deficit
Well, the equilibration went just fine. I lay back in the seat whilst the entertaining Dr. Fancypants polished and sculpted my choppers, a constant and fine white dust puffing out from between my open lips for the good part of an hour. Very little discomfort, actually. No blood. And my bite is better, actually (not that I realized there was anything wrong with it before).
The only pain I felt was the $300 bill.
28 February 2003, 23:02
equilibrate this
Tomorrow I am going back to the fancy pants periodontist for my first treatment: an occlusal equilibration. I think that I'm getting a simple $300 bite adjustment. Tell, me, why do dental procedures always contain multi-syllabic and clinical words, that once strung together always sound like ow in my head?
27 February 2003, 23:02
ice-cream headache
At the least the past few mornings have been graced by sunlight. And sometimes the rays have managed to half-warm dark-coloured coats and pants during the hurried outdoor sprints between home and work. But even the great glowing ball in the sky cannot seem to loosen the vice-grip of cold plaguing our neck of the woods for the past month (or is it longer now? It has been so long I've forgotten). Maybe I'm just getting older and the cold is bothering me more, and I really hadn't intended to go on about it, but this seems to be one of the coldest winters I can remember. Every traipse into the great outdoors results in a full-body ice cream headache. But without the ice cream.
26 February 2003, 17:02
eye for an i
The Absinthe Literary Review has published two of my poems.
24 February 2003, 23:02
yesterday once more
Feeling the need to shut out the weekday world full of fires, war, death, and insanity, I spent an afternoon at the computer: hours and hours installing the new verison of MT on the sites, finally getting search to work on [places for writers], and playing euchre with Trevor and my family on pogo -- all to the soothing goodness of Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, and the Carpenters, the soundtrack to my childhood. Big comfy blankets to crawl under.
I have no idea what has been happening today in the world outside my window -- not that I am complaining.
23 February 2003, 21:02
electric happiness
I had just started a conversation on our cordless phone when my ear met with a high-pitched whistle, a sound that reminded me of the feedback of my great aunt's hearing aid amplified twenty times. And then there was a few seconds of silence, eerie and still, as all appliances and electronics halted. Everything was suspended in end-of-the-world silence. No hum of the fridge, no whirring computer fans, no TV or stereo buzz. In the next few minutes, all that was audible was the slight creaking and cracking of appliances and electronics sapped of energy, their life-blood drained.
Unable to check email, play games, or read blogs, and unable to watch the football, make a cup of tea, or even take a shower (pitch black and hot water-less), we sat in the living room trying to read. But it was too quiet: cars on the street roaring up to our window, sounds from other apartments leaking in through the walls. I couldn't stay focused on my book; all I wanted to do was take a shower then sit at the computer.
But after a few surges -- after each we waited breathlessly for the clicks and hums of clocks, VCRs and PCs signalling their expansion of energy -- everything magically came alive with electricty. The TV filled with football, the inbox filled with email. Comforting hums returned.
A perfect time to go and read.
22 February 2003, 14:02
gemstones
This morning the harbour is a jagged expanse of pink quartz.
Rough and glittering.
20 February 2003, 07:02
maybe there is hope in hell
It's incredibly frustrating to watch someone who is talented, hard-working, intelligent, and creative get repeatedly buoyed up with hope, then sucked into the undertow.
How can employers these days afford to be so blind? Do they simply not care anymore whom they take on as staff (when they've finished hiring their daughters, nephews, and golf buddies' friends)? Would they know a good employee if one banged a tag across their wrinkled and sun-tanned forehead? How can a decent and highly-qualified person get a job these days?
Has the whole employment world gone completely to hell?
19 February 2003, 20:02
was that the sound of thunder?
The wind blows in all directions, but only God can make a tree.
My dad used to say it all the time, with that mischeivous little smile and glint in his eye that made me question whether he was actually quoting poetry or simply making up his own saying. "But only God can make a tree" is quite possibly from Joyce Kilmer's famous ditty "Trees", but where did the first part come from? I suspect, as usual, that my dad was invoking poetic license, creative and playful soul that he was.
I was raised with a wealth of quirky sayings -- pseudo-proverbs that I imagine arrived on the ships with my grandparents and worked their way into the vernacular, sometimes even being bastardized to suit certain situations.
Shining like a shithouse door on a frosty morning.
I wish that I could remember more of them -- whether in mom's mock-prophetic tone, or dad's sing-songy voice. Words to capture daily life. For example:
When someone passes wind: Was that the sound of thunder? Or was it the peas we had last Sunder (Sunday)?
If I remember more, I'll post them.
18 February 2003, 16:02
paws off my potatoes; i was saving them for last
When I was a meat-eater, I always had to turn the plate so that the meat portion of my dinner was directly in front of me. It wasn't something that I obsessed about; it was an unconscious act that preceded every one of my meals. Once everything was spooned onto my plate, I would find myself turning the plate to the left or right until the meat ended up at the south end.
I have always eaten the least-desirable parts of a meal first, saving the best portions for last. Usually this means saving the mushrooms in my salad, the hunk of cheese topping from the lasagne, and the potatoes -- regardless of how they are prepared. After all, potatoes are the best food Mother Nature invented.
Food is highly-personal thing; people develop strong preferences and sometimes even create rituals around the intimate act of eating. Some people cannot tolerate certain food textures (i.e. eggplant, couscous, rice pudding); others cannot stand foods touchng each other, and do everything they can to draw invisible boundaries between the rice and peas. It's something we do, but we don't understand why.
Do you do anything unusual with your food?
17 February 2003, 16:02
Toronto Peace Rally
It was freezing cold; not even the collective of bundled-up bodies could provide enough heat to keep away the chill. But after the initial speeches, once we released into the street to begin marching, the cold no longer mattered. We stepped into the undulating crowd, moving with the music and the placards: a sea of people and their words -- creative, angry, or humourous. Stop the Bushit. The papers initially reported that there were 10,000 people, but it certainly felt like 100,000 marching as one. In unison for peace.
15 February 2003, 17:02
tip tripping
How disheartening that after a lovely few hours spent with friends, the arrival of the bill can sour the evening. People calculate the amount that they owe and, inevitably, the notes landing on the table fail to meet someone's expectations. The situation can turn unpleasant very quickly. Tempers flare. Accusatory glares that silently shout cheap! shoot across the table.
Do you tip on the before- or after tax- amount? Do you tip on liquor amounts (because here in Canada, we actually tip bartenders)? Should a 15% tip be left regardless of the level of service?
For me, tipping is not an automatic 15% of the bill. Tipping is, after all, supposed to be a gratuity based upon the services rendered. If the service was average, then a 10-15% tip (before tax) should suffice. If the service was bad (and this is, sadly, is becoming the norm in the city where I live), then the tip should reflect this. If the service was great then I believe that 15-20% shows that I am appreciative.
I am irked by the belief that all waitstaff deserve an automatic tip, just because they are doing their job. Yes, I understand that they are not paid very well; however, it is not up to the customer to make up for what the cheap boss refuses to pay his or her staff. Low pay is what needs to be remedied -- especially for the low-paid and often non-tipped customer service workers like gas attendants, store clerks, etc. I gave 17 years of my life to the customer service industry, so I speak from experience.
I am perfectly willing to tip (and tip well) for any good service; however, I refuse to let people make me feel cheap because I disagree with leaving a huge tip for average service.
What are your thoughts on tipping?
13 February 2003, 21:02
february 12: International Day of Poetry Against War
Quiet
In the mad shrill din
of uncertainty,
let quietness cover us:
a blanket to soften us into
narcotic sleep; to relax
the wire-taut thoughts stretched
from anxiety to fear;
to suffocate all sound
until the steady and precious
rhythm returns, pulsing
peace under every skin.
• Poets Against the War
• 100 Poets Against the War
• UK Poets Against the War
• Poets for Peace
12 February 2003, 11:02
happy happy
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TREVOR!
11 February 2003, 12:02
away
The news bothered me more than I realized it would. The idea had been thrown around that she might eventually move away to a home in the city where her daughter lives, five hours north. I guess that I didn't think that it would ever happen.
My grandma -- my only surviving grandparent -- is moving away from the area where she was born, and from the town where she lived with my grandpa, where they raised my dad and his siblings, where my grandpa worked and died 22 years ago, where her sister and brother, life-long friends, and my Mom live.
Next month, she is leaving it all behind. At 87, she is going to start a new life in a new city. Far away from everything she has known.
My grandma has been there my entire life. We lived just up the block, so, as a kid, I could visit her any time. She managed to teach me (a tomboy) things like embroidery and crochetting. We have shared so many dinners and celebrations, talks and card games. Every holiday she was there at our table. A constant presence, and comfort through my dad's illness and his death. A cornerstone of the place I will always call home.
And now she is leaving, and I'm not certain when I will see her again.
10 February 2003, 20:02
an appointment "up-town"
As I got closer to the office (my hiking shoes and nylon shoulder bag quite noticeable in a blur of Italian leather) and realized that it was in the same building as a Holt Renfrew store, I began to realize that this was not going to be any ordinary dental appointment.
I opened the doors to the "suite" to a huge glass sheet hanging from the wall, etched with the periodontist's last initial (his first initial was overlaid in gold). The lush waiting room was decorated in rich tones. Music swirled in from invisible sources. The magazine selection ranged from Metropolitan Home to other posh decorating journals. I was worried.
I thought that I was going to be seeing the doctor for a simple gum consultation; my dentist thought that it might be a good idea to ensure my gum health before replacing my existing deteriorated crowns. But no, there was an entirely different agenda.
He entered, stage-left, thoroughly examined every millimetre of my mouth, swooped to my side and said: If you could change anything and everything about your teeth... if you could just click your heels together and get anything you want, what would it be?
So the hygienist jotted down my incisor desires and the rest of my wishlist, while I amused myself by adding up the thousands of dollars in my head. Sure, if cash was not a consideration I would love to buy myself a whole new mouth, carved and scultped by the hands of one of Toronto's finest. And yes, I would even sign up for a perfect "smile-line".
I left the office with the first two estimates folded up in my purse, pushing past the sea of labels to the subway, feeling more than slightly overwhelmed.
07 February 2003, 19:02
things
I am not a overly sentimental person when it comes to objects. In most cases I attach little emotional value to things, and can pitch items into the bin without blinking an eye. Broken hairdryer? Old vaccuum cleaner? Holey tshirt? Throw them all out. Getting rid of things is liberating. It might sounds strange but it's almost like a cleansing, allowing me to focus on the things that matter.
I don't know when this transformation occurred. When I was younger I kept everything: a broken shoelace from a boy I liked, movie and concert ticket stubs, every note and card penned from friends.
But something happened when I became an adult and moved in with my boyfriend. Maybe it was the necessity of sharing a small space with another person, or maybe it was the moving from place to place that resulted in the need to scale back on "my stuff". More likely, it was the epiphany that everything that has ever meant anything to me is in my memory and in my relationships with people.
I have some lovely things from some wonderful people. But it's always been the people and the memories that matter, not the items that they gave or left behind.
Whether I have the ticket stub or not does not lessen how I remember the lights and the swell of music, or the lovely feeling of his arm around me, tapping the beat against my shoulder.
06 February 2003, 12:02
dave
He had big hands. He was a big, burly character, even at the tender age of 13; his large frame was always shifting around in the desk, never finding a comfortable spot. Restless. Sometimes he was funny or even mischievous in his own awkward way, and he enjoyed attention in any capacity. He was always performing all manners of stunts to divert the class' attention from the easily-flustered homeroom teacher.
One day he managed to direct my attention to his hand, almost in his lap, and concealed from the others by the desk. He had taken some kind of string and wound it tightly from the base of his index finger, almost to the tip. And his fingertip, poking out from the top of its bondage was swollen and purple-blue. He whispered that it had been like that for 45 minutes. I made a loud enough gasp to distract some other students and soon everyone was gawking and pointing at the mummified finger, reactions moving quickly from awe to revulsion.
The homeroom teacher was horrified. We anxiously awaited her reaction, expecting it to be the usual tears. But she managed to hold herself together, and calmy sent him to the office. Afterward we sat in that stunned silence, digesting the scene of self-mutilation -- a joke gone too far -- wondering if really knew him at all.
04 February 2003, 17:02
new poem
The Red River Review in Dallas, Texas, has just published Asleep, the poem that spawned this blog's tagline.
03 February 2003, 08:02
sunrise 7:26 AM
03 February 2003, 07:02
family gathering
Being with them all at the celebration for my aunt and uncle visiting from Newfoundland, everything felt right. We laughed and drank and played cards, and moment after moment fell into place, just like when I was a kid and the whole extended family was crammed into my Grandma and Grandpa's house, each of the tiny rooms bursting with voices. As we sat around the table playing 31, like we did every Christmas and summer, there were moments when I could almost hear my Dad's voice or his laugh rising and falling with the others. And the happiness I felt was pure and good.
02 February 2003, 22:02
Far beneath the ship, the world is mourning
I was seventeen. I don't remember much about the day, what the weather was like, what was going on in my life, or how exactly I heard the news. But when I learned of the space shuttle Challenger accident on January 28, 1986, all that I could think about was the horror of the seven people trapped inside a metal container, perhaps knowing even for a few minutes that the end was imminent.
Then I really had no interest in the space industry, and I had little understanding of what comprised a "space shuttle": its size, its rooms, its decor. All that I could picture was a old-fashioned tubular rocketship, the stuff of cartoons and movies.
Today when I learned that of the break-up of the space shuttle Columbia, I had an entirely different perspective. having been to the Kennedy Space Center in Cape Canaveral in November, I could visualize the inside of the shuttle, and have a better appreciation for the dynamics involved. We visited the Center just a few days before a space shuttle launch, and off in the distance we could see it standing, a white trophy to the efforts of NASA technology. I was surprised how excited I felt.
We spent the whole day wandering through exhibits and presentations, marveling at the sheer size of the various spacecraft, dazzled by the massive buildings where space shuttles are born, wholly engaged by the voices of astronauts who have been into space and returned unharmed.
Having walked through the inside of the space shuttle Explorer, having watched footage of space shuttle voyages and the work of the crew aboard, having stood at the foot of a massive memorial to the crew of the space shuttle Challenger, today's tragedy seems so much more real to me, mixing eerieness with an empty, sinking sadness.
01 February 2003, 11:02