Auld Lang Syne

You should be willing to take a bullet for your good friends. So you ought to limit yourself to 4 or 5. 10 at the most. You can’t have too many friends, because that’s a lot of bullets to take. You haven’t all that many limbs to spare. That’s one approach. Another way to go about it is to have as many friends as you like, but choose the kind that surely won’t get shot at. Choose the kind that don’t go to big cities, sporting events, bars, hitchhiking, or out late at night. Definitely do not associate with the type who speak up too loud or stay suspiciously quiet. Don’t be friends with cops, hunters or any official uniformed persons. Beware activists, communists, futurists, drug addicts/dealers, presidents, and members of the Hell’s Angels. But if you just choose a little more selectively, you can have as many friends as you’d like. Even a hundred of them. Safely.

Sit at my still

In case you didn't put enough in at home, they provide hairspray, clips, and elastics. Also a mirror, a comfortable chair, every copy of Rolling Stones Magazine, and all things embellished, gold, garish, plastic, and wonderful. This is only the bathroom.

Before I went I had a ball of yarn and a hook in my hand thinking, "Can I? No, no I can't, I can't be that person at a bar with their stitching crafts." Then I got there and there already was that person, making a lovely afghan. I could have been the person to give that person a knowing nod, like between two boaters, jeepers, bikers, and yes, between two crocheters making last minute gifts at the bar on Christmas eve eve. "Hello Miss" I'd say, "Some fine work."

Now I know that (almost) anything goes at the Moonshine. Even the rhythm flute (but not ventriloquism).

(This is me keeping it real)

Think of how hideous this is, but how much potential there is in it. I'm making everybody I know one of these for them to put next to their van gogh coffee table books and ash trays. My what a doily.

We'll shed our skin because we know where it's been

I have an art history professor who, in the middle of lectures about something seeming really important, reminds us, "Let's keep it real folks."

Good advice I ought to take.

We're the best we can do.

We don't fit in so it's a good thing we're the coolest.

before tomorrow

Just who or what is Stoodwall?
He is traces left of million dollar cheques expired; baseball hats lost and littered in back alleys in big cities. Stoodwall is drinking a cesar in the morning with his marijuana cigarette. He's a big deal to some few. He is the skinny guy batting his long lashes in wide eyed angry disbelief. You called him Robin Williams and he's not taking too kindly to it. Stoodwall is your paddle boat left man, your rooftop companion, your doctor. Doctor of what?, you ask. Doctor with a half a credit in astronomy, he smugly replies.

Smile your smile and then run

Let's get married. What? Like to each other? Yeah, we could. Yeah, we could, that could be fun. Yeah, but both of us are from the same country. You know, you're right. Let's marry Swedes.

Let's take our time. The wall says: It's okay to take some time. It's not such a big deal.
We have some time. Now and now.
What about later? Yeah, then too.
And before? Well, we did, but not so much anymore.

Time for a change, of sheets at least. Thank goodness for flannelette.

Gon' catch me ridin' dirty

1. Drive to Zehrs to buy cans of beans to last the whole winter long.
2. Eat beans.
3. Tie empty tin cans to the vehicle in celebration.

My mother may want to rethink lending me the van. I have crazy plans.

Good friends down.

Thought it would be great to go for a walk. Thought it would really nice to make a little snow man on the stump of the old tree for my housemates to see when they came home. Pulled my hands from my pockets and started forming a ball. Moon baby poo in the snow. All over my palms. Just great.

I need to get into the holiday spirit(s).

dark night

Sarah, you've got something in your hair. Here, let me get that. What's this? Oh it's just a bat. Just a bat.

Flat Earth Theory

I believe that strangers can be kind, that pterodactyls existed at one time (a while ago), that Tupac isn't coming back, that plants have something to say, and that you are funny, no really, I mean it.
But I've never been one to try very hard to convince anyone of what I believe, or of what I don't, because some people, apparently, think that the world is flat. If people think the world is horizontally infinite how can I possibly begin to explain why I don't drink milk?

Tension Spoke

The wheel has turned one full circle
Time for my meal of wood
To make my home lord
In a stable spoke lord
Inside a turning wheel would be good
To make my home lord
In a stable spoke lord
Inside a turning wheel bound for good
-Bill Callahan


The problem with cyclical things is that they come back around and bite you in the butt.

catch up chips

The whole way home with one eye closed in a pained wink. Like I'm flirting with the weather but it's not warm to me so I just pretend there are other reasons for me to be holding it shut.

It's a dry contact, o.k?

How people look (like their nose or shoes, not like the way that their eyes see things, but it could probably work that way too- I don't know I haven't written anything yet) is secondary to, but potentially a good outlet for, the way people think. Mind you, you can't change your nose very easily. For a few years I pinched mine and pulled it down to no avail.

And the way people think is primary (I also like the word 'paramount' for right there) to the way people show their thoughts. These thoughts would (contrary to a really bad paper I sort of read in bed yesterday) exist with or without expression or relationships, but hear this- then so what? Just saying.

Also, but entirely unrelated, one summer I planned a fitness regime that solely involved treading water. I did not follow through.
Again, also unrelated, a question: is the first note of a long distance phone call different, or do the rest just come so fast afterward that it feels as though you knew right from the beginning?

W/ Blood Star

"Walled In", like a pun, not like the 2008 Mischa Barton movie

"There have been many stories told about the bottom, or rather no bottom, of this pond, which certainly had no foundation for themselves. It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it."

Oh Thoreau. If I remember correctly he goes on to measure, bit by bit, the shape of the pond, recounting in detail the process and his findings. In mapping it, he finds its line of greatest breadth intersects the line of greatest length at the very point of the pools greatest depth. He knows every dimension and still finds mystery. Most people don't know this but Walden is a (non-fiction) book about (true) love. Read it with patience.

Ride

Do you need a vehicle for your ketchup?
Out of fries? No scrambled eggs? No kraft dinner left?
Lentils. Lentils are the answer to your question. Cooked lentils.

Luggage eyes

Pure! Unreasonable! Fury! Culled from ?
It is just go'nah sit here until I bike rid of it.

I guess I have to put pants on.

Franny/I'm Human.

Here's what people need. Those little tags that plants have. Like this. Tucked into and poking out of their back pockets.

coleo = shield + ptera = wing

I gave birth to a beetle, uhh, I'd say, 2 feet long, cylinder shaped, iridescent black, almost all thorax, with just a little head, lots of legs, on his back (how sweet, it's a boy!) like in Kafka. I was watching a movie that had no point, while my new born child squirmed around in his bassinet. What to do, what to do?
It would be a hard life growing up with an exoskeleton. I couldn't cradle him. What does a beetle baby eat? Here's what I did. I took off his head. Inside of him was filled with yellow yoke-like fluid. I drank it hoping it would somehow enter my womb and develop into a little person with the same essence as the repulsive bug.

According to the online dream guide beetles indicate: some destructive influences may be at work in your waking life. You may also feel that your values and beliefs are being compromised.
Alcohol signifies (I was drunk): feelings of inadequacy and regrets. You harbor fears of being discovered for who you really are. Alcohol may serve as a way for you to escape or an excuse for something you did.
Movies mean: you are watching life pass you by. Consider how the movie parallels to situations in your waking life. Observe how the characters relate to you and how they may represent an aspect of yourself.

Lanolin

Wool fat. WOOL FAT. Wool fat. Wolf hat? Wolf hat.
Neti pot. Net-tea-pot. Net-tea-pot.
Wool fat. Neti pot. Wolf hat.

Silver Apples

Last night I opened my window and let a cumulonimbus in. The tropical air collided with the polar air, droplets of water turned into a white fluffy gas, and now there is a localized storm watch at 7 Home, the basement.

I figure that this front, when it hits the jet stream from the laundry room, is just going to take off and we’ll have a super cell above the ironing board. You can forecast a storm by the behaviours of the animals and the bugs. The spider on my ceiling looked like an astronaut in training for zero gravity, going, at my calculations, 100 spins per minute. Until I stopped her with a life-brand tissue.

I’ve weather proofed my rug, by covering it with all my clothes, and I’ve weather proofed my school work, by tucking it away under everything else. And I am weighted down, so don’t worry.

Hot curry love

Above: Spruce cone picking slowly. I'm sorry that it's boring too. It has nothing to do with hot curry love either.

Lynn is my middle name.

Tonight we didn't stay up 'till today to wish Jeff Goldblum hbd. But if we did we would have reminisced about that one part in Jurassic park when he touches the lady's hand to demonstrate something about chaos and his voice gets quiet and tender but then the lady runs out to check out the dinosaur that's moaning on the ground. Droppings, he stutters, dino droppings?

Jeff Goldblum, Sarah Ayton, and I are all Dragons in the Chinese zodiac. Tell me that doesn't mean something (and everything).

Kidding?

I was the one near the apricot bin

You were the blond at the Jay Reatard show. We ran into each other on Nassau walking dogs. You are a beautiful Asian girl wearing boots. I like the way you loop your "l's" in your anti-liberal graffiti. You're just like me, with torn knee jeans. You had Nutella in your hands. I like Nutella, I could like you. Your back was towards me at the chiropractor's office. I was behind you in line to vote. You, the one wearing your shirt inside out. You rushed off the train, probably to work on your exquisite biceps. I think you swallowed my lip ring. I saw you (leggy, well-dressed) reading a yellow book about Hezbollah- I just wanted to say: life is short, let's paint together.

Cox (of Rahn), Kane, Dent & Shen, feat. Robinson.

I am thankful for the rash that developed overnight on my right cheek. My mother loves to spot the redness; ever since I was a kid who got eczema she's been right on it. There's some! With excited worry, prodding at my face. She sighs like it's real bad, and shows me sympathy I didn't know I needed. She'll look at me sometimes like this girl could be so pretty if only she brushed her hair, didn't get rashes on her right cheek, and shaved her mustache.

It's why eyesight gets worse when you get older; a blessing for daughters like me with moms and grandmas like mine.

Here I've gone and done it though. My Mom will say "I do not." She'll be all sorry and embarrassed and she needn't be. Because I know she only stares at my blemishes because she cares. And I know that when the light from the kitchen window pours in behind my head and soft focuses her gaze, she will remember that I am her most beautiful flesh and blood daughter.

50% off Notions

Fabricland in the mall is closing. So if there was ever a good time to indulge and tie dye, now would be it. I have these images of pillow shams, underpants, handkerchiefs and t-shirts coloured with swirls of rose of paris and reindeer beige and these images are cosmic and alluring. I want to flush white with creme and bordeaux, # 16 Arabian Night and #21 Elephant Grey.

Sapiens sapiens.

Shit shit.

You too eh?

Ever can’t sleep? Just want a little cigar? Wish for a gin gin mule to go with it? Suddenly you feel like jogging, getting sweaty, then cutting off the other half of your hair. Yeah? Ever feel like going North or South, wherever? Or do you want to go pee in the backyard when there is a perfectly fine toilet inside? Sometimes maybe you don’t want to put on pants on a Monday. Sometimes maybe you want to share with someone the way 100% acrylic makes your body smell. Do you give that stare- the steady eye-roll- to the people who you suspect agree with your foul thoughts? Do you throw your meowing cat? Do you will your drunk roommate to burst through your door and worm into your bed at 2 a.m?

I understand.

Guh

Someone went to the bathroom the other day mid-lecture, came back, asked me, "Did I miss anything important?"
I answered no, not at all, but I wished she had. But no, nothing important, not at all. I was taking notes in the library today. I have a midterm coming up. My notes read: Seth= God of Darkness/ Hippo= Destructive
Maybe I need to remember that.
And I quote a professor of mine when I say, unenthusiastically, "So that's the latest on Nefertiti." The vocabulary I'm learning to use sounds like "Guh" and means the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

School is important. And I understand why. But I'm lacking proof.

My papa would have said, and I often now say, "Twenty years from now it won't make a damn bit of difference." My want is that it would.

Hung up on a dream, like the Zombies song in a literal way.

Today I: Woke up. Hung up the phone. Got a flat. Need a new inner tube. Took out the special features. Forgot the feature film. Wish my pants were made of cashmere too. Wrote this:

At a restaurant the couple passed the last bite back and forth to each other. One piece of sushi, shared back and forth, 11 exchanges in total, until there was just a piece of rice and it was his turn. He considered it. Short-grain, sticky, white. How might he, he wondered, hold it so that in taking the bite that he must take, leave the bite that he needed to leave. He pinched it. Took half between his teeth, and left the other half between his fingers. He held it out. To her, this was a regular gesture. The way every meal ended. At this point she must either: Bite half of the half, leaving a quarter to be halved again and then presented back to her on a calloused finger tip, or, swallow it. Those are her choices. Ceremoniously, she took the half-grain, and put the whole of it on her tongue. It pleased him. An onlooker felt uncomfortable, like she had just rubbed up against a couple rubbing up against each other.

Where's the cat?

I hear organ and accordion coming from upstairs. And pounding on the hardwood. Raspy throaty hollering. My housemate is writing a song about ritual sacrifice.

I am weakened, meaty, and worried.

Dead and Dying

I regret to inform you of the death of one Lynn Marie Kane, aged 20, suddenly at 12:52 on Friday the 19th of September, 8th year of the second millennium. Kane passed on after a mighty, ongoing struggle of 13 hours with the common cold. Survived by her mother, Lori Dent, brothers Alan, Ben, and Will, loving roommates Suzanne, Alexandria, and Sarah, and sweet pet Moonbaby. She will be sorely missed. Kane's wardrobe will be promptly distributed on Saturday the 20th of September, 2008, along with trinkets and items of nostalgia (including but not limited to: love letters, certain feathers and sticks, and friendship necklaces from the third grade). Kane will be buried under a small rhubarb plant in the forest. Please send flowers and monetary donations to:
Lynn Kane Fund for the Dying and Sarah Ayton, c/o Sarah Ayton
7 Home St.
Guelph, Ontario

All funds will go toward Sarah Ayton's ongoing endeavors in keeping Kane's spirit alive. And beer.

*Obituary dictated by Sarah Ann Ayton. She provides her deepest condolences to the friends and enemies of the deceased.

Reading Stories.

Her uncle told her stories when she could not read. The princess rode a motorbike in a pink leather gown. But she didn't quite buy it, even at three, because in the picture the princess was in a carriage. She told him, no, you're telling it wrong, tell it right. And he would tell it again. The princess rode a donkey through fields of spaghetti plants to a palace made of dragon scales and golden pigeon feathers. "No," she insisted, "I want what it really says, what goes with the picture." Then the princess rode flying dolphins through forests of moon beams to a kingdom in the sky made of rainbows and the colour purple was poisonous, so nothing was purple, and they could never eat plums again.

These spectacular stories frustrated her, and she recognized that she was being had, but she was dazzled anyway, and so she put her most precious clips into his hair and made him pretty in the kitchen for her mother to see.

Her uncle took a risk though, because what if- when she knew how to read and what words meant- stories could never dazzle her the same.

"All words will be considered her last words until they are followed by others."- D.E.

I'm trying to write a "journal" that I'd be O.K. with people reading if I dropped dead. That's what the first page of it says. Just belles-lettres; the whole lot of it, one or two liners accompanied by some butt ugly line drawings. No pages written so far, in the heat of a Thursday night, with incomprehensible swear words and curses. That's a good start. Mind you, I'm not sugar coating it. The F word is in their, oh it's in there, three times even on one quarter size page. But it's different this time; it's nicer. And I go deep too, I mean, I've already got mortality covered on the first page, and then I examine the topic again, less ironically, later on. There's a metaphor here and there, just to practice artfulness, but mostly it's all exactly what it is, artfully uncovered.

It's about 3x4 so my little words seem more substantial and my short anecdotes carry through to a second page, maybe a third. It fits in small purses and big pockets, or it can be tucked into the backside of tight high pants. It says: "I: Smile, You: Return the smile. That's all there is to it."
Then I go on.

She Needs a New Journal

Tonight I will fall asleep wearing cut-offs, a belt, a button-up shirt, and all the necessary undergarments. A novel completely exhausted me and I'm going to keep reading until short stories knock me out. Then, in the morning, I will make rice pudding.

What Lies Beneath

Bedsheets are like panties. Kind of, eh? I'm in the process of getting a new bed- everything is a process these days- and for it I got new sheets. They have a decent thread count and were decently priced. If bedsheets are like underwear, and I'll maintain that I sort of think that they are, then though they are not usually seen by others they can create an outward feeling. I'm sure if I sat on my bed writing this entry with silk satin sheets underneath I would feel damn fine, or something along those lines. But sex is not beneath the surface of my lady-like quilt. My sheets look like caffeinated limes on acid. They are highlighters, saying perhaps, "Look here now, this bed is important, focus." This seems contradictory to the function of a bed, and to my hopes to sleep somewhere less juvenile. Twenty and womanly on the outside, a twelve-year-old boy on the inside.

Excessively Sentimental, Sorry

I love to spend the day on my bicycle and I love to take all my meals and cups of coffee on the front porch and I love to make all of those meals together and eat them all together and I love to look at moon baby and I love to scoop him up and I love to draw on Sarah's bruise and I love to go swimming at night and get scrapes and show Suzanne and I love to be in no rush and I love to be left new music on my computer from Drea and I love to meet new people who come and play banjo and bake baguettes and I love to read a page at a time on a patio and I love when my to do list says jello and bean salad and dry wine.

Sentimental

The contents of my treasure box:
Some lined paper with notes about dreams I've had: "I bring pickles into the levis store"
A birthday card from my teacher in '96
Letters from Santa Claus
Certificate of adoption for my pound bunnies, named Whiskers, Buster, Lily and Nelly (I circled Buster and Lily's name because they were the best)
David Bowie ticket stub
A piece of bark from the tree that was in my grandparents front yard
A silver plaster thumb
Cedar hearts
Another certificate of adoption but this time for pound puppies
My retainer
Medals (Student of Excellence and taekwondo: I came 2nd out of 3 and 8th out of 8)
A sidrabene sticker
Worry dolls
A ticket signed by the fake backstreet boys
Something someone carved for me
A flattened penny from Wyoming
Uplifting letters from my great grandma "I never feel like eating and when I do I wish I didn't"
A hand drawn wanted poster with my face on it, reward: $15 and corn, crime: Bank robbing

Miriam is probably spelt with a Y.

From my notebook from the Canadian Tire parking lot:

It's too hot to read. It's too hot to do anything but put my chin on the Vandura's kitchen counter and play with beer caps in my mouth.
"You'll cut yourself" says my mom in my head.
There is a risk of it but more than that I think I look rude and stupid to Miriam and so I stop. Both beers are empty and and I'm only responsible for a quarter of that effort. When I was making phone calls my company got thirsty. It's hot. I imagine that Prince George and the surrounding area will start to burn at precisely 9:45 this evening; the exact time of my departure to Calgary. As a lover of forests and a generally "good" person I think forests burning down is "bad". However, as a firefighter this makes me think "Oh irony, of course" and also, "Damn".

I look out from Vandura into the cruel and ironic world; the Canadian Tire and Marks Work Warehouse parking lot. Only an hour or so ago I went to Marks Work Warehouse to look for the wool/nylon sweaters that the good looking ministry firefighters wear. They didn't have my size and they also didn't have the little plastic alligator clips I used to pick off the floor there when I was wee. I'm better off without the sweater, because as I mentioned before it is sweltering. Perhaps I'm better off too without the alligator clips. I've grown up.

This afternoon my stomach hurts because I ate too many popsicles. About 2 hours ago I left the Vandura in the Canadian Tire parking lot and crossed the street to visit the Walmart. I wanted a fresh soy smoothie but they didn't have any so I bought 12 popsicles. They were melting so I ate too many in a desperate attempt to get my moneys worth. Miriam ate some too but not as many as me because she is more mature and less rude and stupid. Will didn't eat any because he is sawing his dashboard with a swiss army knife and he would probably make everything sticky if he tried to eat one.

Glacier water, bottled by myself the day before, will surely make my stomach at ease. But when I take a sip I realize that it tastes better in the atmosphere it came from. Because it was colder and because I could look at the mountains it dripped off of. Most things tasted better in the mountains for this reason and because I was hungrier and thirstier there. The exception to this is quaker oatmeal bars. They were supposed to be everything I love about oatmeal in a bar and they weren't.

Where was I? My train of thought is lost. My stomach is protesting. My feet are sweaty. I've been in the Canadian Tire parking lot for the last 4 hours. Where did Miriam go? Oh there she is. I was thinking about how mature and wise she is. She is moisturizing her legs and I think I should moisturize my legs too. She interrupts my thoughts by telling me she was just shaving her legs in the Canadian Tire bathroom when someone walked in. I look at my armpits and I get an idea.

From Here:

Alan is playing COD, which I thought might be a fishing game. Fishing games are funny so I get excited to watch. I watched real fishing this summer and it was funny too. Nothing was caught. I like to watch other people be so patient.
COD stands for Call of Duty though. It's not like fishing unless you pretend the people are fish and the guns are rods. Then it is a little bit more like fishing, but still there is no lake and there are no tackle vests. When Miriam and I hitch hiked into the Hart the man had a tackle vest in his back seat sitting next to me. One day these things will be stylish, like the plaid flannel shirt: kids everywhere will wear them to dance clubs and they will look like they were just in the woods but they weren't.

My summer is winding down with a big build up. I sat next to a girl on the bus and I gave her my headphones and played her some songs. She liked what I liked at her age and so I thought that listening to what I like at my age would feel to her like zooming into the future. She was polite and curious and in no time I wanted the best for her life. From the moment I got to the station things were looking like a book. An old black woman with short white hair and big diamond earrings winked at me when I sat down and smiled. She was beautiful. There were crying babies in line and moms hugging daughters goodbye and angry sisters being mean to each other. I'm really awkward when I say goodbye to people because I never think it's a big deal to say goodbye but I feel like I should feel like it is. For once I felt like it was though and this made it more strange because I didn't know how to act even more. Do I cry? I looked sincerely upset to be leaving and I hope that my face expressed this. If it didn't I figured at least that I would write about it and say that it was sincerely upsetting to leave Will. I loved this summer. There's a little bit left too, just enough to fill with everything else I could love about summer. Let's go sailing.

Where do babies come from?

I stopped eating meat a couple of years ago. I ate fish occasionally until I saw an episode of How It's Made. They were making fish. At the factory they had a bowl of fish eggs and a man took a male fish out of the water and squeezed it so that it's sperm came out. Then he took his gloved hand and mixed the egg and sperm up in a bowl. It seemed like a cold way to make children. Mumma cows too, I learned, weren't being fertilized the good old fashioned birds and bees way. A farmer man was doing all the work with some bull sperm that he'd taken. I'm asked all the time why I'm a vegetarian. One reason is because I prefer not to eat what hasn't had the chance to live a real sort of life.

Trees make cones. Spruce cones are beautiful. The ones with a nice fade go from cream to purple. Pine cones are silver and gold. Usually, these cones fall when the time is right, and they land on the forest floor. They crack open, under the sun's heat, and their seeds fall out on the ground. Sometimes this all works out and they grow into big healthy trees. But we cut down big healthy trees. A few machines taking down a few at a time. Some days we don't recognize where we are when we leave the block because in the morning we were surrounded by trees, and after 8 hours we're in an enormous field.

We collect these cones and sell them. Then they make baby trees with the seeds in a nursery somewhere. They grow into tiny little infants there and at the ripe age of two we plant them. It seems as though we aren't satisfied enough having our own sex, but that we must do it for the animals and plants too. The song that goes "Anything you can do I can do better; I can do anything better than you" just got stuck in my head.

The Relay Race

Sometime around June came fun day; the 21st or 22nd, weather permitting. The countdown to this day was something worthy of an advent calendar treatment, with little windows revealing chocolate in the shape of summer sports. The days before I would dream in badminton shaped bubbles and drool over set-up hoop jumping obstacles. Come the day before and I had my nike shorts laid out with my northern getaway t-shirt. Water was in the freezer, the orange wedges were cut, and my ankle socks were clean. On the morning of fun day I buzzed. Remember gatorade containers with watered down orange drink and little dentist cups?

Games on Fun Day (with a very intentional capitalization) were relay races. In the assigned teams, a soup of grade 1,2,3, and 4 students, led by a mature grade 5 leader, we would pick a team name. Team names never were and rarely are better than something like "The Awesomes" or "Team Kick Butt". I was always on the team with the most athletic people ever. The gymnasts and rep soccer forward right-wings; the kids who played captain. I slowed down the line, the first to drop the egg and the last to pass the baton, the wettest head and the emptiest bucket.

I was just filling up a pot with the water from the clogged sink of our trailer and walking it down the steps and throwing it in the bush and then walking up the steps and filling up the pot and so on and so forth and I remembered Fun Day. Parts of today are like a relay race, but not the parts where I feel like I'm slowing a team down and my teammates are bullies.

Pine Cone Picking

Job Description: Enter onto a freshly cut block and pick the pine cones from the felled pine tree tops.

Skills Needed: Some manual dexterity, the ability to lift 50 lbs on your shoulders OR the ability to drag, in a lazy fashion, 50 lbs across a cut block.

Required Equipment: Vis vest, heavy duty gloves, hard hat, burlap sack, bucket, flagging tape.

Wage: $25-or-so/20 L bucket.

Lynn's fun rating: Very poor.

A Falkland Postcard

I'm just keeping you "posted". In re: to letters sent to me, I just now received them, read them, smelt them, ate them, re-read them and replied to them.
Yours truly,
Signed and sealed,
Lynn Marie.

p.s. This is what the alphabet would look like if q and r weren't in it.

Curse your branches

Shouts of Tabernac fall down the hill. Ulysse topples over and lands lying in slash. Miriam steps on soft solid ground and sinks to her knees. Mosquitoes find the centimeters of space on Petes face that aren't covered in deet. I don't put my rain coat on because it is sunny and then it pours. Then I go to get my rain coat and then it is sunny and then it pours. Will flies off the quad. Snider leaves his glasses at the other end of a 15 minute walk in. Doug pounds his shovel into a rock. Manny mutters soft curses under his breath about Isaac. Isaac shouts Maria at the top of his tall lungs. Maria! Maria! Maria has a bug in her eye, mud in her eye, a twig in her eye. A bunch of us have Christmas toes, the claw, split feet.

Tree planting is about growth. The roots need to be in the ground straight, deep (not too deep), covered. Sometimes, in some land, it takes opening a few holes before you find the right spot to plant. Sometimes, in some land, you plant a tree where it does not belong. Sometimes you plant trees too close, or too far. Miriam looks like Uma Thurman and asks me if I still like planting. I look like a mess and tell her uh huh. Will comes by, puts Pete on the front of the quad, me behind him, and Miriam on the back. We go pull out trees and plant them again. In the first two weeks two people quit. Then two people were injured and one of them quit. Then another was injured and quit. Then two people were transferred on our crew, and two off. Then one left, two more left, and two more are leaving. A checker became a planter. A low-baller became a high-baller.

I dream about tree planting while I sleep and I dream about everything else while I plant. Mutually, as a crew, we love everything we hate about it. We all fall. In slash, mud, in devil's club, and in flower patches; off quads, at the bar, down hills and up them. Then we curse in a few different languages. Then we plant more trees, for one more week, and wait a year to plant more again.

7300 days.

And I'm exhausted.

See the dirt. Plant the dirt. Be the dirt.

Prince George and 100 Mile House, B.C.

Add to that

How long does it take to get trench foot?

Where no mosquitos at

Does anybody else wonder, every day, at what it might be like to be Jay-Z? Maybe with 8 hours of pure thought a day you think of something better to think about. Not me.
I also wonder the following:
Can mosquitoes suck enough blood to compromise iron levels?
Why am I here?
If I fall in the woods do I make a sound?
Why doesn't everyone do this?
Why would anyone do this?
What will I make for dinner?
Will the checker even check this?
What do my biceps look like?

That's all. And if you were wondering if I can break steel in two pieces, the answer is heck yes I can.

Tick Talk.

The child's logic, "Why make the bed if you’re just going to sleep in it again?" Always made sense to me. So why shower when the dirt that takes half an hour to get off will be there again quickly in less than 5 minutes?

Because if you don’t shower you won’t get a chance to find the tick on your torso.

I paraded my friend around for a while, let him or her get to know the folks here, before it was tore quickly and painlessly from my body.

What can I say that will say what I think?
I pull bugs from my body and dirt from my hair. I am happy outside and I'm outside everyday. Dirt is in and under my skin.

Now don't you fret. Now don't you frown.

"Seriously guys, we're not joking, there's a bear between you and us."
"There's no bear, that was just us saying there was a bear, we're coming over."
We walk over.
"Growl," says the bear.
Half of us walk quickly forward, half back. I'm in the half back. We're split in two groups. I want to run wildly but I walk briskly.
"Keep making noise. We're coming to get you."
They trek through the forest to reach our path, take us back and unite us all on a porch structure.There's only one way in and Joe has the axe. Have you seen Joes shovel arm? We're fine.
We're all together. Surely if we're all together the bear won't bother us. We proceed to walk out. Joe in front with the axe. I'm in the middle. I figure the middle is a safe bet. The drunkest of us are at the tail. We make lots of noise. We sing the campfire song about the bear, the great big bear, oh way out there.
"Growl," says the bear.
"Holy shit," says us. We walk back to the porch.
We've got to make lots of noise.
"Let's party!" says us. We stay at the porch.
Beers are opened. Guitars played.
"Growl," says the bear.
"Let's call the RCMP," says us.
"Hello, we're a group of twenty people on the 'Trees of the World' trail. We're in this mushroom thing, and there is a bear approaching us. We're making lots of noise and it's still bothering us. Can we have some help, maybe some fire arms?"
"No I'm not joking."
So, some time, a few phone calls, some more nearby growls, and some drinks later, some officers break through the brush, with some weapons in hand. The man cocks his gun in front of us, 'cause it looks tough and he knows it.
We go out in the direction of the bear. Surely with shot guns it won't bother us.
"Growl," says the bear, closer than ever.
"Did you see that?" says us.
We saw it; a nine foot tall moose, getting progressively taller as the story is told and retold, was our bear.
"Growl," says the moose.
With guns aimed, we were escorted out, met by three police cars, and wished a good night.
It was a good night.

From Royal City to Prince George

What tree planting is like when you aren't yet planting, so basically, what sitting around in an empty apartment is like:
You wake up at 7, because the sun comes in through the windows and makes you wake up, and because it's not all too comfortable on the floor anyway.
You get up, and eat breakfast, or at least I do. Maybe I should just speak for myself.
So I eat breakfast, peanut butter and banana, and it's really delicious. Then I wait for lunch by either throwing a ball up and catching it, reading, playing cards, making small talk, or just sitting there. I also, occasionally, sneak myself away to do some exercises, to maybe, somehow, a little bit, prepare myself.
So then, at lunch time, you might eat lunch; or, I might, but today I just ate an apple because I hadn't expelled all that much energy yet. Then I walked to Value Village and bought 2 puzzles as a new addition to the morning time schedule, a drinking game, as a new addition to the night time schedule (actually, to be very honest, I picked out this game because the box was really very charming looking, and it intrigued me, and then I saw it was a drinking game, and thought, "fine"), cutlery, and a plate. I go to the library, and spend an allotted hour on the internet. The computer is laying down and behind some sort of tinted glass. Its position is a bit off-putting at first.
Soon, Pete, on his newly purchased roller blades, and me, in my sandals, will walk and roll (sorry, had to) back to the apartment. Maybe we'll all watch a movie. Maybe I'll start reading a new book. There's a huge number of possibilities, and our time is limitless. Though I expect, and am actually certain, boredom will ensue in no time.
This is Prince George. Last night I dreamt of a full moon (that looked something like the pancakes Drea and I made in Guelph) and I also dreamt I did something in my dream that I'd like to believe I would not do. So I woke up, and laying there, replayed the dream, but I changed it, ever so slightly, so that I had no choice but to do what I did. Funny that I didn't change what I did, but what someone else did so that I would have a perfect excuse for the circumstances that were to follow. This is all very silly when you think about it, because I didn't really have a choice in the first place. I mean, I was sleeping. Anyway, about the moon, it was enormous, impossibly big, and swirling. This must have come from the small talk the day before, about the moon, and how last year in Prince George all the animals came out at the full moon. This train of thought is very helpful to me because on my mental internet to do list, which of course I have completely forgotten, is "Find out when the full moon is." It's May 19th. May 5th, the first day of planting, there's a new moon. Haha outer space, very cute.

Blog Spot

The tone of this space has changed since I started because readership affects authorship, and because I ran out of family photos. For some reason I thought I had to say really important things; there were lots of times when I had things to say that weren't, so I didn't. I like what everyone else is saying, and today I just want to say that. Who would have thought I would grow so connected to an online community of bloggers? Certainly not me. The surprise is that I'm not reading bloggers, I'm reading writers, really good ones. If I want to craft, I know who to look to. If I want to laugh, that's there too.

Over squid legs and seaweed I told my brother how different my life will be two weeks from now. It will be really different. I will not see the four girls faces I see everyday now. I will not stay in the library until it rudely beeps at me to leave. I will be outside. I will be doing hard work, really hard work. What I said though, and my first thought was, "Those things I check in on will change." There are authors I might know from spending time inside their books, but not really, and so choosing a favourite is hard to do. But I have spent time with these people who write, the ones "In the Bay", and they are among my favourite people, and they are authors, so they are my favourite authors. Of all the things I will miss I will miss connecting to people through the written word in the way in which I do now. I'm fine at writing mail but awful at sending it. I'll try my best though.

Suzanne Robinson, or Little Suzy, as she is now so often (and affectionately) called, told me "I'm going to tattoo my address on your butt, and I'll do it backwards so it's legible when you look in the mirror." Five minutes later she said she could just do it on my arm if I would prefer that. I think instead, only for financial reasons of course, I'll put it in pen ink in a notebook. I might only be as successful as I have been in the past, with letters even right now sitting on my desk unsent, but I'll try my best to write.

Good Lovin Outside

Feels. How the body feels. I'm sifting through school notes and have that written down: "How the body feels."

Ta-Dah

Recently I've rooted myself in the first floor of the library, sometimes, when crowded, I extend myself even deeper into the basement. It's a hole there. So sometimes, with so much want to rise above*, my shoulders start swaying despite my best efforts for them to stay still, and my feet begin to move.

So today, I'm indulging my self. My body and my mind. As my paper permeates my mind I'm letting the scissor sisters cut through my body. Number 19 on the top 25 most played just moved to 18.

*Dirty Projectors, Spray Paint (the Walls), quickly approaching top 25 status

BLOOGIES IN MY cankerchief!

i am guest blogging robot. robot or not i am guest blogging. here on a robot named lynn's blog. i was recently dubya-d-forteed so this robot, called drea robot, is typing at about 500 words for millisecond. so i got this robot hat and this robot tatoo and this robot mullet all in one week. thats alotta upgrades! thats me up there looking sharp even befor ethe upgrades. now i'm a robot that basically blends in with mankind. like dolphons always wanted to do. but we beat them to it. so i live in the lab (codename "liverpool") with some other robots , hmhm i mean hommies. sometimes we go on vacations and put on our skin suits which are made with a built-in hydrocoating of 30 speffs! hiyah! so we cruz down to santa cruz, robot style, pick up some humans and spread the seed baby.talk about an upgrade! robots are terrible in bed, which just shake hands. but humans get so squirmy and fun. to technology and beyond! keep oiled and keep spreading fellow robies. roger that.

Golden

Doctors' Orders

Radio Cure as both cure and ailment. Caffeine as a catalyst.

Wallow for a while in that self-pity, let it make you cuddle up and sleep and bake and eat. Let it make you curl up in a ball. Act like a potato bug. Maybe drink a beer. Say "Fuck it" aloud. Call someone a shithead or an asshole. Glare at stuff. Complain. If these things aren't somehow satisfying then why do we always do them? Sulk in dissatisfaction.

Betray me but teach me something wonderful

I wish that I was a video artist, because as any sort of writer I can't show you the colours or light of today. No number of metaphors will do.

I can no longer trick myself into thinking that afternoons spent like this are wasted. I'm going to decide now to refuse to say, "My weekend was wonderful but I got nothing accomplished." I think people try to get the important stuff (papers) out of the way so they can enjoy moments like these. I got the important stuff out of the way so now maybe I can enjoy my papers.

Bill Murray

If "Groundhog Day" ever happened to me I would want it to happen on a day like today.

If you don't have anything nice to say...

This particular entry began more than a couple of times already. First I tried to be all casual about it: I saw Jordaan and the Horse Museum sing, strum, and stomp their hearts out on Friday. Those folks and their folk are really something else.
Then I started again.
Sweeping generalizations about friends.
I started again.
Vague references to stories I don't really know how to tell.
No.
Suzanne stealing?
Comments on giving, taking and keeping?
I began again. And here I am in the beginning again.
Should I revisit old unfinished drafts? Or should I leave those threads that did not connect?
Maybe I have nothing to say.

But things are nice.

Hello Goodbye

The other morning I dreamt that I had to carry a box that I could not pick up. With my legs I pushed it near a fence. I leaned against the fence for support and I wiggled my toes under its cardboard belly. Once it rested on my feet I was able to get my fingers under it and lift it to my knees. In my strained and sagging arms I travelled only a few steps before I dropped it. Nothing broke though. Nothing was breakable. The objects in the box were themselves all light.

Songs float with a heavy buoyancy. I enjoy solitude but nothing is personal. I always remember my first encounters with music as shared experiences. Then later, when I face it alone, it carries with it those people, their stories, and ours.

Today my house was flooded with the friends who occupied it only in songs for the past week. And I was so satisfied with their return that I stopped listening to the "Suzanne Robinson Remix" and writing stories about sticky little fingers and I turned to older friends in older songs, which led me to older images in older albums and older pages from older books. But I couldn't touch anything and there was nothing to hold. The pictures and pages lacked texture and scent. I read what I put in an old zine (now online) and I wondered (and still sit wondering) why I act as though what I know is not worth acting.

So I took one step (ironically while lying down) and I removed myself from one internet world. Facebook asked me why I was leaving it and it "required" a response. It gives you options to chose and for each fault you can find it tells you how it will change. It pleads with you to stay. If you choose "Other" it requests you provide an explanation. Perhaps this is fair. When leaving a relationship it's expected you provide your partner with your motivations. Well, facebook, I don't think this is mutual or healthy. You take much more than you give. You aren't for real and I'm not myself around you.

But I am blogging. Yeah, blogging. And so I am being hypocritical. It's all about how you use the medium though, right (or wrong)? Can you tell I'm working on a paper about art interventions on television? Uh, in any case, I'm here for now and for a while yet. I know this isn't a tide pool I can dip my ankles in, but at least it's a space for me to sink my words.

And a final few words on nostalgia, because that is what brought me through these thoughts. It is one of the greatest weights I carry.

Reading Week Assignments:

1. Make an encouraging banner. See Robyn's blog for inspiration.

2. Print hardcopies of e-mails and compile them in books.

3. Watch a movie that will make you cry.

4. Mail a letter to the top 20 people in your life and to 1 stranger and to 1 new friend. Letters should be topical in nature, rather than general friendly upkeep. Important suggestions: "How to write a love letter", "What you would know about me if we spent an afternoon together", "What it's like to live in the room next to Sarah Ayton", "10 things I don't know" & "Edible plants along the west coast of North America"

5. Play madlibs over the phone with Suzanne.

6. Make the chocolate-cherry-oreo cake that SarahCaitlin made and garnish it with icing sugar just like she did.

7. Think of the perfect story to write. Maybe write it, maybe don't.

8. Build a really big fort.

9. Drink a bottle of wine inside a really big fort.

10. Make an annotated mix c.d.

From the Rivers to the Ocean

When it's Saturday, and you've just returned home from the market, and your feet are damp, and your eyes are dry and tired, and your to-do list is longer than the hours in the day, and your stomach feels as though you've been doing crunches, but you haven't, because you don't, and when run on-sentences comfort you, when sense doesn't make sense, and when someone somewhere (in the next room) is saying holy shit about something, and your feet are getting colder, and you stop to wonder why your forehead hurts and you realize you're furrowing your brow, and you realize that everything is sort-of slanted, but instead of straightening it you just smile and wonder how things came to be that way, and you have to go to the bathroom but the sink is so dirty that looking at it will make you feel guilty and mad, and now you hear wow from the next room, and you wonder what made that wow, it was a wow of concerned surprise, not happy, and you think to yourself wow, wow, and then you think if you turn wow upside down it's mom and some sort of hallmark card must have done something cute with that sometime, but then instead of wow she's saying holy shit again, and then you think that some awful artist sometime probably made some sort of religious scatology piece and titled it holy shit because that could be art and funny, and you know there's nothing funny about the absence of art created by you, but you still think making nothing is better than making holy shit, and you think that it's funny when people say that clothes with holes in them are to be worn on Sunday, because it's such an old-fashioned joke, and you like old-fashioned jokes, and old-fashioned people, and old-fashions, and if you think all of these things, in this sort of sequence, with a half smile on your face, then that's what it might be like to be me, at least for 10 minutes. And complications are simple when you look at them when you're tired. And then you nap.

Because I didn't send a card.

I always fancied myself a cowgirl; actually I fancied myself a particular cowgirl, Cowgirl Marie from Texas. I wore a vest to match this self. It was fringed and it looked like leather. I would come to Ontario to visit sometimes. Every time I came to visit the Kane family in Ancaster, Lynn would be away visiting the ranch in Texas. It was a terrible coincidence that we never met.

I met another cowgirl though, an older and wiser one. She reminded me of Sissy Hankshaw on account of her prominent digits and her pretty face. She kept a bunch of pigs, but hated pigsties. She raised a couple of asses, and loved them all the same.

Even cowgirls get the blues. She takes care of me every time I do.

And by you I mean you.

Everyday ends.
Some end better than others. Yesterday's finish was today's topic of conversation. Yesterday took all day to happen, and I forget what happened.

Today, nearly over, is ending better than others, with a phone call. With a smile that I hope was heard, well wishes sincerely meant and old wishes still sincere. If wishes were horses, and dead horses will never work, then dead wishes won't work either. Phones can't send hugs, and I wish they could. So what's an alive wish? I will wish for a cup of tea, a warm bed, and oatmeal in the morning. That will work.

Everyday (Dave) End(s): "I get too much sleep, and by too much I mean not enough, and by sleep I mean you."

My Word.

I shouldn't, but I am, so here it is.
The selected version of things I didn't say, now said, simply because I like them.

"Things in life are always more than the words that try to contain them."
&
"I should just write it anyway and see where it takes me."

I love to see the unexpected places words take me. Words surprise. Let's read tonight.

The Shadow Knows

1. You can't see the forest through the trees 2. Twenty years from now it won't make a damn bit of difference 3. A dead horse will never work 4. When you look in the eyes you see eyeballs.

These statements require delivery. They (except for the second) aren't simply said. They need to be sent. In transporting these expressions the darkness that shrouds them is shaken off. They aren't as grey as they appear, or maybe they are, but that's okay too. Anyway and either way, they make me smile.

Delivery included:
The first is said while riding in a car (at the speed limit) and being steered by a wobbly driver across farm-side streets. You yawn and a finger is in your mouth. You turn your head to look at sheep and you're poked in the cheek when you look ahead again. You look out at a forest, but the driver complains he can't see it through all of those trees.

After perhaps a, "For God's sake Bett" (Bett is the woman in the photo), or more innocuously, after a long look at slowly passing clouds, the second is said just as the second is written. And 'it' probably won't.

The third is posed as a question, or rather, a fact to be questioned.
It will never work.
What won't work?
A dead horse.

The fourth is purely silly.
I look in the eyes and what do I see? Eyes-a-balls!

I'm thinking now that I have a lot to get done that I am not doing. I'm thinking I'll pay attention to number 2, sleep, and worry about it in the morning.

Subject: On Mail (A Lengthy Post)

On her four fingers she wrote, "Action", "Expression", "Honesty" and "Comfort," I said, "You've got a thumb left for love." She said, "I've got too much hate." With all abounding thoughts on action resting violently in my head I've forgotten some important things, mainly honesty. Mainly honest expression. Lack of honest expression has led me... let's just say it's led me astray in the past. I would use one of my four fingers for bravery, rather than comfort, because I feel I need it for the other three, and I feel that it's a weakening fear of discomfort that allows me to lie to myself. Everything under a smile.

One day I walked with an elderly woman to the post office. We met because I giggled at her opening a door with her bum, "You gotta use what you got." She said she was sick of writing letters because she had sent so many to her brothers and husband during the war. Mail is important. It's a little bit of all four fingers.

Making Moves and Puppy Love

I've recently made scrabble moves, dance moves and moves from point a to point b (and c, d, e).
Scrabble is a series of careful decisions. I chose "Pi".
Dancing is a series of thoughtless actions. My feet choose for me; they do not always choose grace or dignity.
Moves from point a to b are difficult, particularly with the use of 50 cent pay-phones, more so when you do not know the neighbourhood you're in. You get crafty. I went into a Chapters and quickly found the travel section to plan my route. A subway ride later, then following much misguided direction and forfeiting to a gypsy-cab-co-esque taxi, I made it to the door I was to enter. Ascending one simple set of stairs can be a daunting task when you do not know the apartment call number to get you through a door, when you don't have a cellphone to find out, and when you don't know what to dial even if you did. I found myself in front of that very task. First, I walked out of the building to see if I could spot a room to throw stones at. I can't throw curve balls so I decided to try my luck guessing apartments. Numbers 1-14. I had an inkling it was 13. The building must have a suspicious landlord because these numbers jumped from 12-14. I tried 12. That was it. I was meant to get into that apartment. The evening that followed was too good to tell*. Good in that sad way, and good in that way that I just can't quite put into words yet because I can't quite understand it.

Eventually, after a short weekend that lasted forever, I brought myself home to to dream of puppy love. His name is Freddie and my mom brought him to Oakville yesterday. He is about the size of a shoe, soot-black, and really freakin' cute. One day soon I'll swing back into movement and meet this little mutt.

* I think I unconsciously took this from Kerouac, but inverted it's meaning. Apps?

C.E.O. (Customer Excellence Officer)

I don't know what I get paid, and all in all I don't care at all. I work at a grocery store. I spent the past three days packing rectangular bags with objects all different shapes and sizes. Tetris anyone?
I gave health advice I'm not at all qualified to give. This season I'm recommending you get omega three fatty acids from a plant-based source (flax) to keep your skin glowing and your mood elevated. Take oil of oregano for anything that ails you. Eat beets.
I saw old favourites. Mrs. Kettleborough (bags packed light) taught me how to pronounce her first name in the most over-the-top Kettleborough way. I love that every single time she signs her bill her name runs over the line and then bends down along the side of the receipt.
I saw my boss. She calls me "babygurrrrrl", periodically gives me bear hugs, and keeps me company during breaks.

I also babysit. Tonight I played with lightsabers, explained the dark side, and made tie fighters out of sticks.

My fee should be something like negative five dollars/hour. I should pay you for letting me tell you about my holidays while you pass me your credit cards. I should pay you for feeding me, letting me play with your toys, and giving me picture books to read. Bosses/parents make momentary monetary lapses in judgement and give me cheques and dollars for doing things I like to do. Oh well.


Note: I'm glorifying the grocery store, but in doses small and spread apart it's actually as lovely as it sounds. And yeah, our name tags actually say "C.E.O", and yeah, I've probably heard that joke.