lament
Yesterday in the car, as the brown hills rolled by, steady and familiar, the notes spilled out of the CD player and into the small space: a song that has always haunted me with the delicious melancholy that only UK 80s songs seem capable of evoking. Words from 1984 reaching forward to me here in 2003.
And just as my eyes start seeing
After all the pain
The twist in my life starts healing
Just to twist again
In stillness, in sorrow
Returns that softly sighing lament
Lament
And just as the smile's returning
After all the pain
The fire inside stops burning
Just to burn again
In moments of madness
Returns that softly sighing lament
Lament
31 March 2003, 23:03
someone is trying to tell me something
While hanging out at Amazon.ca looking for some new books to add to my bulging bookshelves, I thought that I would check out the "we recommend this for you" section that they had prepared for me. All that I have ever purchased from Amazon.ca is literary fiction and poetry, but today in my recommended publications there was just one book awaiting my purchase: I Don't Know What I Want, But I Know It's Not This: A Step-By-Step Guide to Finding Gratifying Work.
Hmmm.
29 March 2003, 12:03
lines in the sand
I noticed more of them yesterday, carving small swaths across my forehead. Once a flat, unblemished plain, now there are tiny and irregular furrows into which a lifetime of anxiety has been planted. Year after year the cracks have been widening, letting the secret show. I think my skin is suggesting that perhaps it is time to return to fringe.
28 March 2003, 23:03
wishing i was here
26 March 2003, 23:03
by the lake this morning
Ice remnants in the ferry's wake sound like surf: gentle waves of barely-frozen water breaking over freshly-thawed debris. Driftwood bobs aimlessly through foreign territory, around small, thin islands of ice. A female Long-tailed duck dashes away from five persistent males, vainly beating at their chests. She tires of them and dives down through the surface slush, into the murk and mystery of Lake Ontario.
25 March 2003, 09:03
lighter
And then, when you are certain that the big black cloud of life is never going to stop pissing down with rain, and you are standing there sodden and cold, heavy and precariously apathetic -- suddenly the sun muscles its way in over the horizon, parts the vapour with a belligerent swat and a snort of disgust, and lets the light and warmth filter down onto your top of your head like a whispery kiss.
24 March 2003, 16:03
heavy
These are difficult times. The weight of war presses the inside of my brain, the anniversary of my dad's last days of life is heavy on my heart. Lately, all of me is pulled to the earth by a gravity of sadness.
The worst atrocity of this war is the unnecessary death of so many people. It does not matter if a person is a civilian or soldier, adult or child, Brit or American or Iraqi: their death is a terrible, emptying loss to the ones they have left behind. Fathers, sons, brothers, daughters, sisters, mothers. Each death is the end of a life that was precious and beautiful to someone else.
In the end, it does not matter if your father was killed a bomb or by cancer; his death is just as real, just as painful, and just as final. And the sadness it leaves behind is just as heavy.
23 March 2003, 19:03
Stop your shopping -- bombs are dropping
Starting off in front of the U.S. Consulate, and then moving into downtown Toronto, an estimated 80,000 people filled a drizzly Yonge Street during today's anti-war protest. Eaton Centre shoppers and retail clerks stopped to watch as protesters added "Stop your shopping -- bombs are dropping!" to the chant repetoire. The march concluded on the lawn of Queen's Park (the provincial legislature) where the large collection of colourful signs, banners, and protesters struck a stark contrast to the grey sky.
It was wonderful to see so many families present this time -- lots of kids, strollers, and dogs. Everyone singing and chanting. The streets were packed full (we were tripping over each other) and the crowds just kept coming. It was spectacular.
Note to CityPulse and Global News who are reporting that there were only 4000 protesters present: I suggest you check your tapes and helicopter coverage again. I think that you would agree that it takes a lot more than 4000 people to fill Yonge Street from Queen to College, or the grounds of Queen's Park. Right? Why does the media (worldwide) insist on downplaying the participation in anti-war protests?
22 March 2003, 17:03
Let there be peace on earth
As a keen little public school student, I sang in the choir. (I suspect that every member of the class was required to sing in the choir, but I actually lived to belt out Blowin' in the Wind and I Love to Go A-wandering to anyone who was willing to listen).
Sometimes the school sent us out into public to sing at functions and recitals. I couldn't have been older than eight or nine when the choir was to perform at the high school in the huge gymnasium (which I would years later occupy with various other 80s-coiffed individuals dancing to Van Halen, Katrina and the Waves, and Wang Chung). I may have been a little nervous at the beginning, but staring out at all of the big faces looking up at our little faces, I was immediately hooked on being a performer. And I believed in the words that I was singing into the evening. I believe them now.
21 March 2003, 12:03
protest
I left work early today to stand in the cold and the rain in front of the US Consulate, once again. Our third time standing across from the unimpressive cement building guarded by a white pressed wood blockade, lines of mounted police, and a laughable number of uniforms carrying riot shieds.
This crowd, today's collection of passionate protestors, seemed much younger than other protests. Almost immediately I felt their energy surround me and buoy me up -- despite the sodden weather. Everywhere: fresh, emotive faces. Voices and hands raised, some beat-chanting into megaphones, some dancing. I especially looked forward to the opportunities to chant, clap, and yell in agreement. Today's speakers seemed more organized, more direct, and more interactive, the crowd, more unified.
This time, more than ever, I felt like being there was the most important thing I could be doing at that moment.
20 March 2003, 22:03
memory
Blood into the bled
In my hands, his feet:
cold, bloodless and still;
they stick out beyond
the bleached hospital sheet,
point out from his slight frame
at forty-five degree angles:
small pale flippers in the
CCU's sterile, alien light.
As his heart rate registers
in blue digital numbers,
my thumbs press arcs of lotion
into his stiff white soles,
fingers pushing down gently
into the alabaster skin,
over the familiar heel bump,
across tufted toes, sinking
down between the bones.
Willing warmth into the cold,
strength into the weakness.
Blood into the bled.
In my hands, his feet:
my feet, only larger.
So cold and white I could cry.
19 March 2003, 17:03
christmas is over
Walking home by the harbour, I noticed that the Christmas tree has finally been removed the back deck of one of the year-round residents' boats. Now they've got a satellite dish.
18 March 2003, 21:03
sunday
Coronation Park, Toronto. March 16.
17 March 2003, 18:03
saturday
Toronto Peace Rally, March 15. University Avenue, across the street from the American Consulate.
17 March 2003, 18:03
tossing my crowns into the ring
Yesterday went ok. A half hour spent jackhammering and prying off my three old crowns and 1.5 hours pushing and pulling the temporary crowns into place with a glorified pair of pliers. At one point one of the little white caps ended up in the back of my throat and I managed to cough it up; after all, there was no way that I was going to swallow $500 worth of dentistry and have to walk around with a big gaping hole where my front tooth should be. I was also worried when a crown went missing on the floor (twice), but thankfully, they all made it into place. Note to self: take two Valiums next time. My gums are really annoyed, one of the crowns feels a bit out of place, and I'm not very happy with how everything looks, but as my Dad always said: "this, too, shall pass".
And besides, there are more important things going on in the world today.
15 March 2003, 09:03
"Kitties for peace take on dogs of war"
15 March 2003, 09:03
tomorrow
Teeth update (because it's all about my mouth...): Dr. Fancypants did his final spit and polish on Wednesday. Tomorrow I go to the dentist for 3 new temporary crowns. Yikes.
13 March 2003, 22:03
tell me why
Why do the people who fight for the cubicles next to the windows insist on shutting the blinds at the first hint of sunshine?
I happen to like the sun -- epecially in the middle of this nasty cold winter. I also happen to like glancing over at the lake and airport. It brings me a sense of calm. I also like the way the warmth splashes in through the glass onto my arm. These are just some of the reason why I really like my cublicle by the window.
The next time someone comes by to shut the blinds, I'm going jump up and scream. Or, at least tell them to move their desk to the closet.
11 March 2003, 15:03
Today
Today is not a day for me
Today is not for me
A year ago today I answered the phone to the news that my dad had been diagnosed with metastatic cancer and that he had about a year left to live.
I remember thinking how horribly unfair it all was: how he had come through so much only to learn that all of the treatment had been in vain. That disease had once again triumphed over the human spirit. And then I vowed to exhaustively research every text and every website until I found something to circumvent that diagnoses. But anyone who has lost someone to cancer that finds its way into the bones knows that bone tumours signal the imminent end.
When I witnessed what the following three weeks dealt him, I knew that my dad would not be with us today, and I am thankful still that, once announced, the disease was suddenly fierce, aggressive, and swift. A whole year would have been unbelievable hell.
Today I am sad. But thankful for the time we had.
11 March 2003, 10:03
remembering fish
The last apartment we lived in was on the ninth floor. The building was on a hill that sloped downward into a small forest. On summer evenings at dusk we often sat on the balcony listening to thousands of birds collecting in the trees below, into our little oasis in the middle of city. Within minutes it became a vibrating mass of trees and birds.
On one of the few occasions that my parents drove into the city to visit us, I remember taking my Dad out onto the balcony after dinner, just as the birds began their routine of sweeping in around the side of the building and darting downward into the trees. Flocks arrived from all directions, as the din of chirping rose to a glorious chorus. Dad really enjoyed the evening's entertainment, and mentioned it to me many times afterward. He always had a strong appreciation for the outdoors.
Today, I received a note from a student who had chosen to write an essay about Fish, the poem I wrote from our ninth-floor balcony.
It's not a great poem; it doesn't dazzle with metaphor nor does it attempt to impart some kind of life-altering wisdom about the relationship between animals and humans. It's just a poem about flocks of birds darting from tree to tree like schools of fish. It's about appreciating a bit of beauty in the world.
I just like to remember Dad standing there on our balcony, enjoying the fifteen-minute spectacle before setting off for home.
10 March 2003, 18:03
*sniffle cough whine*
Well, the little sniffle that both Trevor and I developed on Friday has turned into full blown nastiness for the both of us. We can hardly see the cat for the Kleenex and cold tablet boxes. And here we were both hoping to get through the whole winter unscathed. *grumble*
09 March 2003, 18:03
wedding crumbs
The drive through the snow-blanketed countryside was lovely. And I have always enjoyed sitting in the country church where many of Trevor's family have been christened, married, and laid to rest. Something about the richness of colour in the stained glass windows bestows a feeling of calm.
The dresses and flowers were beautiful. A sense of celebration plucked playfully at the air. Everyone present seemed delighted to have been invited to share in the marriage of two wonderful people.
But then the minister began the sermon. Such disappointment to hear the tired tidbits about how a woman changes her last name to show commitment to the husband, how no one "shall put asunder" a couple (or cause divorce -- ironically, both people were divorced), and that in marriage two people become "one flesh", shedding their past, and losing all sense of their own identity. One plus one equals one, he said.
How can such stale crumbs of wisdom serve as nourishment for two people who have found love again and stand at the threshold of a new life together?
Somehow go forth, be good to each other, and never stop finding ways to show your love sounds like much better advice to me.
08 March 2003, 23:03
sizing up nothing
This afternoon I decided that it was time to add a bit more formal wear to my neglected, new (but tired) media, thrown-together wardrobe. (So, in other words, there is a wedding tomorrow, and there was nothing in my closet that would do the trick, so I needed to get myself into the loathsome shops to find something suitable).
My first mistake was to walk into the prom dress section of Fairweather. As I wandered amidst the pastel meringues and spaghetti-strapped black frilly flounces, I decided to flip over a tag to check out the price of such horror-dressing. However, it wasn't the cost that astounded me -- it was the size. Size 0. What the hell is that? I've seen size 3/4 dresses, and even the odd 1/2, but a size 0? Too small to warrant a number? Not even large enough to secure a fraction? Null? Nothing? Non-existent?
Needless to say, it all went downhill from there.
07 March 2003, 23:03
twitch
Yesterday at work we were talking about sounds, textures, and tastes that drive us crazy -- akin to "fingers on a chalkboard" -- or situations that spark various obsessive-compulsive behaviors. Here are some of mine:
- the textured "no-slip" ring on coffee cups or in mortar/pestle bowls
- dentist drill on porcelain crowns (*shiver*)
- hair: on the counter/floor, in the sink, wisps in hairbrushes
- crooked duvet cover -- must straighten!
- closed doors, full elevators, concert crowds
- loudly-crunched snack food / loudly-slurped beverages
- askew picture frames, unaligned carpet and furniture
- unintentionally sticking a finger into a "fozey" vegetable in the crisper
What drives you crazy?
07 March 2003, 12:03
how about 'give personal expression a chance'?
What mindboggling and and unbelieveable crap is this: Lawyer Arrested for Wearing a 'Peace' T-Shirt. Has the US finally turned into a police state? Is the the kind of "freedom" that they want to bring to the world?
06 March 2003, 07:03
death check
A sound woke me up in the middle of the night, and when I reached above my head to comfort the cat, for some reason I immediately thought that she might be dead. I shook her several times but she did not stir. I panicked and tried to wake Trevor, and when he didn't respond, I of course needed to check to see if he was still in the land of the living. So I laid my hand on his (thankfully) warm back to wait for the inhalations and exhalations that would confirm his "aliveness".
When Trevor moved the cat finally stirred, so I knew that I was ok to go back to sleep. I turned on my side to face the alarm clock to see that it was 3:15.
05 March 2003, 22:03
a change in plan
When I got up this morning, instead of going to the gym I decided to sit here and watch the snow fall. It's the best decision I've made today. I might even write a poem.
05 March 2003, 07:03
hospitals
March will always make me think of hospitals. Slick floors, medicinal smells, strange whirs and hums, institution colours, muffled voices. Long stretches of half-worry with the occasional burst of panic. Unpredictable precipitation outside, overheated corridors inside.
I spent a week or two in almost every March of my childhood in an oxygen tent. It was usually during March Break when all of my friends were all sliding down hills in toboggans and driving their mothers crazy.
My dad's double by-pass was in March 2001. The hospital in Hamilton was a sprawling high-tech facility filled with people either working or suffering serious illnesses -- mostly faltering hearts and plugged arteries. Across the hall from the small waiting room where we sat with the other families awaiting news of cardiac sugeries, there was a family grieving room. This didn't make the wait any easier.
Last March we found ourselves at the local hospital -- the hospital where my parents, brother and I were born and where I spent every March wondering what non-asthmatic kids did during that particular month. Small, friendly, and a little tumble-down. Two floors. One elevator. We thought that Dad just needed some treatment to get him through a bad stretch of cancer pain. We didn't realize then that he would never leave.
And here I am: March again. Trying to be move beyond thoughts of hospitals but frequently haunted by crank-beds, soft-soled shoes on polished floors, IV trolleys, and the smells of sickness and sadness.
04 March 2003, 15:03
pure morning
Today: the coldest day of the winter so far. Nebulous clouds of steam from office towers moving upward in slow motion. Car exhaust and breath clinging close to pipes and lips. Brilliant and crisp blue sky. Walking along the lake on my way into work, I was astounded by the purity of sound as a plane lowered itself into landing: the rush of movement and the roar of engine slicing the air above me, exquisitely loud, clear, and massive in the thin air.
03 March 2003, 19:03
farewell
A pleasant drive to Fergus. A short visit with my Mom. A tension-filled hour loading the few things my grandma has left into the back of the truck. A talk about tomorrow's trip north-ward. A dinner with family to say goodbye. A walk back to the empty room for a few words of farewell. A few tears. A sad and angry ride home.
01 March 2003, 23:03