It's not even 6 yet

It smells like yeast in Walkerville in Windsor and depending on the day it smells either comforting (like a fresh loaf of bread) or not. With the most extreme patience imaginable, Suzanne taught me to knit. The old ache in my wrist is coming back again, but what can I do about it and how can I avoid the pleasure of needle crafts at Christmas time? It's impossible. Now I have a hat to wear, and one that isn't fur. Suzanne spent a few minutes teaching her sister to knit last night. I woke up at an ungodly hour with her parents to find that Sarah had knit herself a little rectangle and kept a note about the ever-rising amount of stitches she had collected. I gave Sarah a big kiss on the cheek to say goodbye and I like to think I didn't even see her cringe.
Reluctantly Andrew agreed to watch a bit of Chevy Chase's Christmas Vacation with dinner, just for a bit. Never did I imagine myself wedged between Suzanne and her father watching this movie over wine, lamb sausage, and vegetable lasagna. I looked over at Andrew, usually so cautious to crack a smile, bright eyed and beaming through much of the movie. Martha was laughing wildly.

And last night as a gift for their parents the Robinson children (including the dog Darcy) went and got their photo taken, and they even let me into a few frames.

(semi)precious

Van with 'Zanne.

What to do

If life hands you lemons, get some more ingredients and make yourself a hot toddy.

Spandex + Kitsilano

The headline some days ago said: "Plenty of Spandex and Nowhere to Use it?"
But I read: "Plenty of Spandex: Know Where to Use It."

I ought to do everyone a favour and write the second article.

Stupid Old Joke/Banana Date Oatmeal Jumbles

Where can one find cheap dates in this city?
But really, seriously, it got cold, I gained my appetite back, and I want to make cookies. I can find 12 dollar dates or 1 dollar dates (1.59 to be precise) that are sweetened, sweetened. Like sweetening sugar itself.
In the meantime, the (tried and true) recipe (via Mum via the American Vegetarian Cookbook):

3 large bananas, mashed
2 cups rolled oats
1 cup chopped dates
1/3 cup oil (I use ¼ cup)
Dash of salt
1 tsp vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 350. Combine bananas, oats, dates, oil, salt and vanilla. Allow to rest 15 minutes to let flavors mingle.

2. Drop by spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes or until brown.

3. Let cool. Store in fridge.

Yields about 24 jumbles or 1 big jumble.

Just the good stuff.

Tired tired eyes and everything and everything is something good. I spent a weekend in the company of Mr. S. Wicks, with oysters, a rainbow, artifacts, shuffle pucks, champagne, art, cheeses, grapes, and it just goes on and keeps going on. This one was one of those ones but this one was something else. What a weekend, I say, and I'll be saying that for some time, I'm sure.

It's Thursday and I'm Humming a New Song

Anything I can do Foucault can do better.

Motivation

It's important that I get my paper done so that I can focus on my halloween costume.

Today the woman in front of me was singing her little opera heart out as she walked. I was about 6 feet behind her and when I passed people walking toward me, and right in that moment after they passed her, I always got a smile and I always gave one back. I need an opera singer to keep on a leash in front of me, turning all passing strangers into friendly folks.

brother from the same mother

Will pushed me on Commercial Drive. I hit, knocked over, and fell down on to a lotto max sign. This is the way Will looks at things: Immediately after I fell, or maybe when I was even still on the ground, he says something like, "Now you've got a story to tell. I pushed you over on commercial drive."

So there is that story told.

Part 2. He buys me a drink to make up for it.

Thanksgiving Diner

West Coast(ers)

I made these and wanted to show them off.

Stranger

I thought no one who was actually from Vancouver talked to strangers. I was proven wrong by the woman today who asked me aren't my feet cold?

No, my feet aren't the least bit cold. They're even a little sweaty. I didn't mention the sweat.

She talked to me about the strange way people dress these days. She really is more from Vancouver than anyone I've met. She's been here since 1939. The first time she was ever hugged by anyone (she's parentless) was by her sister at what is now the sea-bus station. To her, this is the most comfortable place she could be. She was born in 1924 in Regina. She buys day-old bread and always has and has never thought to heat it up a bit in the oven, like I said I sometimes do. She said she might try that. Her friend who she's known for many years has a bakery on East Hastings. He takes the day-old bread away from her when she brings it to the counter and replaces it for the freshest loaves and only makes her pay the price of day-olds. She doesn't like Cobbs' bread. She asks me if I'm staying here and I say that I am staying here for two years. The sound of "two years" is ringing in my ears. I am going to school, I say. She asks me what I study and I say literature and she says she only went to grade seven and doesn't know that big smart word. I say I study books and she's okay with that, I think.

I would like to hang out with her.
Do you think she reads missed connections?

Strange

I dream of a stranger who hears my coughing and brings me warm apple cider spiked with rum. "Now shut up," the stranger says, and it places the mug down and walks away.

Tutorial

Here's how to turn some ugly chairs you found in the garbage into an okay patio-bench-thing:
Take ugly chairs and saw off the ugly backs of the chairs.
Wrap seats in any old fabric.

Duct tape into place.
And voila!
The only material I had to buy for this "project" was a hacksaw. I had everything else handy. Total cost: $6.

The Day-to-day

It might not be clear but that last one is of one big slug next to my shoe. I'm sorry these pictures are boring and of bad quality. I hope you like them anyway. Please come to Vancouver.

In this order, probably with a whole lot of wasting time in between:

I'm going to make beet soup. I'm going to move that metal shelf one last time. I'm going to almost finish (and definitely start) my funding statement tonight. I'm going to buy a disposable camera so that you can see what I see. Blog hold me accountable.

The Ocean Sighed

Yesterday I got my first mail and I saw a seal. Today I got pooped on by a bird on Broadway. Tuesday > Wednesday.

The gift that keeps on giving.

Breakfast for the next forever.

My Neck of the Woods.

169 serene square feet.

At work there is a wood door and a glass wall that goes around. And the top and the bottom of the glass wall are transparent and the middle part, from about 3 to 10 feet, is translucent. I watch a procession of business casual ankles, ankles age twenty-something up to 70-something. Shirley makes her own clothes; her hems are immaculate. By four her ankles are swollen.

Marshall has an elegant saunter. Dianne slipped carrying the wine and water at church so her leg has a boot on it, and she moves slow. Stephanie's foot has star tattoos and bandaids on her heels. Sherry has lovely thin legs. And bunions. I know what sort of conversation to expect based on whose ankles approach.

Has the mail come yet?
Buzz me when my brother comes, he's got tickets for me.
Are you O.K. up here? We keeping you busy enough? Good, good.
It's so darn hot out there! Does that fan really do anything, or just make noise?

When I see Sherry's ankles coming I ready the headset for her, when Dianne's boot stomps forward I ready myself. These are all ankles and feet belonging to people who I have become familiar with, if not fond of, during my time as a fill-in receptionist/mail clerk at the office.

Old Walkerville.

Here in Windsor I hear an ice cream truck often and I see fireflies on a nightly basis.

Etiquette.

As a general rule, it is not polite to put your toenails in your purse. It is, however, often more polite to put them there rather than somewhere else. Garbage cans are completely acceptable always. But it is never polite to pick your toenails.

Where the watermelons grow

After work she said, "Where'd you park?"

And I said, "Down by the Bay."

That one was lost on her, I think.

I drove home and listened to track five once more before turning off the CJSW cd for at least another day. That is my song of the summer, and I'm not sure what it's called. The woman whose voice I've been singing along with has actually been a man's voice all along, maybe. This summer, so far, is marked by driving, not riding. I've turned in my Bianchi for my mother's Caravan. That is this summer, so far. I graduated, turned older, dunked my head into the speed river, and made resolutions, again: this time "stay sassy" was one of them.

Too Early or Too Late

I want to go to a cottage in the winter now.

Nature Bingo

I sar' a muskrat the other evening. Maw made me make soup and I made that soup good. Then I called her up for supper (oh how the tables have turned) and we ate it in front of our big windows. Then, to my delight, I sar' the little devil. I shouted "Lookit!" Maw ran for her glasses. I got the binoculars. He was gathering a bunch of grass in his mouth. He swam with it. We went for a walk later that night, maw and I, and scoped out the muskrat holes.

Chukar and/or Rock Partridge

I sar' one of 'em on my street. I chased it. It ran. Made my days.

Mr. Joe King

Some people have that animal. That one animal that people can reliably decide you'll like in mug, pencil, pillow, box, ornament, calendar, and/or throw form. Over Kelsey's, Donna and my Mother (between weight and age jabs) discussed this. My Mother (my Maw, as I affectionately call her) has pigs, hundreds of them. Donna has cats.

One Christmas, much to my surprise, I had ladybugs, as though I had always had ladybugs. I had never had ladybugs. They filled my stocking in chocolate and notepad form. I had to correct the dear old women responsible for this error in order to prevent myself from receiving lady bug paraphernalia at Christmases, Birthdays, Easters, and Graduations for years to come. This backfired.

Since then, which was maybe 5 or 7 some odd years ago, I've gotten ladybugs as a joke: remember-the-time-we-thought-you-liked-ladybugs--wasn't that funny?--gifts.

Go West

I'm moving to Vancouver in September.

There are things that I have that I imagine I won't need there, like my fur hat and all those Steinbeck books I own, and there are things that I imagine I will need there, like a raincoat, and some pals.

Maybe I'll bring the Steinbeck anyway, for company.

Countdown

I am an undergraduate student until Tuesday. Until then, I will write late, wake early, and spend my days and nights in the ugly (always humming) library that has been my second home for the past 3 and a half years. I will drink too much coffee, write approximately 5,000 more words, and neglect my growing laundry pile for just 3 and a half more days. I will wear the pants with the loosest waistbands for the most comfortable sitting. I will stretch and that will be my luxury. My hair, artificially out of place at the beginning of the day, will be genuinely out of place by the noon hour. Bangs back, books out. Half-priced day-olds. Two day overdue fines, going on three. Four more sleeps. Only four more sleeps.

You & Yours and Me & Mine

Summer's coming.

Remember the white, blonde-haired woman, with her leg up on the lawn mower, her black polka-dotted white halter dress, her repeated desperate tugs at the cord, and her hair, shoulder length and bobbed, hitting her face more violently with each pull? She looked like this.

On a sweltering day, wearing a thick wool skirt, with a cigar and iced-tea in hand on our way to see West Side Story. I say you'll get tongue cancer. I smoke too.

The woman beckons us from across the street. We direct ourselves across the patch of grass separating us from the road to her aid. Just as soon as we decide to help she gives one last yank and the machine starts. She waves jubilantly, thanking us for our intentions.

After the show we can't decide where to get ice cream.

Turn Tables.

This is a picture I took of my brother Ben on Christmas Eve, 2009.

My Good Bad Habit

I write people nice letters when I'm drunk. Or, more often, I conceptualize nice letters to write to people, and then, as the evening continues, forget where my feelings of altruism came from. The other evening, at the bar, I was thinking about the loveliness of Greg and Stephanie's blog, and the loveliness of those people, and I made it into a letter in my head. Often, sometimes, too, for some reason I'm not sure of, I think of people in the service industry who are good at their jobs. I remember Fiona who gave us popcorn, an extra large coke, honest opinions about the films, and shared with us her good nature. Months after actually being at the theater, after a pint or two, I remember Fiona and I think, I should write the Galaxy a letter, it's not too late.

Can you speak German?

The woman who sat down next to me had a mug and a bottle of Creemore. Maybe it was twelve o’clock, whenever it was, we said good morning to each other. We talked about the weather. Like a European day, she said. She was a nostalgic German, teary-eyed about the approaching anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. She asked me had I been to Europe and I said I had not. She doesn’t not like Canada, it’s just, “well”, there’s something...
I asked her why she came here and she said it was maybe because of her husband, she guesses, and for a “good life”, and things here used to be different anyway. Now that she has raised her kids here, she said, I don’t know. It’s a lot to lose, she said, your language, your culture. Just T.V. here, and everybody shut up with their flickering light boxes. Laws and bylaws. One thing goes wrong once and there’s a new law to “protect” us. She was finished with her drink. And so “healthy” here, she said. She invited a neighbour for coffee and she said she doesn’t drink coffee. Not even coffee, just tea. And nobody has a beer Sunday after church, god forbid. Her legs were draped over the arm of her seat and 2 flies were next to each other on the crease of her pants. More was said. More praise was given to the fine weather before she left me to get along with my work. The ladybug fell from my hair onto my lap.

Observatory

Because it's so nice out I make a habit of taking a bigger walk everyday instead of my usual little walks that are simply borne out of necessity.

I walk home from school and on the way today, at today's peak temperature, when my feet were protesting against my black boots and when my leather backback, on nylon coat, on denim vest, on cotton shirt were thoroughly irritated by the sun's delicious attention, that's when I saw two people carrying milk. A man all in black, with dyed black hair, black pants, a black t-shirt and sweater, was carrying a large carton of milk up the hill on Gordon St.- 3% at that. Then a woman with a bag of two bags of milk was at the crosswalk. Sweating milk in pink and white containers. A walk uphill both ways. Finally unsalted ground. I plan my dinner:

Cold coffee.
Homemade Lynn Burgers.
Sweet Potatoes.
Dipped Strawberries and Stout.

Decorating Inspiration

The/Ben's Factory

I’ve half lifted those pallets whole heartedly, and weakly dragged them across the floor. Those are the bins I pushed around, the clock whose battery I changed, the workbench I assembled (though backwards, at first). That’s the forklift that brought me to the ceiling to lift heavy pieces of metal into the rafters for “safe keeping”. That's the man that drove it. That might be the wood I counted over, and over again. Those are the nails (on the floor, you can’t see them) that I pulled out of boards. I’ve sprayed down the dust from those lights. I’ve fired at least one of those nail guns, opened the fresh box of many, and retired more than that to Anson’s desk. That’s the way the broom hangs and where the ladder goes. I’ve shrink wrapped and tagged pallets just like those ones, broken ones just like those ones, fixed ones just like those ones.


I have probably circled that factory floor over a thousand times.

My Thoughts on Cats

My dreams of a pup have temporarily been quashed by hardwood floors and by my own sense of practicality and "what's fair". While I'm not quite sure I want a cat "instead", I do think I don't mind them. I do think that they can be alright, if not down right incredible (see below).

Offer of Admission:

Dear Miss Kane,
We're pleased to offer you admission into our program. Your offer includes a $50,000 scholarship, a puppy, deep green velvet curtains, all-you-can-eat dark chocolate (at least 70%), cookware, a taxidermied animal of your preferred species, 135 books of your choosing, a kitten to keep your puppy company, fresh socks everyday, an office, a greenhouse, a proper lampshade for your bedside lamp, however many moleskines you want, and travel expenses (for a trip to California). Please respond within four weeks of receiving this letter.
Best,
The University of What You Fantasize About Before Bed

Well, somebody has to do it.

Today the baby wearing a raiders hat played peek-a-boo with me on the bus. I had no choice but to comply.

I remember this from grade 12:

Hairdresser Says to Cac: "You cut your hair yourself? Ohhhh she does it for you. Heh. Do you know how much these scissors cost? Didn't think so. $500. Yeah. That's why you don't cut your hair yourself."

What a fucker.

How Mine Mind Works:

Today the snowflakes were the size of apples. (Small apples). I would have liked to pause to look at them from a cafe window. (At that moment what I wouldn't have done for a custard pastry). But I smelled something like slept in stockings, unwashed hair, curry and herbs, and faintly of sour sweat.
So I walked through the flakes, but just barely. They grabbed my coat and stuck to it, and to my face, not really even seeming to melt. I was spotted all down my one side. I met a wall of them, and then a wall of more of them, and these walls tumbled into pieces on the bridge of my glasses and all over my black tights.
I came home and I cooked an egg and a breakfast pita and, with the scent of days old gin lingering in my bedroom air, I read the rest of my novel. And it was so (so so so) lovely.

We Go Bowling

currentsundercurrents

Last night wins the award for worst dream ever though it started out okay enough. Enter: Paul Reiser. In my dream he was in or nearing his 40s, more Indian than usual, and cute. Make that Cute. I complimented him on his role in Aliens, and he was very flattered, and very proud. I asked if he had won an Oscar for that role, and if not then he should have, I said. I said you were just so slimy, you really had that down. And he said "Slimy! That's the word I was looking for, yeah, that's exactly what I wanted to achieve." We bonded, you might say, and then exit Paul Reiser. Enter: Real live aliens. Or, to be more correct, enter aliens one at a time, creating all sorts of suspense. There was this one part where I was watching a play and the characters had to drag themselves out from under a building, that was like the stage, and then they acted on their bellies like gross under-building-dwellers. Anyway, the aliens. Well eventually they turn into real-looking people (after a very long sleeping-time of being absolutely terrifying looking) and I have to kill one with a pitchfork, it's the only way. Except for the first twenty or so stabs it's impenetrable. When I finally "bust through" I have to keep stabbing it, for what seems like forever. I get one of the prongs through its neck and make a hole and it still lives. We tell it to swallow a scarf and it does and then when it's in its throat it pulls it through the hole, like "taa-daa".

I had this thought on the way to campus

I want to grab up all the old women and give them a hug, each and every one of them.

Conversation Topic:

So far, I have met Elvis Stojko twice. The first time I was under 10, at a soccer camp, and he bought a lemonade from the vending machine behind me. I was waiting in line for something in the recreation center. I guess that doesn't count as "meeting Elvis". But anyway, the second time I met Elvis he was no longer a figure skater. He was into martial arts then, and perhaps he still is now. He was shopping at the grocery store where I was a cashier. My manager insisted she serve him at the cash, because it's a big deal to help Elvis Stojko, I guess. She would flap her hands back and forth in excitement, god bless her, because to her he was a megababe. Mid-check-out the power went out and there he was, in line, with his bag of oranges, stuck. It delayed him about 10 minutes or so, and if I remember right he was good spirited about it. Stojko eats organic. I bet you're not surprised. I want to know about the time(s) you met Elvis Stojko, Kurt Browning, Kristi Yamaguchi, Tonya Harding, or any other famous figure skater. What was he/she like? 

Wasting Time

If you haven't lately, listen to Otis Redding's (Sitting on the) Dock of the Bay. And if you feel like it listen to it over, and over, and over again.

Oh baby.

Corner Garden

A visitor said something like: "Are those branches?"
And I said something in response like: "Yeah"
He said: "Why don't they have leaves like the other ones?" (All of the other branches (except the two in question) have so many leaves).
I said: "Don't know." They haven't had leaves on those branches since I moved here (late August). Since he asked (less than a week ago) one defiant little leaf has reared its cute little budding head and is getting bigger every day.

And I, like a real jerk, _still_ want more and ask the plant: Where are the flowers, buddy?

Archives

OLD PICTURES
From A New Year (2008-2009)

The Good News

My last issue of McSweeney's, a gift from a year ago, came in the mail. It's calling out to me and competing with Nickel and Dimed, a novel in which an upper middle class writer puts aside her PhD and decides to figure out the underpaid underbelly of America. I have to read Nickel and Dimed but I want to read James Franco's short story and phone conversation with Miranda July about moonlighting. I've already read Deb Olin Unferth's very short story because it was just very short. In the mail I also received (every single time I write received I still recite "i before e...") a pre-invitation to a wedding. The wedding will be taking place at the only place I know the person from; the place where, when I was 15 (she was older), the bride-to-be told me about the locations on the property where she had done it with her boyfriend (including in the human sized hamster wheel). I have a photograph of her on that same hamster wheel. And now this boyfriend is to become her husband and I think that is very sweet, sweet like elephants with their trunks entwined.

Over the last 6 months I have been making a list of inanimate objects that appear to be kissing when touching. I don't have the list with me but I remember thinking hammers was a good one, and teapots.

R&R (regress and regrets) (also rest and relaxtion)

I have a sliver. Wood working its way into my body. Maybe it will just stay in there. Or maybe it will work its way out.
(If I am brave and pull it out who is going to make me brownies?)

Real Mature

It took a day for readings to take over everything. It took one guy saying "sucks balls" and a generally heavy presence of the type of people who might say "sucks balls" for me to drop one class for a hopefully better one. People might say "sucks balls" just because it has a ring to it and is potentially catchy (I don't know) but hear this: Think twice before you say "sucks balls". It might mean that a fairly intelligent and generally articulate person is going to drop the class she had with you, one week before the presentation she had with you, leaving you to do the work with just one other guy sometime on the day before the presentation is to be presented because you're busy making out with your girlfriend all weekend in Montreal. Can't we pick a more mature phrase for things we don't like, something more like "this stinks" or "this is the poops"? If he had said that it was poopy that we had to present next Thursday maybe I would have stuck around. This is what happens when teachers group students by the 1-2-3-4-5 ones-over here-twos-over there-method.
Anyway, readings have taken over everything. I planned my future over pints with a friend. Mine had reading, hanging out, and maybe writing in it. Her's had helicopters and fame, NY and LA. I'm (clearly) too caught up on the little things (see above) and ought to dream bigger. Maybe not a helicopter, maybe aaaaaa station wagon; something with wheels and room for a dog.

Tuesday comes after Monday and Wednesday's next.

Pizza, wild dreams (I beat up a child because DQ was responsible for a soccer ball hitting me in the head three times and it really hurt so I asked the child's parents for compensation (the managers of the DQ) and they said no so I tackled the child down hard and ran off), and what's that? That's laundry! No more underpants in my bathroom sink! Clean Sheets And Fresh Socks. Within the next hour and a half? All applications done! Within the next 48 hours? A magical reunion of spirits! How am I spending my day? In the library getting started. What's my resolution? A new sentence a day. Yesterday? A 2010 agenda with inspirational and awful quotes that worked. Today I wear my greasy hair down.

On women and whiskey and what they can do

A pretty good evening:
I left the house last night with a dried out broken cigar in hand and a whiskey and coke in bottle. Matches in my pocket. And I went to a house show to get a little of that house show feeling. And I got it and I went home.

Knew Yuhs

Each and every year a "Happy New Year," like it's a matter of fact. Last year the girl next to me bought a house and met Nick, and she asked me what did I do?

This is why New Year's Eve and disco balls are so well paired together. The end of a year and lots of spiraling broken reflections. This I suppose about sums it (everything) up. The goods and evils of self-reflection going 'round and 'round. ("The problem with cyclical things is..."). All the most beautiful moments, like even the most delicious yogurt, can turn sour.

It's my nature to want to make things be or seem okay. But it's okay for things to be downright shitty for a little while.

I need a good romp in the snow or an old dog to pet.