On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part i)

Hi, people.

Not having coordinated computers and photo programs et cetera just yet, I’m breaking my preferred habit of supplying a few photos to break up a long blog post.

What follows is the the first part of a 1300-word bit of writing I did on the train in the early afternoon on March 19th. I’ve cleaned up, but not gussied up, the writing; gussying up would include, f’rinstance, the use of a few more verbs than “be”. Anyway, here goes…

March 19 2009

At 13 19 I awoke to the surprising, surprised words, “Oh, but you don’t live there anymore!” The voice was my own, unspoken, interrupting my somnolent thoughts. I was on the train.

Yesterday, the 18th, I was out front with Cai at 08 30 when I saw a moving van parked in front of our building. It wasn’t the company I was expecting. I asked anyway who the men were here for, and sure enough, they were here for our apartment. Just as well that I asked, because the building manager wouldn’t arrive for another half hour, and no one had thought to discuss buzzer codes.

The neighbour who was to watch the Cardis during the move had fallen sick, so out they went onto the balcony to enjoy the Spring air, bark at other dogs in the back field, and occasionally whine to come in.

As the driver and his two hired hands set to work, I wiped down the kitchen cupboards and swept away prehistoric dust bunnies. We discussed dogs — the driver has a husky and one of the other guys a Chow-Collie mix. I told him about Goodbear’s dog, but he isn’t online.

One of the movers praised my packing job. I didn’t mention that I’d been at it since September. On the other hand, the platform bed was now in five taped packages, several odd-shaped things had been taped together and nestled in a large, see-through plastic bag, the futon was already enclosed in a plastic mattress cover, and nearly everything else was in a covered container, so I guess it was all as prepared as it could be.

The movers took just under three hours to empty the apartment. Everything wooden, from the kitchen shelf to the old rocking chair to the packages of bed planks, was wrapped in blankets. I have high hopes for their safe journey to Saint John. I tipped the movers $30, suggesting they get themselves some lunch.

When Cai and Fergus finally came inside again, they were happy and excited, playing a riotous game of chase through the nearly empty apartment. They were relieved, I think , to no longer have boxes, bins, and barbecues within swinging distance of their wags.

Some of the furniture was left behind.  It had been bought by our neighbour Gwen, who was moving from her one-bedroom unit into our two-bedroom. I should mention at this point that we were leaving a housing co-op. We had gotten to know several of the pet-owning neighbours, among them Gwen. I was happy to give her a good deal on the furniture; she needed the stuff for her new, larger space, and I didn’t have to break my back or spend money to have the stuff removed.

About 16 30, Jane and Robert called, ready to drive the dog crates and my suitcase to the train station, to store them in the checkroom overnight. As soon as the big pieces were stowed, Robert suggested we go have supper at Fionn McCool’s. I wasn’t expecting this extra meal on my final evening; Jane and Robert had fed me several times since E.g. had left for Saint John in mid-February, the last time being just three days ago.

We didn’t have a lot to say during this meal, but it was a good quiet, a sense that we’d all managed to say all that needed saying. We sipped our beer and admired the pub’s decor and noticed all the young people enjoying their dinners before they headed out to the Britney Spears concert. Then my friends dropped me off home again, and we promised to keep in touch.

Stream of Consciousness

Mired in thoughts

about this and that, here and there, now and then.

I muck around the ‘net

until time runs out,

and still my imagination is dry.

“Add New Post”?

But there’s nothing, nothing…

Then it laps downstairs

like crystal brook water:

Eleanor Plunkett.

She’s playing the harp.

Flow gently, sweet Afton.

Remember me to one who lives there.

Turtle, Behooved

Bon Echo turtle, looking up. Photo courtesy E.g.

Over at The Chawed Rosin, Lolarusa has posted a year-end list of the ten most frequent and ten most interesting search terms for her blog. Interesting, indeed; I’d like to know how well Moomin wallpaper would look in the masonic stairwell, or whether a siphonophora belongs on the same shelf as — well, you’ll just have to read her entry.

The idea of a retrospective of search terms caught my fancy. And so, in the interests of the blogosphere, the writing and reading world, and painless posting, I peeked behind the scenes. And what did I find?

Turtles. People want to know about turtles. Mostly, people want to know about the symbolism of turtles: added together, the search terms “turtle symbol”, “turtle symbolism”, “symbol of the turtle”, and “symbol of turtle” outnumber the more general terms “turtles” and “turtle” by a ratio of 3:2. Other search terms I’ve occasionally noticed, but which aren’t counted in these statistics, have been things like “turtle container” which reflect an interest in owning one as a pet. (That’s pet turtle, not pet container.)

First Nations stories. “Nanabush”, “Sky Woman”,  and “Bon Echo Pictographs” taken together had the same number of hits as “turtle” plus “turtles”. The term “Ohsweken” would tip the figures in the Aboriginals’  favour except that I can’t be certain if searchers were seeking info on the reserve village or its racecar track. I mean, I wouldn’t include the search term “monster truck rally” when reviewing the stats on Celtic folklore, would I?

Le Corbusier. This modernist architect has provided more hits for my blog than any other single search term. Throw in “Corbusier” and “Villa La Roche”, and the total falls between the turtle searches and the First Nations searches.

Now for the three “most interesting” multiple search terms of 2008:

♥dead person;  ♥supper dogs;  ♥hermeneutically sealed. It’s a sick, twisted, misspelt world out there.

It occurs to me that if certain searches prove popular, I should do a little more research and writing on them. I feel bad, too, that people wanting information on a turtle container got this ridiculous Wordless Wednesday entry.

On the other hand, I’m no architect. Further information on Le Corbusier might be better expounded on someone else’s blog – perhaps as a companion piece to Masonic stairs and Moomin wallpaper.

The Giant Rubber Gorilla

Out by the multi-lane highway, there’s a giant rubber gorilla.

It stands upright, arms overhead, scowling at the passing motorists, threatening them with physical harm if they don’t exit by the nearest ramp and come examine its wares.

It used to stand on top of the store for which it was mascot, but yesterday it was on the ground out front, its indigo hands reaching higher than the building’s low roof.

I always look for this marketing mascot. I always acknowledge it. “There’s the giant gorilla,” I chirp.

Yesterday the giant rubber gorilla was not only unusually placed, but unusually dressed: it was wearing a loincloth. A large, white square of fabric or plastic was draped across its hips and hanging almost to its knees.

I recounted this new development to E.g., who was watching the road and didn’t see it. We concluded that the loincloth had probably been a sale banner tied to the primate’s big belly, and the upper cord had come untied, in which case the banner would hang, blank side out, in its current position.

On the drive home, E.g. accorded a moment’s attention to the giant rubber gorilla, and grinned. “Yes, that’s it exactly! It’s a sale banner that’s come loose — whatever it is they sell.”

I had to admit I didn’t know either.

My Mediocrity is Saving the Planet

Seamus does some eco-friendly editing.

Almostgotit has a catchy by-line for her blog: “With every failure my reputation grows.”

It is in that spirit that I have entitled today’s blog entry.

I occasionally snivel about never having made any money from writing. My writing doesn’t reek that badly, I whine; how come other people get published and I don’t?

Umm… because I never send stuff out?

But wait! Here is a much better, far more virtuous reason, brought to you by the World Wildlife Federation. I recently received an e-mail from them, inviting me to pledge to reduce my use of paper. Here is what they ask:

I will:

* Print documents only when absolutely necessary.
* Proof documents on my computer screen rather than printing.
* Print everything double-sided.
* Stop picking up leaflets, fliers and other advertising
* Mail back advertising catalogues
* Recycle all paper I use
* Ask for recycled paper products
* Invite a friend to join this action

Do you see? By blogging, which demands on-screen proofing, requires no hard copy or covering letters or envelopes, and wastes no space in bookstore flyers or literary reviews, I am not exhibiting a fear of rejection but rather am unselfishly doing my bit for the planet.

And that’s what you can tell your friends next time they ask.

PS: If you’re interested in this latest WWF campaign, go here and click on “Stop the madness of wasteful paper consumption”.

Time to Smile

The following melodrama is brought to you by… can you guess what word?

***

Mole Isle

Mist. Tim & Tom meet Elsie. Elsie: slim, lime tee.

Tim (to Tom) : “Elsie… I smile, I list, I tilt!”

Tom: “It’s time to test me mettle!”  (to Elsie) : “Elsie, it sleets. Let’s lose its site! It’s i mile to Mole Isle.”

Elsie: “Molé Isle? Let’s!”

Tim: “Tom stole Elsie! I see. I lose.”

Stile. Tom & Elsie sit.

Elsie: “Tom, see Tim? Is Tim lost?”

Tom: “Elsie, Elsie! Sit, & let’s see some toes! Sloe?”

Elsie: “Sot! Silo slime! Tim, Tim!”

Tim: “It’s time to smite Tom, lest Elsie is lost!” Tim totes steel stilt to smite Tom.

Elsie: “Olé! Tim smote Tom! O Tim — I melt!”

Tim: “Smile, Elsie. Is it… is it time to settle?”

Elsie: “Si, Tim, si.”

Block

The dishes were dirty, but still there I strove

While tomato sauce leered from a pan on the stove.

The Cardigans two crossed their legs with a sigh,

But who would go take them for potty? Not I.

.

My partner tried chatting, but I was stone deaf

So she played kill-the-alien games, then she left

To go sit in the den, Celtic harp strings to ply,

But who would play music beside her? Not I.

.

The blogworld was humming with gossip and memes,

With stories galore and great photos in reams.

A cold wind is blowing, and dark is the sky,

But who still awaits inspiration? ’Tis I.

C.O.L.A.: The Creators’, Observers’, and Lovers’ Awards

Good morning, everyone!

With yesterday’s blog entry/wine-and-cheese running to 700 words, I decided to leave the admin details till this morning. Here are the rules and regulations accompanying each award that was handed out yesterday, along with the lists of recipients repeated for your convenience.

Oh, and by the way, those “musts” and “have tos” in the regulations apply only if you decide to hang your award on your blogden wall; I have no intention of giving you all chain letters!

= = = = =

First, for the Arte y Pico award:

1. PICK FIVE BLOGS THAT YOU CONSIDER DESERVE THIS AWARD FOR CREATIVITY, DESIGN, AND
2. INTERESTING MATERIAL AND ALSO CONTRIBUTE TO THE BLOGGER COMMUNITY REGARDLESS OF LANGUAGE.
3. EACH AWARD HAS TO HAVE THE NAME OF THE AUTHOR AND A LINK TO HIS/HER BLOG TO BE VISITED.
4. EACH AWARD WINNER HAS TO SHOW THE AWARD AND PUT THE NAME AND LINK TO THE BLOG THAT HAS GIVEN HIM/HER THE AWARD ITSELF.
5. AWARD WINNERS AND THE ONE WHO HAS GIVEN THE PRIZE HAVE TO SHOW THE LINK OF THE ARTE-Y-PICO BLOG (HTTP://ARTEYPICO.BLOGSPOT.COM) SO EVERYONE WILL KNOW THE ORIGIN OF THE AWARD.
6. IN COMPLIANCE WITH SAID RULES, THE AWARD WINNER MUST SHOW THESE RULES.

The Arte y Pico recipients are:

Celtic Memory Yarns

Checkers’ World

Dog Daily Photo

We Three, Ginger Cats’ Tales   and

Wondering Eye.

= = = = =

Second, the Superior Scribbler award:

1. Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.

2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

3. Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.

4. Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit This Post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we’ll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!

5. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

The Superior Scribbler recipients are:

Huckleberry Days

The Marvelous in Nature

The Right Blue

The Unwound Road  and

Urban Observation.

= = = = =

And third, the I Heart Your Blog award:

Apparently, the rules for this one are lost in antiquity. Accept the award, refuse it, covet it, pass it on to whomever you will. Just keep it away from the teacher’s eyes.

The I Heart Your Blog recipients are:

Almost Got It

Cody Bear’s Friends

Gina’s Public Diary

Laugh in the Sun

Pennycat’s Weblog

The Aged Cat

The Chawed Rosin

Towards Sustainability

Wearing Stilettos   and

Yasashiikuma.

Have a good weekend, everybody!

Creators, Observers, and Lovers

How’s that for a catchy title?

Welcome, blogroll members! This is a Friday Festival of Blogfriends, with doorprizes for most of you and nice words for all of you.

I’ve been given some awards lately. One of them is not mine to pass on, although it is yours for the taking if you enjoy the underwater explorations of The Right Blue as much as I do. I was specifically named as a Friend of the Right Blue, I think, because I suggested John Denver’s “Calypso” as a theme song for Bobbie and Jerry’s blog. Please go visit their blog if you haven’t, and learn about their “Right Blue” badge in their November 9th post.

Another award, the Arte y Pico,  was given me all the way back in August by Elizabeth, Wearing Stilettos and Living on a Farm. She must have wondered why I never posted it or passed it on, but the reason is this: On checking its raison-d’être, I found it was originally intended for creative people — specifically, for handicraft workers. This award’s purpose is to acknowledge “creativity, design, and contribution to the blogging community.” Okay, I can stretch the definition a bit to include creative writing or photography; but in August, I felt that I hadn’t yet proven myself. Now, however, with just over six dozen bits of creative writing or camera pointing on tap, I graciously and humbly accept the award, Elizabeth. Thank you for your encouragement!

On November 16th, Dennis the Lovable Vizsla gave me an I Heart Your Blog award — for the second time! (Dogs truly are the gifts that keep on giving. ) The first time, in early October, I wimped out and unofficially handed it off to everyone, so I think I should more properly award ten bloggers today.

As you can see, most of my blog awards emphasize my — er — soft skills. Generally, I think, my writing makes people want to smile and give me a little scritch behind the ears. Sometimes the entries are funny; occasionally they’re fierce; always they come from the heart. Like many of you, though, I harbour a secret, insane fantasy life in which I fancy myself a writer. It was with great pleasure, then, that on November 19th I found myself the recipient of the Superior Scribbler Award, handed out by Alyson at Laugh in the Sun.

So. This is the last time I’m ever gonna be able to pull this off, but — there’s an award for each of you. Sort of. Dennis and Livingisdetail, because you were co-recipients with me (Dennis from Elizabeth, and Livingisdetail from Alyson), and because of the categories I see you in, you’re gonna hafta carry those awards around tonight, as you make your way between the ale and the Oka.

Here we go:

I. The Arte y Pico award is for the Creators, the spinners of yarns, the wielders of cameras, the designers of comics and the mythifiers of the moon. You are:

• Celtic Memory Yarns
• Checkers’ World
• Dog Daily Photo
• We Three, Ginger Cats’ Tales   and
• Wondering Eye;

(and the sixth Creator is Dennis’s Diary of Destruction ) .

II. The Superior Scribbler award is for the Observers, the examiners of Nature or of Human Nature, the reporters of secrets, histories, small parts and large trends. You are:

• Huckleberry Days
• The Marvelous in Nature
• The Right Blue
• The Unwound Road  and
• Urban Observation;

(and the sixth Observer is One Little Detail ).

III. The I Heart Your Blog Award is for the Lovers, of which there are many types: the passionate and the compassionate, the advocates and the next-door neighbours, the pet people, the people people, and the plant people. You are twice five:

• Almost Got It
• Cody Bear’s Friends
• Gina’s Public Diary
• Laugh in the Sun
• Pennycat’s Weblog
• The Aged Cat
• The Chawed Rosin
• Towards Sustainability
• Wearing Stilettos   and
• Yasashiikuma.

Enjoy the party, everyone! In a separate entry, I’ll post the award icons and the rules that go with each.

The Three Wishes of Stanley McGonagall

Photo courtesy of E.g.

Some time ago, Alyson asked for 500 words on the topic of “food bravery.” I hope you enjoy this little tale.

…

“Here, Ward! Here, boy. You sit there by the stove and guard the house. I’ll be as quick as I can.” Huddling into his thickest jacket, Stanley went out to brave the weather.

For the past half-century, Stanley McGonagall’s daily life had looked pretty much the same: care for two or three milk cows and a hen house of layers, train up a collie to watch the cattle and chase away the foxes, and hitch the pony to the little cart once a week for the trip to the market village, six miles away.

Once or twice a month, when the eggs and milk were sold, Stanley would visit the village library for half an hour to read. Thirty minutes was as long as he felt he could leave the dog with the cart. The dog, who had voluntarily loped along beside the pony all the way to the village, would want to be getting back home.

Just the same, sometimes Stanley wished for a book of his own. He had never forgotten his thrill the day he discovered a volume of nursery rhymes. As the printed page refreshed his memory, he could hear his mother’s voice again. Since then, each Yuletide, Stanley would whisper a wish to Saint Nicholas: “If it isn’t too much trouble, could I have a book of rhymes?” There was no harm asking.

In Stanley’s sixty-third year, Christmas Eve was a market day. Although Ward could still round up the cows and sniff out stray eggs, he was too stiff to walk to town anymore. Stanley had been planning for weeks now to purchase a big, meaty bone as a Christmas gift for the old collie.

On this bitter Christmas Eve morning, sleet fell. Just outside the village, as Stanley was making room for an oncoming buggy, his cart slipped on the embankment. The heavy load and jarring movement combined to crack the axle, and some of the eggs were broken as they tumbled overboard.

Stanley McGonagall bit his lip. Now not only would he need to stay late while his cart was fixed, but there would be no surplus money for Ward’s Christmas gift. Stanley sighed. “Listen, Saint Nicholas,” he whispered, “forget about the book of rhymes. Forget about the big, meaty bone. Would it be too much trouble to see that Ward is comfortable till I get back? He’s not used to being in the house for eight hours.”

Stanley arrived home just after dark. From the stable, he noticed that a lamp was lit. As he opened the door of his little house, he was hit by warmth: the stove’s fire had been relaid. Ward looked up from a big, meaty bone and wagged a greeting. Stanley peeled off his wet coat  and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair.

There on the table was a thick, leatherbound volume entitled Mother Goose. Tucked into the front cover was a parchment bookmark. Pulling out the bookmark, Stanley grinned as he made out the elfin writing: 

• Nick knocked,
• Potty-walked,
• And gave the dog a bone
• Before his old man
• Came rolling home.