100 poets against the war

One hundred poets from around the world and from varying degrees of fame have put forth their work in a free e-book entitled 100 Poets Against the War, a collection that boasts to be perhaps the "fastest-assembled world anthology ever". From the posted call for entry to the finished .pdf file, the entire process took a week. Go have a read.

31 January 2003, 08:01

winter's teeth

He moved the balaclava from his face when it became apparent that I wasn't just going to drop a few coins into his cup and dash away. So, we talked about the cold and how it waxes and wanes through the winter months. And we talked about the snow and how neither of us mind it very much.

He told me about the mountains of snow in Labrador where he grew up, and how it followed him to St. John's as a teenager. For a few minutes we swapped childhood tales of telephone-pole-high snowbanks, building forts and having snowball fights, and staying out as long as possible. And we agreed that as a kid you never seem to feel the cold. Why is that? It's only when you realize that you're an adult and you're standing on a city sidewalk in January that you feel it. Cold. Winter's teeth biting through your clothes.

30 January 2003, 17:01

melting

The sun is so bright that even glancing over at the six-pointed yellow star burning through the blinds sears spots into my retinas. Every once in a while chunks of ice smack the glass on their long fall to the parking lot below. The deep freeze is losing some of its grip. Finally.

29 January 2003, 14:01

david gray helps out with some life decisions

The tickets were free, donated by someone who couldn't make it to the show. And although the performance was wonderful and the stage was dressed in a visually-rich drape of red velvet and other lush details, my attention periodically waned.

Sometimes it was due to the compulsive yacking by the beer-swilling morons behind us, or by the combo arguing/gropefest performance of the couple beside me. But most of the time it was simply me drifting off, thinking about something else. Working things out.

And I decided, within the rise and swell of the melodic voice on stage, that it is time to move out of the city; that's it is definitely time to find something else to do with my life. And June is most certainly the deadline.

28 January 2003, 13:01

aaahhhhh

Thanks to bluetealeaf for this link. It brings a sense of calm and relaxation to an afternoon.

27 January 2003, 14:01

you don't know jack

I meant to mention this yesterday, but the explosion took precedent at the moment, so here it is:

I am unaccustomed to someone for whom I have voted actually winning an election. So I'd just like to say, Yay Jack!

26 January 2003, 20:01

The Story of the night

There were just 40 pages left in the novel, so I was anxious to get it finished. After a bone-chilling walk to the store (is it ever going to be warm again?) we came back to tea and faux turkey sandwiches, and then I settled myself down for an hour's read. But the book that began with an English boy being raised in Argentina and rising to an influential position involving an intriguing mix of oil, Americans, and the Faukland Islands during the 80s; the book that laid bare the life of a man who stopped sneaking out the closet for barely-satisfying one-offs until he met the perfect man; the book that had progressed in an engaging, matter-of-factual, Camus-esque prose -- how could it end in such a way? So unexpected. So poignant. So emotionally draining. Maybe it's time for me to switch to Harlequin Romances.

26 January 2003, 19:01

explosion

We were sitting at our computers playing Dominoes. Trevor had put on the haunting soundtrack to Rabbit-Proof Fence, the eerie notes filling the room. A few minutes into our second match, he asked me if I had noticed any flashes of light, and I said no. I may have even teased him about it. But immediately afterward my computer screen began to flicker slightly -- every once in a while a little tremble, as if the wind blowing ghosts across the frozen basin outside had somehow passed through the window and my monitor was shivering. Trevor's monitor began shivering, too.

And then there was an explosion. And then a second one.

Gunshots? or just tires blowing? We looked outside to see smoke streaming from the middle of the streetcar tracks on the bridge. I thought that maybe some kid has set off a firecracker. The bright orange sparks that followed had me almost convinced. However, when flames shot up from the centre of the road, then died down to a molten magenta, we knew that something was amiss. So Trevor called 911.

Our street is alive with lights: white, blue, yellow, red, and green. Police, Ambulance, TTC, City, Hydro, and Fire crews dot the pavement. The purple flames have been extinguished, but still the smoke billows from the bridge. Traffic is being diverted, streetcars on both sides of the bridge are stopped, their power cut. Everyone is standing around waiting for the smoke to cease.

My screen is now still and flicker-free.

25 January 2003, 22:01

bitterly bloody freezing damned cold

Low minus 20. Cold wind chill minus 32. What else can I say?

23 January 2003, 17:01

you are not a stranger here

Adam Haslett's You Are Not A Stranger Here is the best collection of short stories I have read in a very long time. Wonderfully engaging stories, rich with a menagerie of misfit and off-beat (but next-door-neighbour type) characters, each moving through depressive and manic events and circumstances, narrated by an exquisitely-familiar voice. Most of the mini-masterpieces deal with suppressed homosexuality, mental illness taking various shapes and forms, love unrequited, and the curses of extra-sensory perceptions. If only this brilliant wordsmith Haslett had more than one book. *sigh*

22 January 2003, 17:01

back from the hack

Yes, I'm still here. This site is back up now after being down for most of the day. Apparently my hosting service was hacked: three distributed denial of services attacks within 24 hours. Mischief and mayhem all over the place. Even the FBI have been called in to investigate (not because of my site, mind you). Anyway, rest assured that I am back in action.

22 January 2003, 17:01

iceblink

The harbour has frozen over. Stretched from the mainland to the island is a sheet of shimmering ice, translucent and smooth and glorious. It is broken only by the paths carved out by the Island ferry and the marine police and fire units; along the gouged paths, icechunks glitter like jewels.

I understand now why children venture out on skates onto unknown whiteness. Such a vast plane of ice begs for the scuff and swish of blades gliding over its pristine surface, sliding and curving from one side to the other, wind rushing past, the sun perfect and warm on a frozen morning. The ice whispers promises of speed and freedom and euphoria. And I imagine lacing up my skates and heading out to the centre of the harbour, stopping, and listening, watching the planes overhead.

From my window, the reflection of the sun on the iced-over lake is too bright to watch for longer than a few seconds, its beauty too painful to behold.

21 January 2003, 12:01

spot the difference

I have been feeling displaced all day. It may have started out last night when I found myself explaining to Trevor that lately I have felt restless and agitated, increasingly aware of how different I am from the people I know. So often in conversation it seems as though others and me end up staring each other down from opposite ends of the spectrum like rival groups in a playground.

I spent a good chunk of my formative years being the odd duck and paying for it at the hands of various bullies, taunters, and teasers. I learned to equate being different with being unacceptable and unlikable. Luckily, by adulthood I had abandoned this notion and started to enjoy the energy of being different and being around different people.

However, lately, for some reason I seem to be finding this different-ness more and more alienating. The more time I spend around others, the more I feel a somewhat misplaced, a bit out of focus. Sometimes I would like to talk about a film, TV program, music or a book that I like, and see a glimmer of recognition in another person's eyes. But it rarely comes.

Except of course when I walk in the door after work and see more recognition, acceptance, and love than I have ever known in my life. And those moments makes being me feel quite wonderful.

20 January 2003, 19:01

losing teeth

It felt like I had something stuck between my bottom front teeth. I pressed a investigative finger to my incisor and felt it give against my touch. And then it broke off. This was worrisome. And I couldn't leave the space alone; I prodded it with my tongue, the space widening into a crater. I began wiggling a few surrounding teeth. Snap! a small hunk of molar rolled under my tongue, leaving another gaping hole. After a few minutes there were several chunks of hard and jagged, white-grey enamel in my palm. I panicked.

I have always worried about losing my teeth, so there is little wonder that the fear sometimes manifests itself in dreams. This morning I woke up anxious, heart pounding, wanting to check the stability of my incisors and molars. I am happy to report that everything is intact, with the exception of the little chips and fissures that I have charted in my previous investigations.

To everyone else, I'm sure my teeth look fine, but I know that there is only a limited amount of time before the cracks begin to break apart the thousands of dollars of sculpture that cements my teeth together. I often wonder how much time I have left before I join the ranks of my relatives: plopping their choppers into a little glass beside the bed, the smooth pink plate and straight white teeth bobbing in the water, staring back at them through the glass.

19 January 2003, 18:01

wonderful

Wonderful to come home after spending the day at an inspiring and mind-stretching course instead of at work in that stuffy cubicle-lined office with the bad-smelling morale. Wonderful to come home after spending a few hours in the pub with my favourite person discussing meaningful topics over pintfuls of Guinness. Wonderful to come home to a delightful and unexpected package from a kind-hearted soul who knew just what to send.

All this and a whole weekend stretching out before me like a clean set of sheets and a holiday. Could I ask for a better Friday night?

17 January 2003, 20:01

steam

This morning, as usual, I turned the tap on full. And because our recent deep freeze breathes a chill into the rooms at night, within seconds the bathroom filled with billowing clouds of steam. I stepped under the thunderous torrent of hot water, letting it pound against my back, pressure-washing the previous hour from my skin, breathing in humid air perfumed with the scent of clean. Happy in a nebulous cloud of body love. The shower is where I relax. It's where I think.

When I opened the bathroom door to go and put the kettle on, my skin still hot from five minutes in the scorching water, the living room windows were opaque with condensation, happily obscuring the view of a bleak and frozen morning.

16 January 2003, 11:01

cold

On my way to work this morning, I admired the artistry left behind by a cold winter night. Frost sketchings on the windows. Water at the lake's edge frozen into a pathwork quilt of ice chunks, seams glittering in bright, cold light.

On my way home from work this evening, winter seemed less beautiful. Bundled up in a heavy coat and balaclava, the eyes of a man asking for change told me that on very cold nights like these, a restaurant owner opens up his back door at night so that five or six homeless men can get warm. His eyes said that he was really looking forward to nighttime.

15 January 2003, 18:01

the difference between men and women

This morning in the gym there was just one other person (male) and me. It was quiet except for the drone of CNN and the occasional clang of weights being replaced on the shelf. At one point I was lying on a mat, working through some ab exercises, concentrating, focusing, and quite looking forward to the moment when it would all be over. And then to my immediate right -- and I mean practically in my ear -- I heard that unmistakeable sound.

The grunt.

He was doing some kind of weight-bearing exercise -- one that causes the face to contort in horrific, pained expressions; sweat to spring forth from the brow in torrents; and wild, unearthly exhalations to escape from between clenched teeth.

The grunt.

Loud, raspy, gutteral. A noise reserved (I would guess) for moments of a more personal or private nature. A sound that embarasses me, and causes me to get all twitchy.

I do not know of any women who grunt -- not in public, and especially not in the company of a man. Is grunting simply a 'man thing', a mysterious and primal characteristic of the male gender? Does it mean anything? And does it need to be done loudly in the presence of a lone female interested only in reaching that 100th sit-up?

13 January 2003, 20:01

saturday morning

There is something quite delicious about a Saturday morning -- especially one in which the cat allows us to sleep in, and when I stumble into the room to check my email and everything is washed in glorious snow-reflected sunlight.

Saturday mornings mean time -- just for me, just for us. There is [pfw] to update, litres of tea to be gulped from my favourite cobalt blue mug, Soccer Saturday for Trevor. Later there will be breakfast to cook, and the paper or books to be read. No work, no thoughts about work.

Outside people are just starting to appear on the road, walking or jogging through the slush. They, too, are relishing the thought of two whole days to do the things that bring them some joy or a smidgen of personal fulfillment. In the basin outside our window, the swans are sailing around the chunks of ice, maintaining safe distances from the ducks and geese, content to poke their long necks into the freezing water.

Everything lovely and peaceful on a Saturday morning, except -- what's this? -- two helicopters suddenly hovering over our apartment building, blades thrumming, air vibrating. Wtf?

11 January 2003, 10:01

flutterlung

I become aware of it when it suddenly feels as though all of the air has quietly seeped out, and I have forgotten to take another breath. Like the reflex to breathe is temporarily malfunctioning. Everything seems suspended for a fraction of a moment, and as soon as I become aware of the lack of air, the immediate adrenaline blast kick-starts everything back into action. A little flutter, then a full-fledged breath, finding it way through the labyrinth of chambers, filling up the caverns with oxygen. Heartbeat quickened, muscles tensed.

10 January 2003, 11:01

sleep

My lack of sleep on Sunday and Monday night was self-induced -- I'm still stuck in the sleep patterns of the holidays: late nights and 8:00 AM wakings. But the all sleep deprivation last night had absolutely nothing to do with me.

If I wasn't sporting ridiculous bed-head, and if I was able to open my eyes just enough to let a small squint emerge, and if I wasn't so incredibly horribly exhausted, I would have gone up there. I would have marched up the flight of stairs and banged my fist on the apartment door at 4:56 AM and said:

Enough already. Don't you realize that most people are asleep from 1:00 - 6:00 AM? I realize that you must work some crazy hours and you are wide awake all night, but does mean that I need to be awake also? I don't think so. So please stop moving your furniture around. Please stop jumping up and down on the floor above my head at 1:15, 3:30, and 4:56 AM. And please please please stop being a self-centred, inconsiderate jackass. Don't make me strangle you right here right now with my enraged and trembling thumbs.

08 January 2003, 08:01

the blanket

Last night as I was rummaging around under the bed, there it was. I dragged it out and looked at it. Held it in my hands. Remembered.

To help pass this time when my Dad was in the hospital I began crocheting a blanket. Stitch after stitch, winding the yarn around the hook, drawing it through loops. Row after row. This repetitive action calmed me, helped to keep me sane.

There were nights when I had the "graveyard shift" at the hospital and I would go in at 1:00 AM to sit with Dad. I sat in the chair by the window, crochetting, listening to the music playing non-stop on the stereo, listening to him talk in his sleep -- but always ready to jump up and help when he would inevitably leap out of bed, whether to go to the bathroom or escape into the hall.

I continued making the blanket after Dad died, and when it was finished, I realized that in the weeks that followed his death, I completely changed my tension: the yarn was pulled tighter, pulling the rows closer together and narrowing the width. So I ripped it out, stitch by stitch -- right back to where I had left off at the hospital, right back until the time when Dad was still alive.

I have decided that I am going to start working on it again.

07 January 2003, 17:01

something about work that actually makes me happy

I love the view from my desk at work. I love arriving in the morning and pulling up the blinds for a first glimpse of the lake and the Island airport. I love watching the planes land, and the boats moving through the water. I love the depth of blue in the sky, or when a big blustery storm elbows its way into harbour. And I love this time, just before I go home, when the orange-red sun is slowly sink into the lake, a path of gold stretching to the shore.

06 January 2003, 16:01

the story of the end

We were not with him when he died.

For days we had been spending all of our waking moments at the hospital, leaving only to go home and shower or eat. And when we knew that there was very little time left, we spent the night half-awake on waiting room couches, chairs, and cots. Half-listening for his breathing, holding our own breaths between each of his.

We took turns at his bedside, talking and trying to put on a brave face. He worsened as we watched, and sometimes it was just too difficult to be in the room. I feel ashamed of that now, that we couldn't get over our own discomfort with his pain. But unless you have witnessed it first-hand, you cannot imagine how horrible it is to watch someone you love die. For them to hallucinate and call out to people and things that only they see. For them to have moments of lucidity where they desperately want to tell you things but not be able to speak. For them to suffer symptoms that you cannot relieve. At one point I remember locking myself in the visitor's bathroom and kicking a metal garbage can for a few minutes, cursing aloud and wishing for his death. For it all to be over.

On Sunday night my aunt and cousin told us to go home and get some sleep. We were exhausted, but we left -- reluctantly. In the early morning hours, my aunt called from the hospital and told me that there were only moments left. We got up and began to dress, wondering if we should try to make it to the hospital in time. Minutes later the phone rang again with the news that my father was gone.

We were not with him when he died.

05 January 2003, 13:01

for whom the bell tolls

Walking home through the storm I thought I heard church bells ringing out into the afternoon: a hollow, elegaic tolling carried on the wind from the lake. After a few minutes I realized that the sound was actually the wind-driven clanging of the metal masts of the tall ship docked nearby. I've noticed before that sometimes a light wind will travel through the poles of yachts and boats in the harbour, making a sound like distant wind-chimes. Fiercer winds, I've now learned, are enough to sway a large mast like a metronome, with sudden gusts rattling through the rocking metal like the pealing of bells.

04 January 2003, 15:01

snow storm

Walking out of the pub tonight we were greeted by swirls of heavily falling snow; during the three hours we had spent inside, the streets and buildings had become coated in gorgeous white. We shuffled through small drifts down to Bloor where we were lucky enough to spot a cab through the veils of snow. On the drive home the cab slid and fishtailed along the road, pulled by the snowy riptide. As we drove toward the lake, it was apparent that the winds had become fiercer; snow was being hurled in all directions. We opened the cab door to a hurricane of white -- a maelstrom of snow and ice that whipped at our faces as we ran for the apartment lobby.

It's been forever since we've had a snowstorm. I want to stay up all night and watch the white smack into the window, drive itself around buildings, blur the lines between road and air and lake.

02 January 2003, 22:01

the first day of 2003

And how did I spend my entire day (with the exception of a quick shower and making a New Year's fry-up)? For the past eight hours I have working on a [places for writers] redesign and various other Internet-related activities. Now it's 7:00 PM and it's dark and my head hurts. And although I am very happy to have been so productive today, I wish that I had taken some time to read the lovely new books that I received for Christmas. Thank goodness the weekend is only two days away.

Does anyone know what the weather was like in Toronto today? I don't think that I even looked out the window.

How did you spend the first day of 2003?

01 January 2003, 18:01