Away
Just a note: This morning I am heading off to Newfoundland for a vacation with my Mom and won't be back until July 5 (missing Trevor desperately, of course). This means no computers for a week. I might just have to relax.
27 June 2003, 09:06
Snow in Summer
For a few days now, the air blowing past my office window has been filled with small white fluff, reminiscent of the flakes that swirl around during late November, when ground is not yet ready for snow. But it is late June. And it is hot.
Today, as we wandered the west end of Toronto Island, the white fluff became thicker, heavier. It clung in patches to roofs and doorframes. Drifts had formed along sidewalks. Our hair and clothes were peppered with white. We sunk our hands into the warm down, formed balls, and threw them into the air.
Soon, to the north, we found ourselves standing below a cluster of tall cottonwood trees. High above us, the branches swayed with mounds of white fluff: soft snowballs clinging to green.
Quite lovely to behold.
26 June 2003, 23:06
149
As I found out at 6:30 this morning, my target heart rate is now in the 140s. That, and a few more lines that have etched themselves into my forehead and around my eyes, are what mark another year of my existence on the planet.
Yesterday was sprinkled with lovely surprises: home-made gifts (including a vegan cake) from a good friend, various greetings, and a delicious dinner with my favourite person in the world. Work aside, it was a wonderful day.
But I couldn't quite escape the reality of it all. As of yesterday, my target heart rate is lower. There is a little bit less of my life left. There are things I need to do better. What is it about birthdays that make us realize that some of the things that we have been only thinking about need to be acted upon, that we need to spend more time and energy doing things that matter?
24 June 2003, 07:06
but where did she go?
This space has been calling to me, whispering from between the pixels. But there have been wedding shower invitations (for my brother) to create, birthday parties to attend, and several visits with family.
I may not have committed words to print, but I have been blogging it all in my head: the discovery of the swan's nest in the wetland recovery project (albeit surrounded by a sea of asphalt); the voluptuous curves of rural landscape splayed out along country roads, its delicious fragrance tempting us from our car; watching a hummingbird prod a plastic feeder, tiny wings slicing the air at unimaginable speed; the discovery that I was talking aloud to a cautious freckled-nosed calf, assuaging her of the wrongs of humans; and watching the very last traces of light dissolve into night on the longest day of the year.
These things: just a few of what I would have liked to have been recorded here.
23 June 2003, 18:06
dining at fauxhenge
The recent stretch of nice weather has coaxed people out of their homes, drawn them down towards the lake where they have been accumulating in great masses. Large groups of giddy kids wait for a two-hour ride on the resident tall ship, Kajama. Rollerbladers whip by in a blur of black lycra. Animated tourists point skywards toward the CN Tower, cameras clicking and layers of languages lining the air.
At lunch time, I weave through the buzzing throng toward a place just beyond the harbourfront. A collection of stones intending to imitate Stonehenge (we call it Fauxhenge) distracts from a hill that slopes down to several picnic tables along the water. A quiet and tranquil place to eat lunch with your beloved, watching sailboats skirt around ferries, planes sweeping down from the clouds, and protective ducks herding their ducklings further from the fray.
18 June 2003, 21:06
Hoovered
When did I get so busy? When did time speed up, suddenly sucking hours into minutes, weeks into days?
17 June 2003, 22:06
father's day
This morning, when the sun was striking through the blinds, waking me yet again from a restless sleep, I thought of my dad and how he would have been today. Up early, making the coffee, picking up the presents from the kitchen table and giving them an investigative shake, somehow always knowing what was inside before a strip of paper was torn from the box. He always insisted that his presents be opened before breakfast; after all, it was his day, and he got to decide how it was all going to unfold.
I can see him now, grinning like a big kid as the wrapping went flying, eyes twinkling as he reached into the box and pulled out something that always made him happy. It didn't matter what it was; it was always the perfect present. Later on there would be a barbeque including a healthy portion of Red Hots (hot dogs), his favourite food in the world.
Yesterday, when I visited his grave, the sun was shining and the chattering of birds reached from tree to tree. A beautiful blue sky stretched overheard. And everywhere, a soft carpet of grass. A perfect summer day, but all that I wanted was just a minute to hug him and tell him how much I miss him. Tell him what a spectacular dad he was to me.
15 June 2003, 20:06
Friday evening
Across the street a ghost ship passes just off the shore, its wooden skeleton appearing, disappearing. A chorus of dissonant foghorns. The smell of old fish clammy in the evening stillness.
13 June 2003, 20:06
Swanning off
Just before lunch I got up from my desk and abandoned the frustrations bubbling up around my desk like a noxious gas. I grabbed my purse, cursed my computer, and took off toward home in a desperate quest for better climate. Shoulders hunched, fingers clenched, teeth gritted.
But of course the weather outside was its usual mean-spirited self. After losing several battles with a malicious wind, I gave up on the umbrella, and simply allowed the rain to slap me in the head. By the time I reached our courtyard I was cold, soggy, miserable, and ready to jack in my job. But then, the sight of something in the water seized my attention, made me stop in my sodden and sorry tracks:
Everything was much better after that.
12 June 2003, 22:06
encouragement
The gym window faces south, towards the lake. From the treadmill, on clear mornings, I can watch rowers muscling through steel-blue water, as small airplanes curve down in landing tens of metres behind, fresh sunlight shimmering on the wings. And just beyond: the mottled green of trees lining the banks of the island. Just ten minutes more, I decide.
12 June 2003, 07:06
Still six
On my walk home from work, I was pleased by the partial escort by the local pair of swans and their and six cygnets. Every day now, I watch for them in the basin or along the shore, charting first the existence of, and then the growth of the six nearly-arrived fluffy creatures: grey and off-white downy minatures of their parents. As the curious cygnets near the shore, carefully guarded by parents that venture just close enough to look for food, the young birds emit small, high-pitched sounds like squeaking mice. Today there were still six.
10 June 2003, 23:06
Potter pondering
Sometimes I wonder if I am the only person on the planet who has not even touched a finger to a Harry Potter book cover, have not even cracked a spine and allowed my eyes to wander over a few words. It's simply that the premise and characters have never appealed to me, and I have never known even a tweak of curiosity when it comes to fantasy -- especially fantasy written for children. The hype baffles me. Someone, please explain to me what all the fuss is about.
10 June 2003, 23:06
rainy days and mondays
Sunday, and the evening has stolen the last crumbs of afternoon sunshine, has wiped the pavement clean with slick coating of drizzle. Suddenly, a blindflash of light, then the sound of rippling metal tears open the silence. Then the steadiness of rain, the occasional car splashing along the now-deserted roadway. A return to dreary, just in time for Monday.
08 June 2003, 19:06
sun
Today the sun managed to find its way to this corner of the earth, heating everything with its breath, warming the sidewalk and bringing blue to the lake. Everyone seems to have risen from the half-awake of cold spring, shaken themselves free of jeans and sweaters, and descended onto the waterfront by car and on foot, bike, and rollerblades. Music blaring, midriff baring.
Walking through Coronation Park, away from the whiz of wheels of accumulation of tourists, there were times when we had the promenade to ourselves. Water-wind in our hair, sailboat masts plinking like the random plucking of harp strings. Sunlight skipping across small waves, gulls squawking and snatching unsuspecting fish from the lake. A perfect afternoon.
On the way home, along the Waterfront Trail, a fine mist had settled in offshore, eclipsing the Island, leaving all of the sun for the mainland.
07 June 2003, 18:06
morning
This morning, the air hangs heavy with moisture: a clinging mist that imperceptibly gathers and dissipates, obscuring the cityline, then unveiling the indistinct grey structures, one by one. The basin outside our window is still: unrippled by the recent pair of swans and six cygnets, unsplashed by adolescent geese. Every few minutes a passing car cleaves the fog, its wake quickly dissolved into grey. This morning, the beginning of yet another steel-coloured day.
05 June 2003, 07:06
how possessive
Walking home from work the other day I noticed the lettering on a sandwich board on the sidewalk outside a restaurant:
Hotdog's
Hamburger's
Cold drink's
Fish and Chips
I wondered why the first three foods were possessive, but the fish and chips stood alone, unselfishly. Needing nothing else to call their own.
04 June 2003, 23:06
frustrating feline
It started a few weeks after she was diagnosed with being "grossly obese" and the subsequent diet. She was fine for a while, nonchalantly nosing about for treats and canned food, but soon she grew to understand that these would no longer be part of her daily regimen.
And then it began: meowing at the foot of the bed at 5:00 AM, then 5:30 AM, then 6:00. Now it starts at 3:30 and continues as often as Madam deems it necessary. Closing the bedroom door doesn't help. Why? Because our once-lazy, now-fiesty kitty pounds on the door with her paws. And, given that she is eighteen pounds, it's quite difficult to ignore the entire wall shaking with each feline punch.
The "wee beastie". Don't let the furryness and innocent look fool you.
On bad nights of late, Trevor will get up in the wee hours and construct a barricade of furniture, pillows and other materials, securing it all against the bedroom door. But somehow -- we have no idea how -- the cat finds a way to either dismantle the fortress or gain access to a tiny piece of door where she proceeds to pound. And pound. And meow. Let me in you sons of bitches!
Tonight the barricade is being built prior to bedtime, hopefully securing us at least one decent night's sleep in a few weeks. Although it will certainly make for a grouchy kitty. But then again, unlike me, she has the whole day to sleep it off.
03 June 2003, 22:06
million 4500 dollar smile
In 1989, I forked over $4500 to a car dealer in Arthur for my very first car: a 1986 Renault Alliance. In 1996, we scraped together $4500 to buy our very first (Internet-ready) computer: a brand new P-120 with a lovely 17-inch monitor. And today, $4500 was the price tag to equip me with four porcelain front teeth.
I really liked having my own car, but the repairs/upkeep became a bit of a misery. The computer, on the other hand, changed my life. The teeth, well... everyone needs to eat.
02 June 2003, 16:06
accident
The sound of metal connecting with metal slammed into the silence of our afternoon, interrupting a quiet afternoon's reading. Stunned for a second by the foreign sound, we sat for moment, then allowed ourselves to be plucked from between our respective covers and plunked into the present. From the window we could see the crumpled car pressed against the nose of a streetcar. A few people ran from the sidewalk to the tracks, opening doors and organizing help. Within an hour, everything had been cleared away.
When Trevor and I were first living together, and I was walking to work one very quiet and cold Saturday morning, a car flipped across the road just up the street from where I was walking. A screech, a crash, and an eerie silence. I ran to the car resting on its roof on the porch of a house. A few other people arrived from nowhere. One kid climbed out, and I remembered pressing my ridiculously bright turquoise mitten to the cut in his forehead. Afterwards, I realized that I should have first checked for glass. Awkwardly, I tried to talk to him, asking into his dazed face a string of useless questions, worried that he might be going into shock. And then the two girls trapped upside down in the front of car starting wailing and crying to be let out. It seemed to take forever for the sounds of sirens to slice through the cold air. When the police arrived and pushed everyone away, I suddenly began to worry about being late for my shift at the bank, and started to walk away, one cold and slightly trembling hand seeking warmth in the depths of my pocket.
01 June 2003, 21:06