Temporary (?) accommodation

It was all rather nasty. The landlord was taking liberties, and not providing all of the services offered in the ad. There were a few complaints lodged that never resulted in much satisfaction. And, finally, a few days ago, the last straw: a coat of whitewash on some of the walls without being granted permission to enter.

So, narcoleptic muse moved out. Changed residences. Moved into a snazzy furnished flat in a highly-respectable neighbourhood.

Expect a little decorating in the coming months. Perhaps, even, a move back home when the new landlord takes over.

30 July 2003, 17:07

But Not Tonight

Tomorrow the Rolling Stones will be performing in the north end of this city, in efforts to boost a sluggish post-SARS economy. They will be playing with a mile-long roster of other performances to an estimated audience of 500,000.

And where will I be? At the south end of the city, in a club, watching the still-sexy, gravel-voiced, 80s music god David Gahan howling and gyrating on stage -- this time, sans Depeche Mode.

I am certain that tomorrow I will be seeing the best show in town.

29 July 2003, 19:07

Concentration

When I was nineteen and working at the bank to put myself through university, I often served an older man with a name that I couldn't pronounce, being accustomed to the mainly Scottish and English names of my small town.

Whenever he came up to my wicket he always seemed delighted to see me. He would greet me with a warm, wide smile and an extremely polite and gracious demeanour, often bowing with a slight twitch. At some point during the transaction, he always had a word of optimism to share, if only about the beautiful weather. Sometimes I had trouble deciphering his heavily-accented requests, but he remained pleasant and patient, never frustrated. Instead, he would point to his head as if it was his fault, offer a little shrug, and patiently work through each word until I understood. Everything about him was always calm, always consumed by joy.

One day when he was pointing to the side of his head, he mentioned something about time spent in a camp and getting hit in the head. Afterwards, when speaking to another teller, I learned that the man had spent years in a concentration camp where he had been beaten.

I'm not sure that I fully understood the Holocaust until I watched scenes depicted in movies like Schindler's List. Tonight, having just watched The Pianist, I thought about the man in the bank, probably now long dead, and the life he led, his happiness in spite of a horrific past. I feel honoured to have met him.

26 July 2003, 21:07

Fog

On my way home, the air is wet enough to drink. Offshore, the island's silhouette seeps through the fog like a stain, its contours soaking through the grey mist. In the distance, ferries dissolve, smaller boats are swallowed into the rapacious vapour. Both leave behind only inkblot trails in the still water.

Closer to home, the fog beginning to steal the shore, I watch an older woman dressed entirely in white happily kicking a yellow happy-face ball. Over and over again, she seems to relish the thud of her wet white shoes connecting with the taut plastic, right between the eyes. For a second I half-wonder if she is a ghost.

21 July 2003, 18:07

newfoundland: 'the rock' doc*

I've finally managed to get most of my Newfoundland photos online. So, if you don't mind some duplicates or the odd family snap thrown in with a bunch of trees, rocks, and icebergs, feel free to take a peek.

* Newfoundland is often affectionately referred to as 'The Rock'.

21 July 2003, 17:07

sing me to sleep

I knew it was going to be a bad day when, at 6:30 this morning, sound asleep and in the middle of a somewhat disturbing dream, the cat jumped onto my chest. I was startled awake, to put it mildly. Can't a person go into cardiac arrest from such a rude awakening?

Of course, five minutes later, once my vital signs returned to normal and I was drifting back asleep, the darling feline decided that it was time to jump back up on the bed, resulting in another sleep-shattering convulsion.

Now, almost two hours later, and everyone is asleep but me.

13 July 2003, 08:07

White Point

White Point, Cavendish, Newfoundland. This photo is taken from the front yard of my Aunt's and Uncle's house where I stayed.





On White Point, looking towards the house. The rocky beach is perfect for evening campfires. The first test is to lower your beer down to the shore without breaking any bottles. At the end of the evening, after the consumption of beer, the second and more challenging test is climbing safely back up the rocky cliff in the dark with only a rope for guidance.





Looking other direction into Trinity Bay, along the pale rocky shore.

12 July 2003, 16:07

an afternoon of icebergs

As we came over the hill, and looked out into Spaniard's Bay, we couldn't believe our luck: three massive white chunks of ice, connected underneath in the dark blue water. Icebergs. Chips of glaciers that have taken a year to travel down from Greenland. Spectacular white mountains of air and fresh water.

As soon as the car was stopped I ran down to the beach to get a better look. And there, washing up on the stoney shore: small fist-sized chunks (or "bergy bits"). To my hands, they brought the coldest feeling my skin has known. Piercing my palms with a bone-cold that has had 15,000 years to chill.

From another vantage point, in Bishop's Cove, we could see the sheared-off faces of the icebergs, a canvas for the wind to leave its sketches, its signature. And in the water just below the surface, a cerulean blue unmatched by any sky or sea.

More on Newfoundland icebergs:
Icebergs of Newfoundland and Labrador
Newfoundland Coastal Safari
eBerg.ca (with "BergWatch")

10 July 2003, 21:07

remnants of a bald eagle's lunch

08 July 2003, 21:07

Cape St. mary's

We drove and drove and drove. Climbing hills, holding our breath as the car struggled upwards. Plummeting down into coves, the smell of burning brakes in the cool car air. And then, thirteen kilometres from the highway, along the road which cleaved the bog into two stretches of brown and green, we arrived at Cape St. Mary's Ecological Reserve, one of the largest seabird rookeries in the world, and home to thousands of Gannets, Kittiwakes, Murres, and others.

Rounding the cliffs that dropped down into the sea, the air crackled with squawking, the rocks shimmered with thousands of birds. And below, humpback whales blew saltwater into the air, allowed their slick backs to break through the water, but only for a moment. It was nothing short of spectacular.

07 July 2003, 21:07

stones in the ocean

05 July 2003, 11:07

rocks. trees. water. home.

Yesterday. An hour on the TransCanada Highway: gradients of green blurred with dark blue water and piles of red and blue rock as the car sped along toward St. John's. No houses, no buildings. Just hills and rocks and trees. A wait and then we were in the air, looking down on patches of rock floating on water, then down again. Another wait and, after the plane rocked its way through angry skies and heat lightning, the wheels finally met firm tarmac on the runway at Pearson International airport. Then a smear of light through the taxi window: billboards, factories, businesses, condos. Home.

05 July 2003, 10:07