behindtheax: February 2007

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

there is a bit of a thaw going on. the sun is beautiful. my kitchen geraniums are happy

Monday, February 19, 2007

never mind

I can feel a rave coming on. I’m going to let myself go and just keep it in my private journal if it gets too much to post. Greg is safe in NY. Called me a few times. I got the work I was doing for him done and client is happy. The mall trip was fun. I love my kids. We made a cake Friday night because we were bored and had tacos and salad for supper. I watched The Illusionist. I liked it. They had a friend over and I could hear them laughing most of the evening away in Monica’s bedroom. It was a nice weekend. And because Greg wasn’t here, I could crack open the window in our bedroom and let in all that fresh air to sleep in, and have the dogs up on the bed with me – until Bow growled at Cinnamon and Cinnamon got down, and then Bow kept circling and scratching at my sheets trying to get comfortable until I growled at her and she got down. Then I fell asleep and dreamed crazy dreams. They were triggered from the phone call from my sister. She had called Friday evening before heading off to Dad’s banquet thing, and she was crying. And she talked to me for a long time about how difficult things are with the divorce and how slow everything is progressing, and I felt just so far away and didn’t know what advice to offer her. We talked for a fair amount of time and she said I was helpful and apologized for talking my ear off, and after she hung up I was a little confused because my spirits were up, and I couldn’t understand how that could be after listening to my distraught sister. But then I realized it was just having that connection with home for a whole forty minutes. I know that sounds selfish, but I miss her and the family, and am happy when they reach out regardless what the reason. There was always this “Out of sight, out of mind,’ mentality with them – and that is only because there are so many of us that one can easily get misplaced. And I was always an observer in my family anyway. Not an actual participant so I didn’t really make that much of a dent when I left. Like, I have five brothers and if one called me right now, I would eat the cat. Mind you I don’t call them either. But still it makes me sad that a whole lifetime is slowly going by and we said so little to each other.

I think it is why I conquer up the red truck so much in my head. Actually it was a number of red trucks. The first vehicle I ever remembered my family owning was a red truck, and in my teen years, it was the big Ford super cab (that dad had for work) that I learned to drive in, and then my brother bought a red truck (GMC I think) and even at one point Greg had a small red truck (Toyota) And I guess I thought some day I would also have a red truck – If I own a red truck therefore I am, sort of philosophy. Once I had that truck I would cease being an observer and become an actual participant. But the thing is I never bought a red truck.

The last time I drove a red truck I was coming back from visiting my sister (back home). She lives about fifteen minutes out of town and I had pulled into a gas station to fill it up. It was Andy’s red truck and it was pretty beat up by that point. And it was dusk and the light from the pumps encapsulated me and the truck and the moths and mosquitoes and the quiet of that country road and I remember feeling – this is me. It was a point in my life when the city was getting way too much for me and I ached to be home on the river again. Now, every time I get homesick, that red truck pops into my head. William’s has his wheelbarrow and Kane his sled. I have a beat up red truck – (although i forget what they symbolize? Regret? Lost Innocence?

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Friday, February 16, 2007

Snow Dogs

Greg is in NY, finally, after two of his flights were cancelled. Girls got a day off, so I’m off to a mall with them. Oh my Gosh, I’m restless. Last night I couldn’t sleep and for half the night I had Fall Out Boy’s line, “this ain’t a scene it’s a GD Arm’s race,” going through my head repeatedly, driving me practically insane. And then that morphed into quick flashes of everything in my life that ever made me shrink a bit, and I finally ended up sitting in the kitchen staring out at the back yard again. Weird –

My father is accepting an award this weekend. It is my hometown’s sport hall of fame award, along with a banquet. He is happy and nervous. I hope it all goes well for him. I almost went back for it but it co- insides with Greg’s trip to NY. Anyway, I am going home for a long stretch this summer. Just not sure what to do with the dogs. I want to take them but they are a handful – which reminds me of an incident that happened on Wednesday, after we got dumped on by a lot of the white stuff – I was taking them out for their morning walk when they spotted Greg walking up ahead. (He had decided to take public transit that morning and was walking to the bus stop) and they decided they were going to catch up to him, and so started pulling so hard that I had to run to keep up with them. If I had lost my footing they would have just pulled me through the snow like a sled. And I’m yelling to Greg to stop but of course he has his tunes in his ears. I could not get them under control and it didn’t help that my arms were sore from shoveling – It was kind of comical.
They are very strong – and at times willful. I am just getting a little nervous about a trip back east with them – I know they would love it – the water and wood but I still need to think this through.

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

It weird how I want to drive the red truck today. I want that ample space between thigh and steering wheel. The rip in the seat that I always caught my purse on. The smell of Ben’s hamburgers, grass seed and old spice. The standard steering and standard brakes. Some days that red truck haunts me more than I would like.

We are supposed to get a lot of snow starting around noon. I am taking Monica for a Drs. Appointment to check on her cough that won’t quit. Although last night she didn’t cough. Greg thinks it’s the dogs. Probably is. They have been shedding so much lately. Which is weird – you would think they would wait til the spring. I think maybe it is the routine of being out in the cold for a few hours and then into the warmth of the house. Anyway, they are not allowed in her room anymore and we got a small air purifier for her room, hoping that will help. Greg is off to New York this weekend. The girls have Friday off so I promised them a trip to the mall. Egad.

I usually try to ignore the lives of celebrities and stuff but I found the death of Anna Nicole Smith really bothered me. Maybe because she had lost her son only months ago and had a new baby, and then those who are fighting for the money, I mean baby. And the way the media was always at her – are we not just one big global playground full of bullies? Where the hell is the teacher who is suppose to be supervising us? We should never be left to our own devices. It makes me think about that short story "The Lottery,". Who shall we throw our stones at now?

Monday, February 12, 2007

Reading

I’m now reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Yes, the subject matter is a little disturbing, but he is an incredible, incredible writer. It is hard to put down. Gardner had mentioned Nabokov quite often in “On Becoming a Novelist,” and I wasn’t at all familiar with his name. Yes, I know. But in my defense – I was too busy reading Jackie Collins, Sidney Sheldon, Stephen King and countless others in my twenties. And in my thirties I fell in love with long epic type fantasies and anything Canadian and anything Oprah selected. So, it has only been the last five years or so that I have started to actively search for the best of the best. Not that I haven’t stumbled upon many amazing novels on my own. Like when I first took Margaret Lawrence’s Stone Angel down from the library shelf and decided to read it. She is one of my top ten favourites now. In my early twenties though, I thought there was no greater writer than Stephen King. He took me to places exactly where I wanted to go. The more bizarre the better. I lived “The Stand” for a week - and Larry McMurtry’s, “Lonesome Dove.” Did the same for me. I won’t be the one to try to diminish the merit of any writer, or nor would I go back and unread any book I ever read, but at this point, my enjoyment aside, I want to know what separates the truly good books from the rest of the pack.

The sun is out today and I have so much on my to do list. yesterday i was down and found myself standing looking out the back window in the early morning hours - but what a difference a day makes.

Moon loaded with morning
All chambers
Two black squirrels
Pause
On the power lines
One two
They scamper across
Thin tails flicking
branches grappling
a loose sky
scraping away grey
dirtying the snow
this day begins dark
And on my ring finger
A circle of red
a faint itch

Thursday, February 01, 2007

old books

I am reading, “ On Becoming a Novelist,” by John Gardner and I’m finding it fascinating. One of his suggestions was to type out a masterpiece such as James Joyce’s “The Dead,” and so I took “Dubliners” from my bookshelf, opened it to the last story and began to type. I typed three thousand words until my fingers grew tired. I will finish it, and I think I might go onto to typing out “The Boat,” by Alistair Macleod next. Why? Because I think it might help. It is a different feeling than just reading it. When I read it I’m consumed by the story, when I type it I’m consumed by the words, by the structure. I think it is a very good exercise. I figure most already know this exercise but for me it is new.

I love the smell of old books. My copy of Joyce’s “Dubliners”, I bought at a used bookstore a few years back. Its original price was 50c. I bought if for $2.70. It is a 1957 edition from Penguin Books. The pages have aged to the colour of buckskin, spreading to a darker shade along the borders.

If I put my face inside the pages and breathe deep, I am immediately transported back to my parent’s paperback collection, the part of it that they kept in the garage’s loft in an old trunk. It also reminds me of the grocery man who would deliver groceries to our door. He had one of those wide wallets that was attached to his pants by a chain. The milkman came every day but the grocery man only came once a week, and there was always much excitement. And I remember that same smell clung to the grocery man, like it does to old books.

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