December fuck-it-all

Good riddance to 2018 the year in which the last of my quartet of beloved black and white cats died all of whom were euthanized but none of whom had a good death and the year in which the last of the more-than-the-toes-on-a-polydactyl-cat strays I fed over the last 19 years disappeared without a trace and the year in which the two doctors who championed me at work both retired and I find myself wondering and worrying about what my future holds if I am catapulted off the teeter-totter since I am 58 years old and there are bucketloads of unemployed and much younger and more qualified PhDs who would be competing for the same jobs and please don’t tell me to follow my dreams for I don’t have any and even if I did dreams cost money and I don’t have any to spare and the year in which a friend and long ago romantic partner’s cognitive plummet was diagnosed as Alzheimer’s and the year in which someone very dear to me continued to burn and to cut himself and the year in which my house was broken into for a second time and my garage for a third time and the year in which my house’s foundation was revealed to be shaky and my figurative foundation often felt the same way and my home no longer felt like a home but a house haunted by a clowder of ghost cats and vengeful concrete demons and the year in which I lost two car keys and travelled twice to a town a two-hour round trip away to have a new key made only to be thwarted by the most fucking incompetent Toyota technicians who fucked up twice and GOD I HATE FUCKING TOYOTA and I still don’t have a new key and can this level of incompetence actually exist in a so-called functioning global corporation and don’t bother responding because I already know the answer and I also know these griefs and grievances of mine form but a nanoparticle of the infinitely vast global crapload that was 2018.

And then there was this blogging project. I was glad to renew old acquaintances—which should not be and were not forgotten, but just in case they ever should be forgot, here is something to bring them to mind—and to make new ones. And I am sad it is over, since you have been such a wonderful community of writers and readers and such a collective back flow valve against the effluent that constantly threatens to flood our house-of-card fortresses (OK, this is a shitty and possibly mixed metaphor or analogy or whatever it's meant to be, but remember, I'm in the middle of a shitty basement renovation). And yet I am also glad it is over, for I feel almost constantly overwhelmed by stuff that needs doing and posting something every day—although I actually averaged once every 1.99 days*—added to the stuffload. 

Alas, I was hoping to post a profound and poetic summation, not this stale, yammering ramble. Apologies… and a toast to loads of happier ramblings in 2019.

*Thankfully it wasn’t a leap year, which would have downgraded my posting performance to once every 2.00 days.

December free-for-all (#8)

Reading material I gifted to others for Christmas:

1. Neapolitan Chronicles to my younger nephew (last minute substitute for How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer, which I ordered on December 10 through our local bookstore but which still hadn’t arrived by December 24. If there was a novel titled How to Order a Book I would have gifted it to the store clerk.)
2. TIME magazine special edition on How Dogs Think to my sister-in-law, who lives with Millie the poodle and Maude the collie. Millie failed the towel test so the rest of the family thinks she’s a nincompoodle, but I see her as a free spirit who refuses to pander to the unwashed—and hence delightfully odiferous, to “normal” dogs—human masses.
3. Ottolenghi Simple to my older nephew and his partner. I debated at the bookstore whether to buy this cookbook or Jerusalem: A Cookbook. Fortunately I made the right choice, as my sister-in-law had hoped to buy them Ottolenghi Simple but the bookstore she went to was sold out and so she bought them Jerusalem: A Cookbook instead.
4. The White Angel  to my mother. She mainly reads mysteries and this one is a fictionalized account of the actual and unsolved murder of a Scottish nanny in Vancouver shortly after World War I. Bonus: I can read the book after she has finished it. 

Reading material others gifted to me:

1. The Haunting of Hill House, which I have already finished. I found it nearly impossible to put down, although I suspect Mark Twain would have laid it aside at times to go on a shooting spree (e.g., after reading this at the bottom of page 28 of the Penguin Classics paperback edition: “It had an unbelievably faulty design which left it chillingly wrong in all its dimensions…”). 
2. An Ocean of Minutes. Someone knows my taste in books, for I had reserved this from the library before Christmas (and was #32 on the waiting list, for those who like trivia).
3. The Love & Lemons Cookbook, in which all recipes feature one main fruit or vegetable—ratatouille and other such medleys are vegetabliis non grata (gratin?)—and are grouped by said featured fruit or vegetable, in alphabetical order. The recipes look simple and sound delicious. Best of all: each comes with a photograph of the finished dish. Cookbook porn. When I’m certain nobody is watching I am often to be found flipping through and fondling the pages. 

Summation: I got as good as I gave. 

December free-for-all (#7)

Is a spore-laden “grow your own mushrooms on your kitchen counter” sack of soil really such a bad gift?*

*Note: This is neither a rhetorical nor a trick question. 

December free-for-all (#6)

Dear Santa:

In May this year I went to FibreFest and spotted an adorably wee knitted dragon named Flytten. 

It—dragons are sexless, which makes for less discrimination in dragons’ dens and offices—was not for sale—dragons are firmly opposed to dragon trafficking—but I did buy a “knit a Flytten” kit (dragons do share humans’ love of consumerism). I decided a purple handknit dragon would be the perfect present for an artist friend who turned 70 (!!!!) in October, 2018. 

I was a wee bit dismayed when I opened the kit and discovered that giving birth to an adorable little Flytten required 10 pages of instructions. I laboured and laboured over techniques like magic loops and Kitchener stitches and obscure pronouncements like "graft snout closed." After having completed only two rows between May and August, I desperately tried to conjure up a dragon equivalent of the Immaculate Conception and an adept knitter named Mary to give birth to the damn thing. Alas, I was not successful and by the time October rolled around Flytten’s gestation had barely progressed, as can be seen by the ultrasound below. (And one might conclude from the fetus's alarming appearance that dragons are an abomination of nature, but the dragons who sold me the kit emphatically stated this is not the case... so emphatically in fact they singed my eyebrows.)

So dear Santa, please please please, all I want this year is time to knit purple dragons. (And $100,000 to pay for my basement renovation, but not at the expense of anyone’s death. And a firmer jawline.)

Thank you, and Merry Christmas,

Helen

December free-for-all (#5)

I just finished reading At the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being & Apricot Cocktails. I probably still cannot tell you what existentialism is, although if you were to ply me with enough apricot cocktails I’m sure I would start throwing around some ill-defined definitions. But of all the philosophers mentioned in the book, I feel I would have liked Camus best: he never wavered from the belief that there could be no justification for torturing a baby, even if that act were to save countless others from dying. 

December free-for-all (#4)

As I continue to not write, I search for others' words to put in my mouth. Here are some flavory ones from At the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being & Apricot Cocktails: That is why, among all the existentialist works, the one I am least likely to tire of is Beauvoir’s autobiography, with its portrait of human complexity and of the world’s ever-changing substance. It gives us all the fury and vivacity of the existentialist cafes, together with ‘a sulphur sky over a sea of clouds, the purple holly, the white nights of Leningrad, the bells of the Liberation, an orange moon over Piraeus, a red sun rising over the desert’ — and all the rest of the exquisite, phosphorescent bloom of life, which reveals itself to human beings for as long as we are lucky enough to be able to experience it. 

December free-for-all (#3)

I’m sure I have mentioned this previously: I have the urge to write my Member of Parliament (MP) and ask him to table a private member’s bill to introduce an “unloved tax credit” for those of us who are single and don’t get to benefit from two incomes or the tax breaks available to couples. Of course, I suppose then MPs would be flooded with requests from their married and common-law constituents to introduce an assortment of other tax breaks, including a “having to compromise on every bloody decision” tax credit or a “having to constantly deal with <insert favourite ongoing grievance with partner here, e.g., the toilet seat being left up, incessant snoring at night, etc.>” tax credit.

At the very least, I feel I should be able to claim all the stray cats I feed as dependents. And/or receive a “crazy old cat lady” tax credit.

December free-for-all (#2)

I have been waking up at 3 or 4 a.m. every morning this week, panicking over my basement renovation and how much it is costing. The foundation repair, which will hopefully prevent my house from collapsing during my lifetime, was a unbudgeted expense and I am balking at spending tens of thousands of dollars on that and buying a $199 bathtub because I can no longer afford my dream vessel. So I took it as a sign this morning when I came across a quote by Frank Lloyd Wright (although maybe e.e. cummings or Benjamin Franklin actually said these words and they have been falsely attributed to FLW): As long as we have the luxuries, the necessities will take care of themselves.

December free-for-all (#1)

I just listened to a radio interview with Maryanne Wolf, a neuroscientist and author of Reader Come Home: The Reading Brain in a Digital Age. There is now evidence showing that the medium is important: even among digital natives, reading a text in hard copy results in higher comprehension than reading the same text onscreen. 

This is extremely important, as all my blog content is. So please be sure to print out and consume my posts at a leisurely pace—perhaps whilst lounging in a tub full of aromatic bath salts, and accompanied by a glass of a fine vintage red—instead of gulping down the words onscreen. 

November places (#8)

It’s not so much that I don’t have time to write (although I feel like I don’t, at the moment). It’s that I don’t feel any desire or urge to write, and that makes me sad. It feels like I’m losing part of my identity.

So I find myself resorting to the theft of other people’s words. Here are some from Gabriel Marcel’s essay, “On the Ontological Mystery.” (And no, I’m not as erudite as one would expect someone to be who quotes from essays on ontological mysteries. I lifted the words from a book I’m reading titled At the Existentialist Cafe: Freedom, Being & Apricot Cocktails. You can probably guess which aspect of that title most attracted non-erudite me.)

I know by my own experience how, from a stranger met by chance, there may come an irresistible appeal which overturns the habitual perspectives just as a gust of wind might tumble down the panels of a stage set — what had seemed near becomes infinitely remote and what had seemed distant seems to be close. 

November places (#7)

Some other interesting Canadian place names:

1. The one that tops everyone’s list: Dildo, Newfoundland & Labrador
2. The funnest-sounding PG-rated one: Punkeydoodles Corners, Ontario (I am picturing a panoply of Punkeydoodlians promenading in pink pantaloons and periwinkle pullovers)
3. Mushaboom, Nova Scotia: This place name makes me fear that one day the town will suffer a Pompeii like fate when the local mushroom factory explodes and buries the inhabitants in mycelia.
4. Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, Quebec: Apparently the only place name in the world containing two—count ‘em, two!!!—exclamation points.
5. Flin Flon, Manitoba: From Wikipedia: The town's name is taken from the lead character in a paperback novel, The Sunless City by J. E. Preston Muddock. Josiah Flintabbatey Flonatin piloted a submarine through a bottomless lake where he passed into a strange underground world through a hole lined with gold. A copy of the book was allegedly found and read by prospector Tom Creighton. When Tom Creighton discovered a high-grade exposure of copper, he thought of the book and called it Flin Flon's mine, and the town that developed around the mine adopted the name. Flin Flon shares with Tarzana, California, the distinction of being named after a character in an adventure novel.
6. Mosquito Grizzly Bears Head Lean Man, Saskatchewan: A First Nation reserve whose inhabitants, despite their scrawniness, are preyed on by creatures large and small.
7. Spuzzum and Skookumchuk, British Columbia: Two different places, but they sound like a pair of twin cities who everyone dotes on because they’re so gosh darn adorable.

November places (#6)

There's a new idea lighting up the Canadian tourism scene: Bud & Breakfast. And what better place to bliss out in one than Stoner, British Columbia?

November places (#5)

If you go to see A Quiet Place, I strongly recommend foregoing the popcorn… unless you have mastered the art of eating it silently. Or don’t give a shit about sundering the suspenseful and suffocating silence with the sounds of buttery pleasure. 

November places (#4)

I’m in a dark place at the moment. My long-awaited basement renovation finally got underway on Monday. The start date was delayed by two days because the city took more than the usual 10 days to approve the permit—and don’t get me started on all the nonsensical regulations around how big a window has to be to designate a space as a bedroom, which has nothing to do with providing a means of egress, and how hydronic in-floor heating is considered a primary heat source but electric in-floor heating isn’t, necessitating the installation of additional and likely never to be used baseboard heaters (which are electric and are considered a primary heat source, whereas as already noted electric in-floor heating isn't, but don't try to wrap your head around that because you'll probably asphyxiate yourself before you arrive at any understanding)—and I was fretting because everything had to be taken down to the studs to prepare for the waterproofing work on Thursday and Friday, the spray foam insulation on the following Monday, and the heat pump installation on the following Wednesday. The work needs to be done in this order and the heat pump needs to be installed by a certain date in order for me to be eligible for the one rebate that fuckhead Ford hasn’t cancelled. All the trades are booked up months in advance, hence my anxiety over making sure things were ready by Thursday. The contractor assured me that everything would be. 

As the drywall and insulation were being removed on Day 1 the contractor became a bit alarmed at the state of the foundation. He asked the waterproofing guy, who also does minor foundation repairs, to come and take a look. He (the waterproofing guy) arrived on Day 2, took a quick look, and said he couldn’t waterproof anything in that condition, and that we need to consult with a structural engineer. He (the structural engineer) arrived on Day 3, took a quick look, and rendered his verdict:

• The foundation is structurally unsound.
• If nothing is done, the house will collapse.
• He couldn't say when that would likely happen: it could be 40 years from now, or next week. When I expressed anxiety over the lack of precision around the timing of this somewhat important event he made no attempt to reassure me and only said. "I've seen 40 or 50 houses like this in Kingston. People get used to the idea of living in them, I guess." 
• The best fixes: Raise the house and redo the foundation. Estimated cost: $150,000. Or tear down the house and rebuild. Naturally, insurance won't cover any of this.
• Insurance also won't cover building collapses if they occur due to structural defects. So my house is a write-off if it does collapse.
• If I want to run away from this mess (which I most certainly do) I won't be able to sell the house for anything close to its purported value because I am legally obligated to disclose structural defects. Basically, the value of my house has gone up in smoke this week. In fact, if the house does go up in smoke that might be the best option: at least that way I could submit an insurance claim. Or I could pay someone to fly a plane into it, as insurance will also cover damage due to that “insured peril.” Oh wait, no it won’t: insured perils are not actually insured while renovations are underway [probably because other people have run into similar troubles at the start of their renovations, and reached the same conclusion as me (i.e. that a fire or plane falling out of the sky would handily solve things)].

Even if I felt OK about living in a house that may collapse in a week or 40 years, I no longer have that option. The inspector said the structural issues have to be dealt with and signed off by an engineer before the renovation can proceed. And I really don’t have an option to ditch the renovation plans. My main bathroom is (well, was) in the basement, so there’s no longer a shower or tub in the house. And the basement is no longer insulated. And the hot water tank is gone, so there’s no longer any hot water. And did I mention that winter is coming? 

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Oh, and did I mention that the roof has started leaking? 

More $$$$$$$

And did I further mention that on Day 1 of the renovation the stray cat I’ve been feeding for over a year, who hadn’t been around for over a week so I assumed he had been hit by a car, appeared on my back deck, eyes sunken and blank and with black, viscous liquid oozing from his mouth? As of Monday he will have been at the vet’s for 7 nights, during which time he has been on antibiotics, IV fluids and painkillers, and has had numerous teeth and his manhood removed. 

Yet more $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ (In fact, the vet bill may well exceed the cost of doing whatever it takes to render the foundation structurally sound.)

It feels like I’m in a Stephen King story, one in which my malevolent house has turned against me. I so want to flee to Lenger Island and seek sanctuary in the hangar cathedral... except my malevolent house would probably follow me there and finish me off in some spectacularly gruesome, Stephen King-like way.

And yes, I know this post exceeds 100 words. I should probably just have written this, which so succinctly summarizes how I feel: 

FTSM x 1,000,000,000,000

November places (#3)

Two friends and I backpacked through Asia in the mid 80s*. One of the countries we visited was Burma. At that time it was still plodding along “The Burmese Way to Socialism.” Nothing was being imported from the West and our visit was like travelling back in time to what I imagined was mid-50s** America. We rode from the airport to Rangoon in a taxi so ancient it probably would have made a collector salivate all over the leather rumble seats, but most likely was a huge repair headache for the driver. And nobody wanted our money, at least not the $25 worth of local currency we were forced to buy upon entering the country. It was difficult to spend even that paltry amount during our one-week stay, and I ended up buying some carved wooden “musical” (if you consider nails on a chalkboard that) instrument to spend my remaining kyat. Everyone wanted to be paid in Johnnie Walker Black (or was it Red?), lipstick, or jeans. We paid for our first taxi ride with leftover apples from the flight. 

* Or should that be “mid-80s”?

** Or should that be “mid 50s”?

November places (#2)

…the one time I was alone on the streets at 4 a.m., not walking, but driving home. A pair of headlights suddenly flared in the rearview mirror. After travelling a couple of blocks I felt like I was being stalked by a vehicle from a Stephen King novel. This unnerved me and I started cycles of speeding up then slowing down while taking a twisting and turning route to my house, hoping to shake the demon car. No such luck: it continued to follow me. I wondered how much time it would take me to dash from my driveway to the front door, unlock it and get in the house and relock the door. After deciding that whatever was in that car would likely catch and do unspeakable things to me before I made it up the porch steps, I tried to figure out where the nearest 24-hour Tim Hortons was.

Then I heard the whoop of a siren and saw flashing blue and red lights. Apparently my erratic driving had had some effect, although not the one I was aiming for. 

November places (#1)

My neighbourhood seems almost genteel compared to Bridgett’s. Still, it is home to many people with mental health issues, one or two who walk the streets screaming that they are going to fuckin’ kill so and so. And there is a fair amount of hard drug use—the neighbours once confronted someone who was shooting up in my garden—and crime (mainly of the nonviolent sort, but a few years ago someone was stabbed to death one block over.)

Some people say they wouldn’t walk around my neighbourhood at night, at least not alone. I do this a lot, and have never felt unsafe. Except 

Not so scary October (#11)

Knowledge acquired this Halloween:

- I like Mars bars. I only discovered this after eating 5 of them.*

Things I already knew but which were reinforced:

• I love Halloween. The first two kids who came to my house were, I’m guessing, 8 or 9 year old boys. We had an inane exchange of words. As they were leaving, one turned to the other and said, with what sounded like sincerity and enthusiasm, “See, I told you we would have good conversations with people.”
• I detest Snickers bars.
• I never correctly judge the number of Snickers bars I should be offloading on unsuspecting kidlets. I tend to run out too early, or, worse, have leftover bars. I used to think this was a rookie mistake but I’ve been making it for about 20 years.

*Five eensy ones, which barely equals one adult bar.

Scary October (#10)

Mali’s comment on my most recent post got me curious about embalming. It is indeed a surefire way to ensure that you’re not buried alive, although “if you live in a “First World” country, you don’t have to worry about getting buried or cremated alive.  We’re pretty good at determining death.  For the most part.”

But don’t breathe a sigh of relief yet; there’s always a chance you may be embalmed alive. According to one funeral director, “When somebody dies at the hospital, it’s pretty much a 100 percent guarantee that they’re dead. You have heart monitors, oxygen monitors, and so on. But a lot of people are choosing to die at home under hospice care, and that changes things.”

Scary October (#9)

I once saw an interview with a man* who had devised a system to alert passersby if one had been buried alive. It was decidedly low-tech. A bell was installed beside one’s resting place, and a rope run from the bell into the casket. Presumably, the not-yet-dead resident could pull the rope to request immediate disinterment.**

The idea seemed absurd. For starters, how many people are buried alive each year? But then I talked with a doctor, who said it was surprisingly difficult to determine whether a person is dead (at least pre rigor mortis). Whenever she was called somewhere to declare a death, she would make sure to arrive at least 30 minutes later, just to be sure.

* He claimed to have been buried alive three times.
** Perhaps the system should include an optional add-on whereby a shovel, or backhoe, is installed next to the bell.

Scary October (#8)

screams. I wondered if all the noise would interfere with the bat’s echolocation, causing it to become disoriented and fly into my hair. (Which apparently never happens. But I don’t believe it.) So I shut up. 

The bat flew back to the screen and stared at me. I slowly stood up and walked backwards toward the stairs, locking eyes with the bat and praying it wouldn’t interpret that as a sign of aggression. When I reached the top of the stairs I turned and ran as fast as I could down them, slammed the door, and stuffed a towel against the bottom of it. 

The next day, after several calls with friends and a trauma counsellor, I ventured back upstairs. The bat was hanging down from the screen, its wings forming a Chiroptera duvet. I cannot believe how cute it looked. And how utterly harmless. 

Scary October (#7)

I too have a bat-in-the-bedroom story. There is a large skylight over my bed. One night I woke and saw, with horror, that something was crawling across the skylight screen. On the inside of it (i.e., whatever IT was was in the room with me). And IT was not something tiny and insubstantial. IT was huge. Well, huge-ish.

My default initial response to danger seems to be to freeze. But then I decided the terror of not knowing what was up there was worse than knowing, so I cautiously reached an arm out from under my protective-armour duvet and switched on the light. Then screamed. The bat started flying around the room, which set off an almost continual round of 

Scary October (#6)

I would find it scary if the Canada Revenue Agency contacted me. I doubt they track down taxpayers to inform them that they made a mistake on their return and the government owes them money (with interest). 

But the call I got the other day from someone claiming to be with the “Tax Department of the Canada Revenue Agency” failed to instill fear. Real tax people are passionate about tax matters. There’s no way that voice reciting a script in a robotic tone belonged to a hot-blooded taxman. And they don’t issue dire, awkwardly worded threats like, “Now, if I don’t hear a call from you immediately, we shall have to issue an arrest warrant under your name and get you arrested.”

Scary October (#5)

After listening to far too many hair-raisingly harrowing true crime podcasts, I have developed my own horror hierarchy. At the top are children who vanish, and whose fate is never known, but whose parents (assuming neither were the perpetrators) no doubt imagine the worst. Unimaginable. So imagine how much more unimaginable—which I know will stretch both your imagination and logic to the breaking point, for how can there be anything beyond the hellish limits implied by that “un-“—to have all three of your children disappear. And for that to have occurred in 1966. And to still be alive today. And to still not know what happened to your children. Unimaginable.

Scary October (#4)

I just got back from a six-day trip to Nova Scotia for a family Thanksgiving. The total driving distance was slightly over 3200 kilometres, and I brought a couple of audio books to pass the time. One was 1984. I don’t know how long it took Orwell to write it, and I wonder if he became suicidal while inhabiting that dark, dark world he created (or maybe he was suicidal before he commenced writing it, and poured his despair into the story). I still have two CDs to listen to and I’m hoping that some glimmer of light infiltrates the horror—I read it many years ago, and can’t remember how the story ends—but I fear Orwell is scoffing at me from his tortured grave.

Scary October (#3)

I am 97% sure that I don’t believe in reincarnation. But many years ago, the 3% of me who is unsure or curious paid someone for a past lives reading. I don’t remember who the many mes purportedly were, other than a strong woman living in the North.

There was no mention of how I died in those previous lives. But if I have lived before, I suspect I was murdered at least once. The image of my throat being slit pops into my head somewhat frequently. And it’s not just an image: I can feel the blade slicing across my skin. Often, even absent these sensory ghosts, I’ll cover my throat, one hand over the other, as if to protect it, or to delay exsanguination.

Scary October (#2)

Kim’s post reminded me of the day I arrived home to find a pamphlet from the Jehovah Witnesses in my mailbox. It asked this: “Have you thought about how you’re going to survive the Apocalypse?” 

I hadn’t, actually. And I really, really hope I don’t survive The Apocalypse or any lesser apocalypses. Obviously the Jehovah Witnesses have never seen any of the Mad Max movies. Or 28 Days Later. Or The Road. (OK, I know that last movie ended on a hopeful note, but in the long stretch between near-annihilation and faint hope I don’t want to have to resort to cannibalism or, worse, be forced to eat any surviving pets. Or, worse yet, become the hunted.)

Scary October (#1)

Some people say they’re not afraid of dying. But surely* that statement is only applicable to certain situations, like the ideal of passing peacefully in one’s sleep, or, perhaps less ideally, under heavy sedation. Who, for example, wouldn’t be terrified at the thought of being on a plane that’s going to crash, where the probability of survival is close to zero and one has time to work out that probability and mull over the implications? Or being served as the main course at a komodo dragon’s Thanksgiving dinner? Or meeting one’s end in a manner that becomes the subject of a true crime podcast?

I don’t find the prospect of death itself all that scary. But dying? That’s scary as hell.

* Yes yes, don't call you Shirley.

Dreams (#3)

In a sporadically recurring dream, I’m in a kitchen that has a black and white tiled floor. The walls and ceiling start closing in on me. I enter “freeze” mode and don’t escape, although I always wake up before being crushed to death. In case one day this doesn’t occur, hopefully I’ll thaw enough to grab a final snack from the fridge.

Dreams (#2)

I used to have dreams, but they have all been disappeared and replaced by “to do” lists… although maybe the items on my “to do before I die” list constitute dreams of a sort? Too bad that list also disappeared when my laptop was stolen while I was away. (Also taken: Festus’ ashes*, and a device for removing body hair**.)

* Later recovered in the park behind my house. I guess they realized it wasn’t cocaine.

** Someone asked if the police were putting up “Wanted” posters with a photo of clean-shaven legs.

I’ve never had a prophetic dream and hope like hell that hasn’t changed

A few nights ago a friend drove me to the airport. We arrived to darkness and silence. A plane circled overhead. In that omniscient state one sometimes enters into during sleep, we knew it was about to drop a bomb. The entire dream was sepia-toned, as if we had already died and were ghosts moving through an old photograph.  

Forms (#15)

Questions I have no answer to:

Who sees love coming? (Helen Humphreys)

How long can this coffee cup last? (Megan Willome)

Tell me, what is it you plan to do 

with your one wild and precious life? (Mary Oliver)

Do the shells still hear the sea,

though they are in pieces; (L.L. Barkat)

Can you be sick for a home you’ve never seen? (Jen Rose)

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? (William Blake)

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck

if a woodchuck could chuck wood? (C. Huckie)

What’s the point? (Likely everyone at some pointless point in their life)

What is a poem? (Mark Yakich)

Forms (#14)

Inspired by Bridgett's blitz poem. The title didn't come out quite right  but I don't have time to fiddle with things... time to pack. (The form was trickier than it first appeared. And I did think of calling it "Make it long," but knew everyone's minds would take a U-turn and head in the wrong direction if I did.)

Make a long (story short)

On the move

On the make

Make love not war

Make fuck with me*

Me me me

Me too

Too little

Too late

Late nights 

Late again

Again you say

Again you leave

Leave me alone

Leave me be

Be strong

Be silent

Silent night

Silent gold

Gold digger

Gold finger

Finger foods

Finger licking

Licking slurping

Licking lies

Lies all lies

Lies still

Still room

Still remember

Remember when

Remember wrong

Wrong way

Wrong turn

Turn on the charm

Turn cold

Cold winters

Cold as ice

Ice slices

Ice cream

Cream puffs

Cream dreams

Dreams of daylilies

Dreams of darkness

Darkness harkens

Darkness and so

So be it

So long
Long gone 
Long distance

Distance
Gone

*Just watched Shirley ‘Valentine. Again.

Forms (#13)

Post from a previous month that I am repurposing as a monostitch

I don't have a thing to wear.

Poems (#12)

I think it's a pantoum

A friend asked today, “Have you lived well?”

My response slow in coming, for

On what part to dwell?

So much of the past, now ancient lore.

My response slow in coming, for

That strip of dark forest

So much of the past, now ancient lore

But vomit and fear, can I ignore this?

That strip of dark forest

No adults permitted

Vomit and fear, can I ignore this

Let my memories be limited?

No adults permitted

A heaven gone wild

Let my memories be limited:

I was a happy child.

A heaven gone wild

The earth a soft loam

I was a happy child

But too free to roam.

The earth a soft loam

Bluebells galore, no fear to quell

And so free to roam.

A friend asked, “Today, have you lived well?”

Poems (#11)

In desperation, I went to this poem generator and asked for a quickie. I specified a sad tone, that the poem be about a female, and that she owns a chainsaw, which is dainty and fancy. Here's the result: 

Whose chainsaw is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite sad though.
It really is a tale of woe,
I watch her frown. I cry hello.

She gives her chainsaw a shake,
And sobs until the tears make.
The only other sound's the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The chainsaw is dainty, fancy and deep,
But she has promises to keep,
Until then she shall not sleep.
She lies in bed with ducts that weep.

She rises from her bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in her head,
She idolises being dead.
Facing the day with never ending dread.

Non-poetic interruption

If I don’t return from Greece, you’re all welcome to visit me here. Pack a lint brush.

Forms (#10)

Preamble to Limerick for Judy

1. Judy did a consumer DNA test and was really hoping to learn that she has Neanderthal ancestry.
2. Judy wrote a book about body hair.
3. Judy is wild about Louis.
4. Judy and Louis have wild sex. (I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me telling you this. In fact, some of their sexcapades will be included in her next book.)
5. Judy is an anglophone. Louis is a francophone.

There once roamed a Neanderthal named Judy,

Whose occipital bun conferred rank of patootie.

In body hair she revelled

And was often dishevelled 

From rolls in the cave with Cro-Magnon Louis.

Forms (#9)

Below is the section from an article that I mashed up to create my Dadaist poem. (I selected these passages because they include the word chainsaw, which some in the group appear to be inordinately, almost DSM diagnosis-worthily, fond of).

"People here would love to keep them all, but, eventually we're going to get to the point where we're overrun with them," Nichols said. "There are so many chainsaw carvings, one city worker has to spend most of his work day curating and caring for them.”

Nichols said the idea of selling off public art was a contentious one, and many people in the community are quite attached to the sculptures. However, Nichols says the money will be put to good use at next year's carving championships.

This poem resembles me* 

Them use but, would most curating keep love

at championships spend Nichols community where caring people a many all,

contentious eventually said. Sculptures. So worker one, “People

carvings, to money are next we’re here quite 
there was however for work and good them going overrun many his will 
the public says chainsaw with Nichols day to and has the are to

to attached we’re carving one year’s idea point to the Nichols get to the 
be them” selling in city art

of the said to put off of.

* Apparently I am a riddle wrapped up in an enigma so tightly that my brain is being deprived of oxygen.