sometimes poem
Something for spring: a new poem in SOMETIMES CITY.
29 April 2003, 21:04
walking
A weekend of walking. Sunlight breathing on my hair, warming my face to freckles. The past few days have been filled with city street and lakeside forays into the welcome sunshine.
On Saturday we walked to a favourite place for brunch then took the streetcar to an area of the city we have never been before. For a little while I could pretend that we were in a seaside resort, but soon the terrain gave way to hilly, treelined streets flanked by shade-soaked homes and gardens. But still, the city slipped had slipped away. Then, a long walk home eastward along the lake, sharing pathways with other sun-seekers, stopping every once in a while to count loons and swans near the breakwater.
On Sunday, we ventured eastward dodging rollerbladers, bikes and dog-walkers along an asphalt path winding through the docks and shipyards. Everywhere: water, concrete, dust, and desolation. Abandoned buildings, quieted factories, ships emptied to loneliness. Turning back toward home, it seemed as though the city's skyline had shifted. That the warmth of the afternoon had coaxed it into sleep.
28 April 2003, 16:04
er... what did you say?
Lately I've noticed that people have been asking me to repeat what I have just said. I say it again, concentrating more on enunciation and speed of tongue. But sometimes I need to repeat my words even a third time. And when the listener tells me what they think I have just said, the bizarre string of gibberish that spills from their lips is downright alarming.
For the past month I admit that I have been more than a little worried that I'm either developing a speech impediment, that my synapses are no longer firing at the right time, or that I am slowly going mad. And *gasp* what if it's all three?!
Today, after a few what did you say? exchanges with a co-worker, I admitted my aforementioned paranoia. Oh, don't worry about that, she said. It's just that you have a bit of an accent.
Huh? A what?
And then to my surprise it was confirmed by a few others. An accent. An out-of-town (read: common or "small town") accent. But apparently, there's nothing wrong with it.
No, of course there is nothing wrong with it. Even when it's true.
24 April 2003, 18:04
in print
The cover of the book is white. The indistinct and barely-grey title rises up from the centre, much like a landmark in fog: barely discernible but familiar. On the back, in plain black lettering, there are 32 names -- one of which is mine.
The pages are white and crisp, the smell of newness and ink still clings to the paper. Stark Times Roman text rises from each smooth surface. Words printed. In print. Committed to ink.
For years I have been expounding the value of pixels, how one text on the web can leap from the screen into a million eyes, to anyone who has simply clicked on a link. I have been in love with the idea of words spilling into the ether, metamorphosing into ones and zeros, rendering themselves in different fonts and colours to anyone willing to look.
But today. Today there is something about the book in my hands that makes it more real. The words, pressed into fibres, have a beautiful permanence. They will be here when the server goes down, when the hosting company pulls the plug, when the domain is sold to a p0rn site.
I think that sometimes (like now) I am rather fond of corporeality.
22 April 2003, 17:04
gastrocnemius pissedoffius
I have shin splints. Or something. After three sessions of poking, pulling, and pushing my legs around, the physiotherapist is still unsure. Yes, the massage is relaxing, and the ultrasound leaves behind trails of tingling warmth, but it hasn't yet stopped the sensation of fingernails digging into the muscles on both sides of my legs whenever I want to walk faster than a 80-year-old woman. Two more sessions and we should know for sure. As he kneads and prods, concentration creasing his forehead, he quietly recites Latin to himself, just loud enough for me to hear. There is no change in tone, no inflection when a particular muscle yields a clue. You know, it could be more than shin splints; it could be scar tissue from years of strain. You're a pretty tight woman.. During my the first sesson he told me that I have nice calves. I wonder if he says that to all the girls.
18 April 2003, 18:04
the strange bits I have found in blood
The inside of Janice Galloway's head scares me. Her books walk that sharp line between brilliance and madness, and you are never quite sure what side you have landed until it's much too late.
Her short stories are clever and brutal. Twisted things happen to a menagerie of misfits. Simple, everyday events are carefully braided together into something with which you will end up flagellating yourself after a few pages. And there are never more than a few pages; you don't know if you really want there to be more pages.
I have read The Trick is to Keep Breathing and wondered at times if I was going mad along with the protagonist. I quickly understood why Garbage chose the title for a song. Both are pieces of genius.
Right now I am in the middle of Blood, a bizarre but mesmerizing collection of strange short stories, unsettling almost-plays, and uncomfortable snapshots of human nature. I shouldn't be reading such things on the bike at 6:30 in the morning.
15 April 2003, 21:04
we are stardust
Saturday started out warm. We walked the streets of Toronto in the spring sunshine, sharing the sidewalks with many other pale and sun-starved individuals. People are coming out of hibernation late this year.
By the time we arrived at the One Big No festival, it was evident that things were in full swing. Children were happily drawing peace signs on the cement with coloured chalk. One stage featured an Asian drumming troupe; another offered up costumed dancers. Everywhere people seemed to be enjoying the booths, their dogs, the sunshine, the entertainment. And everyone present was there for peace.
The evening brought cold, but more people arrived each hour to hear the bands strumming out songs from the stage set up in the square -- all in support of peace. Jack Soul, Nine Mile, that guy from Moxy Fruvous, Sarah Harmer.
My favourite part was when the crowd hushed down to hear Sarah Slean's melodic voice shimmering though Joni Mitchell's Woodstock. Everything seemed to stop for a few moments, as the words from 1969 drifted through the crowd, still poignant, still resonating. Still trying to make sense of the world we've created.
14 April 2003, 21:04
cursed
My teeth are cursed. I used to wonder and often worry, but now I am convinced. Somebody somewhere is obviously working some voodoo or has the Book of Spells open to page 357: teeth curses.
On Friday night as I was diligently flossing my teeth before bed, I heard a click and then felt something come away and drop onto my tongue: one of my recently-applied temporary crowns. So there I stood in front of the mirror looking at the huge space around the post of my right front tooth, horrified. My crown had come off completely. And it was late Friday night and I wasn't going to be able to see a dentist until Monday.
The next morning a kind dentist from the answering service suggested that I use some denture adhesive to stick the crown back into place until I could get into the office to get it fixed. The solution seems to be working, and for that I am thankful; at least I can go out into public and not be afraid to smile. However, I am so bloody annoyed with this continuing teeth fiasco (seething, actually), I cannot begin to express my frustration.
Tomorow my dentist office is going to experience a side of me they haven't seen before.
13 April 2003, 11:04
she's not fat -- she's "festively plump"
As she rubbed her hands down Sarah's ample body, frowning and ensuring that we witnessed the effort she was making, the veternarian delivered the news in matter-of-fact monotone. Your cat is grossly obese. She is 100% of her body weight.
We know this. We knew it as we stood there in the vet's office shuffling our feet and offering excuses. We have made efforts to reduce her food intake, have tried to play with her. But it hasn't been enough: our twenty-pound furry ball of loveliness needs to go on a diet. Now.
13 April 2003, 11:04
it's a personal thing
The invitation arrived in my inbox a few days ago. A journal that is publishing three of my poems in their 5th anniversary issue next month will be holding a launch party here in Toronto. We were wondering if there's any chance you would join us and be one of our guest readers.
I do not enjoy drafting letters of decline. I feel like I am letting someone down.
For me, poetry has always belonged on the page and screen: always words that are read to oneself over and over again, in the mind where contextual associations are made and personal meanings are unraveled. Each reader has a unique interpretation of language, metaphor, and the implication of sounds, rhythms and the arrangement of words.
The way I see it is this: if I get up on a stage and read one of my poems to an audience, my inflections and pauses might actually restict their experience, their potential for finding a better meaning within themselves.
Of course one could argue that poetry began as an oral tradition: a narrative passed from generation to generation that preserved the history of a group of people. And musicians deliver lyrics in their own style and voice, accompanied by music. Spoken word artists pen words meant specifically for performance. In so many cases, poetry is meant to be shared aloud.
But when it comes to everyday, anyday poems like mine, I would rather that they go into the world silently, allowing for private and unencumbered interpretation to take place. Of course, when any of these interpretations end up in my inbox, I am delighted -- it always ends up being more interesting than what I had orginally intended.
Who am I to mess with the beauty that is the individual mind?
09 April 2003, 17:04
masquerade
As I walked into the clinic, all that I could see were eyes peering over the tops of white surgical masks: people gathering file folders, nurses, assistants. Clinical people going about their clinical duties, but with mummified faces in protection from the latest plague, SARS. Everywhere signs shouted: if you have any of these symptoms or have visited any of these places, you must leave immediately.
Moving toward the desk past vague and slightly suspicious eyes, I tried not to listen for the slightest sniffle or scratch of cough. But for all of my hyper-sensitive hearing, when I gave my name and appointment time to the two masked receptionists, I strained to follow the words seeping out from the cloth.
When the physiotherapist came out to shake my hand, I couldn't tell if he was smiling. His voice sounded happy, albeit muffled; the creases at the sides of his eyes announced some friendliness, but the mask concealed his sincerity. Constantly I was wondering what his face -- what all of their faces -- looked like under the masks. Several times during the consultation I had to ask him to repeat his question, and several times I realized that he had paused anticipating an answer from me. It was difficult to remain focused.
Aside from the thoughts of disease lurking around every corner, I couldn't figure out what was causing me to be so uncomfortable. And then it hit me: when I speak to a person I am always gauging their entire facial reaction -- and especially their mouths, sometimes even lip-reading. Surgical masks conceal all of those lines I usually follow into truth, trust, and sincerity. These things I simply can't tell from a pair of eyes.
Until the SARS scare is over, I think that I am going to have to learn.
08 April 2003, 21:04
flame
07 April 2003, 23:04
tempest
It felt like I was walking home by the sea. An angry sea. The water stretching between me and the island leapt up and crested with a frothy fury, the large hulls of tall ships rocking and groaning against their thick tethers. From all directions the snow blew like dust, whipping around in the wind, blasting in from the waves and then back out again. Masts heaved and rattled, the wicked wind howling cold through the metal spines of a handful of tiny boats bobbing frantically on the pitching water, slamming into docks unprepared for a lakeside winter's tempest. In April.
07 April 2003, 20:04
"This is a really bad own goal by the Americans."
Since the war on Iraq began, I have managed to keep my mouth shut about my feelings. It's obvious from my previous posts and anti-war protest photos where I stand on the situation. I have chosen not to write about it because so many others have done so with much more intelligence and eloquence than I could ever muster on the subject. Also, it is highly likely that I would lose all credibility by allowing emotions into the fray.
But I am breaking my silence to say one thing: I am disgusted and infuriated by the attacks launched against Iraqi civilians and other innocents who unfortunately found themselves victims of yet another misguided missile; but I am completely horrified by the numerous incidents of American so-called "friendly fire" such as today's attack on the US special forces and Kurdish fighters by an American warplane. I challenge anyone to watch BBC's world affairs editor John Simpson's eyewitness coverage of the aftermath of that American bomb landing on his convoy and American soldiers and the blood-smeared camera bouncing through the field capturing bloodied bodies and panic-stricken faces and tell me "that just the way war is". Utter crap.
There have been an unforgiveable number of deaths in this war -- an appalling number of which have been attributed to that piss-poor euphemism "friendly fire". Frankly I'm surprised that more soldiers haven't left the coalition with their perhaps-trained-too-hard (read: trigger-happy) American "cowboy" comrades shooting at anything that moves or dropping sophisticated million dollar bombs miles from their targets.
Does the U.S. even understand how bungled this mission appears to those of us on the sidelines? John Simpson learned first hand today and shared it with the world. "This is a really bad own goal by the Americans." I just want a bloody ref to show up, call "time", and tell everyone to go the hell home.
06 April 2003, 21:04
falling down
I could feel my feet sliding, unable to get a grip on the sidewalk. But then I managed to regain my balance, straightened up my body, and moved away from the sea of ice toward a small island of clear asphalt.
However, it wasn't clear as it appeared, and as soon as my boot connected with the surface, I started to slide. In slow motion I fell in a diminishing angle until my elbow and leg simultaneously collided with the sidewalk. A fraction of a second later my neck snapped up to prevent my head from slamming down against the ground.
For some strange reason I said aloud Well I expected that to happen in the tone of I meant to do that. I quickly leapt to my feet. Embarassed. I haven't fallen down in public in a very long time.
Back in the safety of our apartment, I was suddenly aware of all the things that hurt: elbownecklegshoulder. Ow. And when I stopped feeling sorry for myself I thought about how much worse it would have felt if I was twenty or forty years older.
Just a bit a stiffness sighing through my body tonight, being gently soothed by a glass of wine.
05 April 2003, 23:04
winter of my discontent
According to my calendar, over a week ago the vernal equinox arrived, marking the end of the winter season and the gentle start of spring. My calendar needs to have a long, focused look out of the window. Sleet. Snow. Sleety-snow. Snowy-sleet. The half-deserted roads are paved with a shimmer of slush. The wind tosses ice-pins against the windows. Where there once was grass, now there is snow. Again.
Wake up, winter. It's time to shove off.
03 April 2003, 19:04
anniversary
This morning, like a year ago today -- the day my dad died -- the skies were filled with snow. But it eventually cleared. The cold and the damp did nothing to spoil the visit to the cemetary, or the walks through the town where I grew up and past the hospital window where we said goodbye to Dad at 3:30 AM a year ago today. This afternoon we toasted him with a pint at the pub and then later with my Mom and her neighbour with a glass of wine from the last bottle left from Dad's wine-making adventures last year. Later on, Trevor and I had a wonderful dinner with an old friend, sharing thoughts and lofty ambitions over a soul-warming curry.
It was good. I did everything I wanted to do to mark this sad and significant day. There's not much else I can say.
01 April 2003, 22:04