like to offer up a highly-coveted, limited-edition copy of our Kith & Kin Christmas 2002 CD.

Just send me your address and I can get one in the post on Monday.

14 December 2002, 10:12

project completions

Tonight Trevor and I were busy completing our own major projects: he has been printing, labelling, and addressing Kith & Kin Christmas CDs; and I have finished assembling, printing, and preparing my poetry manuscript for Broken Jaw Press.

And now it's time for a beer and Robbie the Reindeer.

13 December 2002, 20:12

oh, christmas tree

Tonight Mom told me that she isn't putting up the Christmas tree this year. She has decided to just put a small tree on a little table in the corner of the room.

Growing up, we always had a real Christmas tree. Usually we bought our trees at the gas station at the end of our the street where the the scent of pungent pine won out over the smell of gasoline. Decorating the tree was a family event. We blew the dust off the Christmas 8-track tapes and turned up the volume, sometimes singing like maniacs and flinging about ornaments, garland, and foil icicles in some kind of primitive tree-decorating dance.

Soon after my brother and I became teenagers, Mom won the battle to have an artificial tree -- she didn't like vaccuming up needles and having to dispose of the poor, prickly, dried-up conifer once New Years' Day had passed. Dad made a fuss for a few years, lamenting that it just wasn't Christmas without a real tree, but he eventually gave up because the tidy artificial tree made Mom happy. After that, the two of them decorated the tree together.

This Christmas, the first one without Dad, will also be our first Christmas without a proper life-sized tree. While I understand that none of us are feeling particularly festive and that we wish that Christmas would just go away, I think that it's important to stick with "the usual" this year -- if only to find some comfort in tradition.

12 December 2002, 22:12

I'm afraid that by announcing this, I am jinxing my chances of winning

So, I've decided. Tomorrow I am entering a manuscript for the Broken Jaw Press Poets' Corner Award. Sixty-eight pages and its going in the post tomorrow -- come hell or high water, or [insert another melodramatic clichéd phrase here].

12 December 2002, 19:12

the world is your refrigerator

Some of the Harbourfront residents do not abandon their boats to the winter, or get a crane to lift the bulging hulls out of the water for transport to another, warmer destination. Instead, they opt to live on board year-round, prefering to brave the Canadian winter in insulated comfort -- complete with space heaters, plump couches, and TVs -- watching the snow accumulate on the deck outside.

Something else that accumulates on the decks of these fearless boat-dwellers are coolers and various consumables. On my way to work, I often see containers piled on the fibreglass near sliding glass doors for easy reach. It's quite smart actually: what better way to keep perishables from perishing than sticking them in a natural refrigerator? A huge one, at that.

When Trevor and I lived in an apartment with a balcony, we used to keep all kinds of things outside. During the cold months, the balcony became known as "the fridge". And only when our beer started to assume the consistency of a 7-11 slurpee/slush was it time to bring it inside and find room for it inside our crammed refrigerator. Because no matter how cold a person may like their suds, there is nothing palatable about a beer-sicle.

11 December 2002, 10:12

indigo is blue

My favourite colour is the dark bruise-blue of twilight. (Not to be confused the murky blue of evening's approach: that watery blue unable to conceal a half-dissolved, sullen brown.) No, I love a early night wrapped in an almost-black, violet-blue. The announcement of the end of day. When the sky has been washed with an indigo that eventually drips into darkness.

Who knew that my favourite colour is the hue of that portion of the visible spectrum lying between blue and violet, evoked in the human observer by radiant energy with wavelengths of approximately 420 to 450 nanometers. That that it means soothing, power, connection with knowledge, idealism, and introversion.

10 December 2002, 21:12

christmas heart burn

Walking home from the shops, backpacks bulging and arms dragging stuffed plastic bags, I felt guilty as we passed the homeless man in front of Chapters, and the girl and man that asked for change at the mouth of the Shopping centre. The commercialism of Christmas has always bothered me (it's the family and friends aspect that I prefer), but I every year I ignore it, take a deep breath, spend moderately, and allow myself to enjoy buying gifts for people I love. Because I love giving people presents.

But when we lumbered past those people who have nothing, lugging our bags of gifts, I felt an arrow of shame shoot through my heart. Even opening our change purses to outstretched hands more often than usual didn't alleviate any of the sadness that burned at the centre of my chest.

08 December 2002, 18:12

unscathed

5:30 PM this afternoon marked the end of a weekend of Christmas shopping. Remarkably (for us), we managed to finish almost everyone on the list -- and I even remained relatively calm and focused, electing not to freak out in the middle of the madding crowds of crazed Christmas shoppers. No tears were shed, and no one was harmed.

08 December 2002, 18:12

brekkie

This morning we dined on a veggie breakfast meant to mimic a McD*nald's breakfast meal (we no longer venture into almost-aforementioned fast food chain). My version of the Egg McM*ffin: an egg microwaved in a small glass dish, a bit of cheese, and a slice of Yves Canadian veggie bacon -- all plopped between a toasted English muffin. My version of the side of hashbrowns: potato latkes fried lightly in oil. Yummy.

07 December 2002, 14:12

santa ron

Lights off, snug under the covers. We have been in bed for just under an hour, but we are wide awake in anticipation of the event that is just about to happen. And then we hear him on the stairs: footsteps moving up, step by step, carefully in the dark. A few bells jingle, and then a voice half-whispers "ho, ho, ho". We wait with suppressed giggles, never knowing which room he will venture into first -- my brother's or mine. Soon, my door gently swings open and I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep. But he knows that I am wide awake, and between jingles and more "ho ho ho"s he makes jokes about reindeer being out of line, or the dog getting underfoot. Sometimes there is a bit of cursing or a mention of the milk (and later, beer or rum) and cookies left out for him downstairs. It takes everything in me to stop from laughing out loud. Then there is rustling and a thud as something heavy hits the bed: an overstuffed stocking landing either on my leg or on the dog. I am near bursting, holding back the laughtger. And then he is on his way downstairs, jingling away, ready to deliver a stocking to Mom. My brother and wait about 10-15 minutes, then turn on the lights and start ripping into the stockings, well aware that the same thing is happening in my parents' room downstairs.

My dad loved his role as Santa Claus and even when my brother and I became adults, he did played Santa every single year -- even last year when he was sick. I think that I will miss that most of all.

06 December 2002, 20:12

feeling the heat over the holiday hoopla

As anyone knows, the holiday season is a time when social events abound. There are parties, get-togethers, and many opportunities to eat, drink, and be merry.

And for obvious reason, I am not feeling all that merry these days. Since this is my first Christmas without Dad, I spend a lot of time either dreading the upcoming festivities or reliving Christmases past. But, although it is a difficult time for me, I certainly don't begrudge anyone the joys that Christmas brings to people -- many love the season and look to it as a time for family, love, and food/beverage excess. I know I always have. So, I am careful to keep my mixed feelings in check, listening to the constant carols in stores, hearing about holiday plans, etc.

But then there are the work-related social events planned this month: two Christmas parties, a hockey game, a concert, and a few other small events. My problem? I don't feel like attending any of them. The people are fine; I just don't have the energy or interest in the events (I sometimes wonder if I have anything in common with anyone these days), and I'd rather be spending my free time doing things that bring me little chunks of happiness.

Not only do I lack the enthusiasm and social spirit that everyone arounds me seems to have this month, I simply want nothing to do with social situations involving my boss or management. After all, I still work for the company that laid off my husband in an underhanded manner. So, not only do I feel my own resentment toward them, it's not like the hubby really wants to attend my company Christmas party (full of execs) shaking the mistletoe and jingling bells.

So, pop that all into the pressure cooker and turn it on high.

I do want everyone who loves Christmas to go out and live the holiday to the fullest and to enjoy themselves. But I really want to tell people to stop expecting that from me.

06 December 2002, 19:12

featherless am i

As I walked by the lake in the dark and the cold, I was escorted by two swans, their bluish-white figures stark against the black ink of water. Gently moving their necks forward and back, they kept up with me for part of the way, seemingly oblivious to the sub-zero temperature. But, by the time I passed the outdoor skating rink with its music, scuffs of blades on ice, and swirling patterns of light, they slowly trailed behind.

At the marine police station, I was once again joined by fowl unfazed by frigid winter waters. A smattering of ducks bobbed up and down on the cold current, many of them with their beaks tucked under a down of feathers.

As I pulled my scarf up higher around my neck and buried my face in what little warmth I could find, I quite envied those birds.

04 December 2002, 20:12

publication update

Ghosts appears in the Fall 2002 edition of Another Toronto Quarterly.

03 December 2002, 11:12

getting down at 'up'

The lights dimmed and I waited for music to wash over me, waited for the hyped spectacle to unfold. This was a performance that I had been waiting months to behold.

The first song quietly unravelled, the intention to slowly ease us into the show, luring the audience into the "space" of the concert. But the people around us obviously wanted no part of it. The row behind us continued to munch away noisily on popcorn (what deviant sells popcorn at a concert?) and chat. Cell phone conversations abounded with people calling their friends in other areas of the arena and waving. The men in front of us proceded to natter at length, laughing aloud. And worst of all, suits in one of the corporate boxes above were hanging over the railing with fistfuls of beer and expensive snacks, their chatter and laughter echoing down into the stands.

And all potential enjoyment of the show was lost for me.

I had hoped that people would settle down after a few songs. But it was a rare moment when everyone around me stopped and allowed themselves to be held by the experience. So, my frustration levels peaked and fell -- sometimes with tears of frustration. By the end of the show, I was furious with the selfishness of the human race, and I had decided that it was time to change the course of my life to eliminate any chance of ever turning into any of the self-centred morons around me. I thought too much and absorbed too little.

As we walked home in the sub-zero night, I tried to squeeze as much joy from the experience as I could. Hopefully I can drink some of it in again soon.

03 December 2002, 08:12

not pining for pixels

For the past few days I have been taking a break from the computer. However suffice to say that the time has not been spent pining for pixels. My Mom spent the weekend with us and we did everything from visiting the One of a Kind Craft Show to shopping at the Queens Quay Terminal to witnessing the spectacle of the Calvacade of Lights Festival at Nathan Phillips Square.

We had a great time. I love my Mom.

02 December 2002, 16:12