Not to be outdone by my sister . . . an almost post

You Are "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer"

Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer Had a very shiny nose. And if you ever saw him, You would even say it glows. For you, Christmas is a mix of tradition and fun. You're not above strapping on a red blinking nose for a laugh.

What Christmas Carol Are You?

The Blurry Season

This is just the craziest time of year, isn't it? Days and weeks are passing by so quickly it's all just one big fuzzy blur. I went into the office on Monday after having not slept at all Sunday night. I mean my head did not so much as touch the pillow (which I don't advise, by the way, especially when you've got to get up and make a presentation). I got to see some co-workers I hadn't seen in awhile and meet others from out of town that I only knew through email. It was a good session but I was exhausted by the end and very shaky during my presentation. Stacy and I left the office relatively early and went to Sobeys to pick up a few groceries then had a late supper at Mary's Restaurant before hitting the Dollar Store in the Miramichi Mall. So, I still didn't get home until around 10 o'clock.

A kind of funny thing happened with the Mary's Restaurant choice for supper. We've NEVER eaten there before. We've never even really talked much about going there. We were driving up through Douglastown and Nordin chatting about where we would pick up something quick in Newcastle when we passed the motel with Mary's Restaurant. At the same time we both said, "We could always eat in there." So we turned around at the Pawn Shop and went back. They close at 8 and it was already going on 7:30 so we were their last customers. We picked a seat in the far corner by the window, ordered our food, talked, relaxed, everything was going great, when all of a sudden we smelled smoke.

That motel is pretty old. I think my parents stayed there overnight when they got married . . . it's THAT old ;-) (I sometimes wonder whether I was conceived in one of those rooms . . . perish the thought!) Anyway, the place is old and drafty and not that well heated, so they had a bunch of those portable little electric heaters plugged in . . . plus Christmas lights flashing in the window and Lord knows what else. Those little space heaters can be dangerous by times and the one by our table suddenly caught on fire. Sparks were flying out of the electrical wall socket. The stench was terrible. The waitress ran over and Stacy unplugged the heater. The waitress said they could smell something burning off and on all day but couldn't figure out what it was. So, it was a good thing that we went or maybe Mary's Restaurant and the rest of that old motel would have burned to the ground in the night. Maybe guests would have been killed. Maybe . . .

It's like God reached out and pulled us off the road to make sure they knew about that heater . . . or it's just a coincidence . . .

Off to Moncton tomorrow to see Magie Dominic and tons of writer friends. Going shopping too. A flying trip though, back on Saturday.

Mood: Content
Drinking: tea
Listening To: I was going to lie . . . but yeah, I'm listening to U2's Vertigo again, over and over continually . . . it's a marathon
Hair: beyond redemption, someone please remind me to make an appointment to get it trimmed before the New Year

Who Would've Thunk It?

As little as two or three years ago if you had said that one day winter would be my favourite season, I would've booted you out of the room with a good old fashioned Elaine-style "GET OUT!!"

But I gotta say I'm loving this little cold snap we're having. LOVING IT!!! It's not that I'm into winter activities or anything like that . . . I don't skate, ski, snowboard, snowshoe, sled, snowmobile or even make snowmen. In fact I rarely go outside at all in winter -- It's too damn cold!

The thing is that once the temperature stabilizes at a nice below zero figure, my arthritis improves. Yes, my bones feel brittle with the cold . . . but if I stay inside, dress warm, cuddle in blankets, turn up the furnace . . . I only have to endure a few minutes with Nick a few times a day. And the brittleness is not painful really -- it feels like my legs could snap in half at any moment, but it's more a threat than a promise.

The terrible joint-swelling can't-get-out-of-bed crippling pain comes more in the warmer months when the temperature fluctuates frequently and humidity sticks its nose into everything. Now, it's cold . . . REALLY cold . . . and I feel fantastic! Sad but true. Winter has become my best friend, my saviour, my favourite season of all.


Mood: pre-panic mode
Drinking: coffee (brewed not instant) with real cream not the light crap
Listening To: Vertigo, U2
Hair: Think Diana Ross only a bit paler

Now YOU can shut up . . .

Yeah, you know who you are . . .

So for those who wondered, it's Saturday night and here I am. I've been very busy the past week or so, not very chatty. Preoccupied. Highlights to catch you up to speed --

*I had to send a third (and final) copy of the WFNB newsletter to Freddy for printing due to the great INK fiasco of 2004 . . .

*I've got a new penpal from Italy who is helping me learn Italian . . . for my trip . . . someday . . .

*My sister was without water all week because her well collapsed . . . or something like that . . .

*I met a friend for coffee at the Books Inn on Thursday and bought new books while I was there . . . Larry Lynch's Learning to Swim and Margaret MacMillan's Paris 1919 . . .

*Met my writing gal pals at the Chatham library this week and got some good feedback on a couple of my short stories . . . LOVE those girls!

*Went in the Christmas Parade of Lights in Chatham with the Mighty crew (fun time and a really great parade, I just love Water Street during the holiday season) . . .

*Bought a kazillion dvds this week including The Nutcracker Ballet, John Denver's Montana Christmas, The Big Easy, Spartan, Once Upon a Time in the Midlands, The Last Kiss, 28 Days Later, Laurel Canyon, Far From Heaven, The Human Stain, and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind . . .

In other news, I spent so much money on Express posts, printer ink, dvds, junk food, wine, books, coffee and other miscellaneous crap this week that I'm in a tight spot for my Moncton trip next weekend . . . hmmmm, maybe it really is time to sign up for some sort of 12 step program.

Judy and Magie are going to stay at Elizabeth's and have an old fashioned sleep-over where they stay up all night talking. She has rooms in the basement. I'm hoping we'll go for drinks or something, but I'm glad to stay at Hotel Beau. Can't wait to see everyone!

Mood: Playful
Drinking: Just tea (rolls eyes and sighs) . . . For now ;-)
Listening To: Peaches, Fuck the Pain Away
Hair: Half-in, Half-out . . . but not in that sexy soccer mom way

And the Thunder Rolls

We had thunder storms last night . . . Thunder, lightning, heavy rain -- even seemed like hail at one point. Kind of unusual to have that sort of thing around here this time of the year. It is nearly December.

This morning it is zero degrees outside. I could see my breath and certainly rushed Nick through his morning walk-about because I was freezing to death . . . yet I sunk over the top of my boot in the mud. It's an odd kind of season.

All along I've been looking forward to going to Moncton in the snow, but now I'm starting to wonder whether we will have any snow at all for Christmas, though my legs are telling me the temperature is going down and going fast. Also, flurries in the forecast for today.

I was supposed to go meet the writing girls today . . . but I've cancelled. My legs are just too bad this week to be out on my feet all day and night. I'll just email my thoughts on their work. Bummer though. :-(

Mood: puffy faced
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Supertramp on Virgin Classic Rock live from the UK
Hair: uncombed

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Went and saw the Bridget Jones sequel with the girls tonight. Funny! It's a good movie to go see with your girlfriends. I especially enjoyed the skiing scene. Crazy things must happen to everyone the first time they go downhill skiing . . . and all this time I thought it was just me and stacy :-) We both went downhill skiing one time (though not together at the same time and a thousand miles apart at different mountains) and share shockingly similiar (though not totally the same) stories about our experiences. I went to Blue Mountain, north of Barrie in Ontario . . . Stacy went to a mountain near Edmundston in New Brunswick. I went with my boyfriend and another couple. Stacy went with her classmates from school. Stacy has some pretty funny (and painful) stories about the t-bar . . . while I rode a chair lift. Stacy didn't quite make it down the hill on her own speed (they had to go get her on a snowmobile) . . . while I journeyed down the slope all on my own. Both our skiing stories are rather Bridget Jones-like, which makes me think maybe that's just what happens when you go skiing the first time.

Skiing was one of those things I did with Kevin that I can't imagine doing with anybody else . . . I'd be too afraid and I wouldn't even be able to imagine the fun of it. Out of all my boyfriends (there really haven't been that many) he was the one who constantly had me out of my comfort zone and trying crazy things. Not that skiing is crazy . . . although the way I did it . . .

So, we went to Blue Mountain with Jim and Yvonne (she was a few months pregnant, which is kind of weird in retrospect), rented equipment and hit the beginner slope. The men were good skiers, neither Yvonne nor I had ever skied before. The first terrifying thing was the chair lift, of course. I don't do heights very well. I really don't do dangling legs very well at all, let alone with great big heavy clunky skis weighing down those legs. There wasn't even a bar across the front to give some false sense of security. The chairs go round and round and you just stand in the right spot so it sweeps you off your feet and slide off when you reach the top.

Terrified is putting it mildly. We were pretty high up in the air and it was quite a long ride to the top. I might not have been quite so freaked out by the time I reached the top, if Kevin hadn't remarked that he was surprised the bunny slope was so high. That was always the way, like the time on the looping rolling coaster, I was fine until I looked at him and saw the horror on his face.

Anyway, it's safe to say by the time we reached the top I was a little rigid with fear. It didn't help to see what was happening to the people in the chairs in front of us. They were standing up when the chair reached the ledge (maybe two feet wide with a sheer drop straight down into the valley on one side) and sliding down a little hill (maybe 10 feet) to get to the level part at the top of the mountain where you would start your descent back down the slope. This was an unexpected development and looked like it would require precise timing in order to escape injury . . . so, I froze up.

I mean when the time came, Kevin slid off and down the little hill and I stayed in the chair. It all happened very quick then. The chair made a sharp turn to head back down the slope and pick new skiers up. When it whipped around the turn I was thrown from the chair, landing on my feet, and sliding full speed into a chain link fence (perhaps put there just to catch runaway skiers like myself). This was the first cartoon moment of the day. My face and body crashed into the fence and bounced off. I flailed in the air holding my balance for what seemed like minutes where I was suspended backward defying gravity and then I fell flat on my back (more like dropped really, straight as a poker) skis sticking straight up in the air.

They stopped the lift to make sure I was okay and by the time Kevin got to me I was laughing uncontrollably at the spectacle I had made of myself.

If only it had ended there . . .

Jim and Kevin gave me and Yvonne some instruction on how to ski -- bend your knees, turn side to side, move this way to turn that way, that way to turn this way, do this to stop, and so on. Off went Yvonne down the hill . . . at a snails pace . . . while I gathered my wits and courage after the fence thing. I could hear the strain in Jim's voice as he tried to coach Yvonne, she was bending her knees all right, and turning her skis from side to side . . . so much so, that she was practically standing still. After five minutes they were still right there, a snowball's throw away from the top of the hill.

So, I decided to take the plunge and started down the slope . . . not bending my knees . . . keeping my skis perfectly straight. I shot down the hill picking up speed so fast that Kevin couldn't keep up. I didn't know how to stop, was figuring out how to turn as I just barely missed groups of kids and skiing instructors. The more speed I gained, the more terrified I grew, and the stiffer and straighter I held myself, which only made me go faster. I thought for sure I would break bones if I made myself fall in order to stop . . . yet I was almost to the bottom and I didn't know how to stop.

I zoomed past all the people waiting at the bottom of the slope and didn't slow down until I hit a snowbank at the edge of the parking lot. It was a pretty big bank and I expected it to be soft, that I would stick into it and maybe even be thrown over it and onto the hood of a parked car. I braced myself for impact . . . but the bank was frozen solid and slippery. My skis went right up the side . . . if the bank had been shorter I would have skied right over the top and onto the cars in the parking lot. But instead gravity took over and I fell backward onto the ground with my skis elevated up the snowbank. This was the second cartoon moment of the day.

Kevin was relieved I think when I told him to go ski the moguls and enjoy his day without me because I was going into the lodge for drinks and I didn't intend to return.

About 45 minutes later, Yvonne joined me in the lodge, having just completed her only run down the slope as well.

So, that's my skiing story and I'm sticking to it. God, I love going out with the girls!

Mood: Bleary-eyed
Drinking: Tea
Listening To: I'm a Dog, Kid Rock
Hair: Seen Nick Nolte's mugshot recently?

Back on the Chain Gang

I'm in the midst of another insane week! Lot's going on. Today I have to finish the WFNB newsletter and get it in the mail for overnight delivery so Mary has it tomorrow. I've got to get up to speed with Bread 'n Molasses and other things related to that work. Tonight I'm going out with a bunch of the girls to see the Bridget Jones sequel. Looking forward to that and can really use a little girl energy. On Friday, I think I'm getting together with my writer girls to workshop. That means I have to have something written and I also have to find time to read their writings and comment on them. Yesterday, I made Hotel reservations for Moncton, that I'm excited about! Going to see Magie Dominic again in December. Just one night, but I think I'll finish my Christmas shopping and I'll get to see a bunch of people like Ed and Elaine from the Attic Owl who I absolutely adore! Anyway, lot's on tap, so I better get to it.

Mood: Chipper
Drinking: Coffee (brewed, not instant, with real cream) Damn! I make a good cuppa!
Listening To: Ewww! Was that the toilet?
Hair: It's going to be so shocking when I get a pixie cut!

Time Passages

It feels like years have passed since my grandfather went into the hospital. And I'm not kidding, literally years. Grandad passed away last Sunday after six days in palliative care . . . six days of pure Hell in the stress department. This death has been harder on me than I thought it would be, harder than my other grandfather's, more difficult even than my uncle's, which I took quite hard. And it has nothing to do with missing my grandfather or anything like that . . . I'm so happy he's no longer suffering and I know he's okay. It's my mother's pain I can't bear. She misses him. But that's not all, of course. With a family as large as hers, with so many inlaws and outlaws, with the stress of losing a loved one, tension is something to be expected in the closest of families, under the best of circumstances. Of course, it's much worse because we've got at least one genuine dark spirit in our family who thrives on causing chaos. I worry about my mother holding anger and hatred close to her heart for a long period of time. Anger is something I know about and it will take a toll on her. It will consume her, exhaust her, change her. I'm trying to talk her through it, past it. It's extremely important that she feels it, works through it, and then releases it. And I know this because there were a couple of years, not so long ago, that I traveled around in a constant simmer of rage . . . it took nothing to set me off and I saw the world through a grey filter of hate. It was a tremendous relief to let it go. I don't want my mom to go through that. It's better to feel it all at once -- scream, cry, keen -- do whatever she needs to do to get it out and away from her heart.

Mood: Surreal
Drinking: Coke
Listening To: Gavin DeGraw, Get Lost
Hair: Recently dyed, medium brown, kinda flat coat of colour

The Best Medicine

My grandfather's condition worsens. My mother and all her siblings were at the hospital all evening again today. Granddad is kind of in and out of it. Mom says he has that look in his eyes and she thinks he can see the light. If you lean right down close to his face and talk to him he still comes around a little, enough to say yes or no. More fluid on his lungs now and his breath rattles in his chest. My mother doesn't think he'll survive the night. My aunt thinks he's still got a day or two. They're telling him to rest, telling him not to worry about them, hoping his passing will be soon and peaceful. Mom called earlier in the evening from the hospital and we thought she was going to stay until it was over, but then she came home. Almost everyone came home. Two of my aunts are spending the night with him. If he's still here tomorrow night my mom and another aunt will sit with him all night.

There is something to be said for a quick death, an accident, or a malfunction with the body that instantly whisks your spirit away. Sickness is hard. Looking after your dying parents is beyond hard. It has taken a toll. Last night when my mother and aunt were leaving the hospital they couldn't get the car door unlocked. They tried and looked for other sets of keys and didn't know what was going on . . . until they noticed they were trying to get in the wrong car. Apparently, there were two identical cars parked side by side in the hospital parking lot. They had a good laugh about that. Tonight at the hospital my mother and the same aunt decided they would go to the second floor chapel and call home. Palliative care is on the fourth floor. They went down the hallway to the elevators, pressed the button, and waited watching the numbers light up above the elevator doors. The first floor number one lit up solid. My aunt panicked, "Oh no, we don't want the first floor! It's on the second!" Meanwhile, they hadn't even got on the elevator yet, they were still in the hallway on the fourth floor. They laughed so hard all the way down to the second floor, they nearly peed their pants.

Outside tonight there is the most amazing light show taking place in the sky. The Northern Lights have been streaking across the sky for hours. They're so bright the yard is lit up as if by moonlight. This is the strongest I've seen the lights in a long time, maybe forever. I like to think it's because we need their beauty now more than ever. I like to think they're stronger to help us be stronger. I like to think they've come to take Granddad home.

Better Days

It's been a hellish day. Too much work to do, no sleep, and I've done nothing but talk on the phone all day. With such a large family it's hard to keep the flow of information going, to keep everyone in the loop . . . and today was a day when people need to be in the loop.

I'm not going to visit my grandfather in the hospital. I'm not going to say goodbye. I have this image of him in my head, this overwhelming memory -- I'm 12, maybe 13, and all the grown-ups are going on a canoe run. I'm supposed to spend the weekend at Grammie and Granddad Coughlan's, but I don't want to. I want to go canoeing too. Some of the older kids are going, the teenagers, nevermind that they are quite a few years older than me, I think I should be allowed to go too.

I beg. I plead. I cry. I toss a fit. But my parents are having none of it . . . the answer is NO!! End of discussion! Don't say another word about it. And I don't. I sulk all the way to my grandparents house. I sigh. I roll my eyes. But I don't say anything . . . until I see Granddad.

He can tell there's something wrong with me, I look so sad. I flop down on the cot in the verandah, hugging myself tightly and staring at the floor. What's wrong? Normally, I wouldn't respond. Usually, I'd be a little shy and much too afraid of my father to answer. My dad will skin me alive if I ask Granddad if I can go too. My mom shoots me the warning eyebrows and tight lips from across the room.

But I weigh the options . . . it's a weekend thing, surely by Monday my dad won't be mad at me anymore . . . what's the worse thing that could happen . . . then it's out of me, "I want to go on the canoe trip." And before anyone can blink it's settled and I'm going. I'm going with my parents in their boat or Granddad will take me himself, he says.

My parents throw out a few weak remarks to resist . . . but they are no match for my grandfather, he has decided I should go, he has spoken and that's final. I'm all smiles as we go out to Granddad's truck to drive to the launch point.

I've never forgotten that weekend of my first canoe trip. I had a great time, and I don't think I ruined it for anybody. Nobody skinned me alive after all.

I've seen my grandfather since then obviously . . . but really not so much. I haven't seen him since he's been sick. I haven't seen him grow old and frail. The man I remember is tall and broad shouldered. He tells me stories and shows me his tattoo. He smells like horses and leather and soap. He gives me hugs when he sees me and sits with me on the cot. He expects a lot of me, he wants me to be strong. He demands good behaviour and he will punish me if I step out of line.

He takes me haying. He lets me walk with him to the milk box at the bottom of the hill to collect the milk bottles. He lets me follow him all over the place, into the garden, back to the woods, out to the barn. He has the most patience . . . and the shortest fuse. I can see his face whenever I think of him. He's always smiling, teasing me, maybe poking me in the ribs or tickling my feet. This is my Granddad. He's strong and strict and human . . . and I know he loves me.

I don't know this dying man in the hospital bed . . . and I'm afraid if I see him I will see a trace of the man I remember in this stranger's eyes. I don't want my Granddad to be that man. My Granddad is the one who lives in my mind, where he's still got most of his hair and only some of it is grey, where I'm still 12 years old and he's my hero who always takes my side.

Lawnmower Man

I slept about 2 hours. I laid down at 6 am to try and sleep a few hours until 9 . . . but I couldn't sleep. I was too tired to continue working, my brain had gone to mush, but too wound up to sleep -- I hate when that happens! So, I told myself that even being peaceful and just lying there would help rest my mind a little. I laid there until 8'ish when Sherry came for her morning walk on the treadmill and then I got up to see Anna. She's at that perfect age, she'll never be cuter or more adorable than she is right now (at least I hope not, because I couldn't stand it!) Soon enough she'll have a full vocabularly and be big enough to run around and scream with the other kids and I'll miss the way she is right now. That's what has happened with all the kids -- they're so much fun at this age, everything is so simple . . . I think it changes when they start expressing their own opinions ;-) That takes some of the fun out it. The older kids are perfect little people now, with opinions and ideas and thoughts and questions and demands and stories and favourite things and things they don't like and . . . well, they're just more complicated, more adult, and adult just isn't as fun as toddler. Not that I don't have fun with the bigger kids, I do. It's just different now, more questions and explanations and concepts. I'm very lucky, being the aunt I get to only have the fun without any of the discipline.

Anyway, I got up to play with Anna and then went back to bed shortly before 9, slept until around 11 and dreamed a thousand dreams in between. I swear I did get more rest just lying quietly but awake for a couple of hours versus sleeping and dreaming. One dream was a recurring one I have where I'm a character in a book I've written that I'm reading aloud to a group . . . except I don't realise immediately that I'm the character until all the things I'm reading from the book start to happen in the room and likewise anything I say that isn't in the book, the text changes and it's added to the book. It's all very comical and the me who is off to the side watching the dream unfold, knowing I've dreamt it before, knowing full well that it is a dream, likes to put words just for fun into the mouth of the character from the book in the dream (who is also me. The me off to the side had a good time changing the number of the people in the audience at the reading from 10 to 9 to 8 to 7 to 6 to 5 to 4 to 3 to 2 to 1 and then none. Yeah, these are the crazy types of things I dream.

The dream I was caught up in just before I woke was slightly more sinister. I dreamed that I was in the kitchen with Mom and Dad. My aunt Julia kept calling on the phone. She had gossip about a murderer on the loose, driving a red three-wheeler, dressed like a mechanic in blue coveralls. She insisted there was a write-up in a flyer that had come in the sales package . . . on a pink sheet of paper . . . and that we needed to find this and read it. She called about this over and over about five times. Everytime she'd call we'd look around a little for this pink sheet of paper but we couldn't find it and really we didn't seem that concerned. It was a beautiful summer morning and we were eating toast with peanut butter and drinking tea. Then I heard someone pull up to the front of the house. I looked out the picture window but it was like looking out the window of a basement apartment. I could see a pair of legs wearing blue work pants feet tucked into beige brown workboots that looked brand new. The legs were standing next to what looked like a red ride-on lawnmower. I grabbed the phone and called Julia to tell her I thought I saw the killer, that he was here, but she didn't seem interested, said the details weren't the same and that I needed to find the pink paper. I hung up and called 911, but the line was busy. The legs were walking around the window, it seemed like the guy was sizing things up. Then all of a sudden he drove a round-point shovel into the ground in front of the window and I woke up gasping thinking, "Someone has died." I laid there for about five minutes pondering this when the phone rang. It was Sherry calling to tell me they've taken Granddad to the hospital to put him in palliative care. He doesn't have long left now.

Mood: Dazed
Drinking: Coffee
Listening To: the clock tick
Hair: tousled

Constant Craving

I had to chew gum to control a cigarette craving a few minutes ago . . . I seldom crave them anymore. I honestly can't remember the last time. I'm one of those annoying former smokers who can't stand anything about cigarettes anymore, the smell, the smoke, the lingering stench -- BLECH!! I can smell a cigarette a mile away, my sense of smell for smoke is much keener than someone who has never smoked. I can be a bit annoying about it, very verbal.

But tonight, out of nowhere, completely unexpected . . . a genuine craving. But I know if I broke down, if I went out to the kitchen and pinched some of Dad's tobacco, rolled up a little smoke, lit it, put it to my lips and inhaled . . . I know if I did that I would probably pass out, at the very least have a terrible coughing fit, maybe throw up . . . and the craving would not go away, the craving would still be there, because I've moved past the physical stuff of the addiction, the nicotine and whatever other shit they put in tobacco these days to get people hooked.

The craving tonight is about the way smoking used to make me feel. Getting a little stressed -- have a smoke! Need to calm your nerves -- light up! Under immense pressure to get the job done -- suck back a pack! Yeah, that's what this craving is all about. I've got a bunch of stuff on the go. A bunch of deadlines all at the same time. A lot of people counting on me. My joints are all swollen and inflamed. My body is shutting down. I've been staying in bed up to 16 hours at a time but not actually getting much sleep, because I'm dreaming like a crazy person -- drafting proposals, writing novels and short stories and articles, editing stories, designing newsletters and websites, reading books, cooking, baking, writing recipes, throwing parties, moving, getting drunk, Christmas shopping, giving Nick a cut and shampoo, meeting the love of my life, visiting art galleries, going to concerts, and much more -- these are the things I dream about . . . in a single night! In a few hours! So, I'm a little bit freaked out and that's why after two and a half years I'm suddenly craving cigarettes.

This too will pass. As soon as I finish one project and cross it off the list, the rest will fall like dominoes. It's always the way. Just venting helps.

Mood: stressed
Drinking: coffee, dark roast
Listening To: Bob Dylan, Fourth Time Around
Hair: Squeaky clean Josephine! It's really blonde when it's not greasy!

Vanilla Sky

If I've talked about this before, I'm sorry. But I watched some of Vanilla Sky tonight . . . AGAIN!! And I just have to talk about it.

I put it in just to kill time, thought I'd watch some of the commentary track with Cameron Crowe. He is one of my favourite people in film. I honestly believe he's never made a bad movie. They are all excellent from Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Say Anything to Almost Famous and Vanilla Sky and every Jerry Maguire and Singles in between -- this is THE man in my book.

So, I slipped in Vanilla Sky just to listen to some commentary and kill a bit of time, but of course as soon as Tom Cruise gets into his car to head out into the empty dream street I want to hear the music. That's the thing with a Cameron film -- the music! He's got a great ear. So, then I had to turn the commentary off and start over from the beginning and watch the movie as it was intended, just to hear the tunes. And then the story sucks me in . . . it sucks me in every time . . . I know every word, everyone's lines . . . I mutter them under my breath right along with the cast . . . and still, I get sucked into this movie time after time, more than any other film ever made. I watched right up until that moment in the park after the accident when David meets up with Sofia and tells her about the bad dream he had . . . I watched right up until he realises that his bad dream is real and this thing in the park with Sofia is the dream, when Tom Cruise looks right into the camera and his eyes cloud over with tears as understanding settles upon him. Then I cried and turned it off. It's too late to watch all of it, I'll be up all night as it is.

This movie kills me . . . it just KILLS me. And I can't understand, can't get my head around it, when other people say it's a stupid movie and they don't like it. WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?! I don't expect this film to move everybody on ALL the levels that it moves me . . . but surely, it's got to hit upon at least one? It baffles my mind when people trash this. For me, it's emotional overload -- I identify with every character.

I have been David Ames. I have treated people carelessly like he treated Cameron Diaz's character. I've been on that street with my fuck buddy and weighing the options whether to take the chance one more time or just walk away forever. I've had that terrible moment of clarity when you realise that everything you believed was wrong, that it was all a lie, all a dream.

At the same time I've been Julie Gianni, I've been the fuck buddy who wanted more, who expected more, who thought four times meant something. I've been treated carelessly and hurt by people I did nothing to only loved. I've fallen in love with people who didn't love me back. I've lived that psychotic scene in the car just before she crashes it, when she says all those things to David. I've been that girl.

But I've also been the other girl played by Penelope Cruz. I've had the evening of witty banter and danced about the room afterward with the expectation of it all. I've had perfect evenings like that where the conversation comes so easy and you know that you've met someone special in your life. I've shared in the pleasure delaying of not sleeping with that guy, with not complicating a perfect beginning with sex. And I've also had that first evening shattered for one reason or another, maybe not a devastating car crash that turns the guy into an asshole, but I've had the disappointment of realising that one perfect night, the wonderful beginning, isn't going anywhere, that's all there will be.

I've even felt like the best friend, Brian, played by Jason Lee. He talks a lot about sweet 'n sour and you know he's been coming second behind Tom Cruise for as long as they've known each other. I've been that best friend. I've gone home alone. I've known I was second choice.

I think it's because I can identify with every character on so many levels that this movie kills me every time . . . it kills other people too I'm sure. The story is sad. But for me it's more than just sad, it's personal, everything that happens in this movie brings up very vivid and difficult memories from my life. Every time I watch it I run the gamut of emotions -- it's gut wrenching . . . I cry EVERY time . . . and that's a lot of times, because I've seen it a lot.

So, why would I subject myself to this? Why wouldn't I just stop watching?

For one thing, the movie is too damn good to never watch again. But more than that, it's like therapy. The more I relive those emotions, the more I understand them, and the better equipped I am to deal with them and face similar situations in the future. It's like writing, the more I write, the more I deal with my inner demons, the more I understand myself and the better equipped I become to deal with my life. It just happens that this movie struck upon a whole shitload of my inner demons . . . I need to watch.

Mood: deja vu
Drinking: Red Red Wine
Listening To: Radiohead, Everything in its right Place
Hair: Beyond oily

Love & Happiness

All over the web in blogs and on message boards and all the places I hang around, Americans are reeling from the election results. I haven't run into any who wanted this outcome. And this strikes me as a little odd, because it really wasn't that close (not as close as last time). So, who voted for him? Do they not blog or visit the same message boards as me? It's kind of weird. I've also been hearing quite a bit about some disturbing election day tactics . . . huge men in suits hanging around outside polling stations and bullying little old ladies to vote against Kerry . . . women and black people being given the run-around until they became so confused about where to go that they just went home . . . people being told they couldn't vote, when they really could . . . flyers being circulated in small town America spreading rumours like it's illegal to vote if you have outstanding parking tickets . . . and more. Is it sour grapes because their guy lost? Or do these things really happen, allowing the other guy to win every time? It's all very suspicious . . . and fits right in with my Osama theory -- that he doesn't really exist, that the government invented him because they needed an enemy to fight. I'm sure I've written about that theory before here someplace. I mean when you think about it, it's really kind of absurd -- 7 foot tall, turban wearing, hooked up to dialysis . . . yet impossible to find. He's like a comic book character.

Love and Happiness

Well, we're droppin' our bombs
In the southern hemisphere
And people are starving
That live right here
And they're tearing down walls
In the name of peace
And they're killing each other
In the Middle East

But love and happiness
Have forgotten our names
And there's no value left
In love and happiness

They raise the price of oil
And they censor our mouths
If you are a young couple today
Forget buying a house
And we wage our wars
In the neighborhoods
We kill the young to feed the old
And man that ain't no good

But love and happiness
Have forgotten our names
And there's no value left
In love and happiness

So, if you sell arms
Or you run dope
You got respect
And you got hope
But the rest of us die
On your battle fields
With wounds that fester and bleed
But never heal

But love and happiness
Have forgotten our names
And there's no value left
In love and happiness

-- John Mellencamp

Mood: Kind of like scrambled eggs . . . a bit fried, kinda runny in spots and lumpy in others
Drinking: In the words of my dearly departed almost father-in-law "Drier than a nun's nupe." (More Thurmanisms available upon request)
Listening To: Nick snoring (ain't he the lucky dog)
Hair: I'm not going to lie, it could use a little TLC, at the very least a shampoo.

Sporadic Presence

So, aren't you beginning to wonder where I am? What I'm doing? Why I'm not writing very often? Or for very long? Especially since the BnM redesign has been done for awhile now . . . aren't you the least bit curious?

Well, obviously not! You didn't email me. You didn't inquire. I could have been carried off by bears . . . and I don't think you would have even noticed. Anyway, it doesn't really matter, you're here now, I'm here now, let's just get on with it.

I've been unusually absent, or sporadically present depending on your point of view, because I finally reconnected with my novel and I've been working on it everyday (during the time I'd normally blog). Today I'm trying to do both, ask me tomorrow how that's working for me.

My writing gal pals suggested I shop around a piece of the novel as a short story. So, I've been giving it to people for feedback -- writers and non-writers. The challenge in taking something from a longer piece of work is to include enough stuff (and the right stuff) so it stands alone as a complete short story. It's difficult to only see what's on the page when you've got all these characters complete lives in your head, everything they've done and said since the day they were born plus what they're going to do every day until they die. It's hard to forget you know these characters and their story when you've been living with them for years. So that's why I've offered up the short story version to many sets of eyes -- The novel is still well under wraps, not anywhere near ready to let that baby fly yet.

I've been getting some really helpful feedback . . . and then I've been getting some very exciting feedback. Thought I'd share some of the more exciting comments, because while the helpful comments are very helpful . . . they're also kind of, well . . . disappointing in a way because they mean I've missed the mark and need to go back in and rework the story. Things like -- I have no idea what's going on here; I'm lost; Who is this person?; etc. Great stuff when it comes to rewriting and making improvements, but not nearly as exciting as:

"The story shines through very well. You center on the emotions of implied adultery, tragedy and love not living up to its own PR/reputation in his mind in a very short space. The 'point' of the story is brought out by the emotions of the characters as revealed in speech and action. But you have enough to make it plain the emotions aren't the story--the characters are. That's an accomplishment . . . these characters are developed and real without a fuss or unnecessary extras. All in all, a good, very tight story."

"This was nicely crafted. Thank you for that."

"The story held a mildly eerie pulse, in the form of underlying tension, that I liked. Your writing was good and the pace kept my interest. You packed a lot of story in 6 pages and the complex layerings are a credit to your ability. Grammatically, it was strong. Thanks for an enjoyable read."

"I loved the sense of atmosphere in this story. I felt the same way that I felt, honestly, the first time I picked up THE GRAPES OF WRATH: a crushing sense of poverty, of a family struggle that couldn't and wouldn't end without tragedy. I thought that you used the rain, too, beautifully as a pathetic fallacy: I felt the greyness and murkiness of their lives. The description of Trey in his casket was beautiful, amazing. I'm dazzled by your work."

Now, for those of you who don't know, The Grapes of Wrath may be my number one favourite novel of all-time (certainly in the top three), so that last comment (which came from a very successful published author, big time associate editor with a MAJOR American magazine) tickles me pink! It doesn't help me improve the story in the slightest, but it gives me that little ego stroking I need to let me know I'm not wasting my time. That's why these comments are exciting. All the criticism and nit-picking that I need to receive if I ever hope to improve is a little easier to accept and learn from when you know at least one person really enjoyed what you've done so far.

Mood: Giddy
Drinking: black tea
Listening To: Rumbleseat, John Mellencamp (I bought the recent Greatest Hits compilation, Words & Music, with bonus DVD, in case I forgot to mention that . . . and it's fabulous!)
Hair: hanging in my eyes, covering my face, not unlike the creepy girls in Japanese horror movies

Walk Tall

As I sit here with Bush leading the election . . . with the outcome too close to call . . . I have to wonder what the hell is wrong with a lot of Americans? Why haven't the Democrats run away with this election? Do people just not care? Do they really believe another term with the Republican's is a good thing? I'm baffled by it . . . yet, not the least bit surprise.

Walk Tall

The simple minded
And the uninformed
Can be easily led astray
And those that cannot connect the dots
Hey look the other way
People believe what they want to believe
When it makes no sense at all
So be careful of those killing in Jesus’s name
He don’t believe in killing at all
Walk tall
Yeah walk on
Through this world
Walk tall
Somewhere out in the distance
Is the death of you and me
Even though we don’t think of it much
It’s still out there for us to see
If you treat life like a bar room fight
You’ll die stinking of gin
No drunkards are allowed in heaven
No sinners will get in
Walk tall
Yeah, walk on
Walk tall
Through this world
Walk tall
So be careful in what you believe in
There’s plenty to get you confused
And in this land called paradise
You must walk in many men’s shoes
Bigotry and hatred are enemies to us all
Grace, mercy and forgiveness
Will help a man walk tall
So walk tall
Yeah, walk on
Walk tall
Through this world
Through this world
Yeah, walk tall
Then walk on
Walk tall
Then walk on
Through this world
Through this world
Through this world
Through this world
Walk tall
Walk tall
Then walk on
Walk tall

-- John Mellencamp

Mood: philosophical
Drinking: Red wine
Listening To: Words & Music, greatest hits album from John Mellencamp (with bonus dvd!)
Hair: stringy

More Turds

I should've known better than to mention Nick's crap the other day . . . Today was a bad day . . . I can't even talk about it . . . Three hours outside . . . one pair of scissors, two rags, a soapy bucket of water and hair brush . . . a ball of doggy waste the size of a grapefruit . . . and now Nick is balding in spots.

In better news, after working until six this morning, sleeping four hours, spending another four in the company of my beloved pet and then working all afternoon and evening again, I finally have something to show for it. What do you think of the new look?
Mood: stiff neck
Drinking: nothing yet
Listening To: the grumble of my empty stomach
Hair: pulled back in a severe face-lifting ponytail

@#$%@$$!!!

Late last night, as I worked into the wee hours yet again (I've seen 4am every day this week) my sneaky suspicion materialized -- I'm going to have to touch up EVERY PAGE published so far this year, EVERY SINGLE PAGE!! It's not enough that I took the whole week to change the background and navigation for the site which is really 10 little sites making one big site (AKA a lot of terribly tedious bad on the arthritis in the hands work) . . . now, I've got to go back in and change the formatting on every page in order to make it work with the new background. Do you know how many pages that is? A LOT!! I'm losing my freaking mind . . . AND I have to write fiction to meet with the girl's on Friday (I'm getting emails about it) . . . AND the WFNB newsletter is due soon (I'm getting emails about it) . . . AND I haven't pubbed BnM in two weeks and I really need to do it soon (I'm getting emails about it) . . . AND I've got press releases back-logged (I'm getting emails about it) . . . AND my mouse is wonky (I emailed a guy about it but he hasn't replied) . . . AND then there's the family personal crap that's gone into high-gear with my grandfather's impending death and my mom being freaked out . . . I just want to curl up and go to sleep.

Mood: stressed to the max
Drinking: tea for now, seeing wine in my immediate future and brandy before dawn
Listening To: the throbbing of the headache in my temple
Hair: Coming out in clumps

Footnote from my Past

Tonight Kaitlyn sent me a poem she wrote that reminded me of one I had written when I was just a little bit older than she is now. I think I was 14. I kept that poem for some reason, I think because I liked the idea and thought it might come in handy one day. As poems go, it was never that great. Over the years I've taken it out and toyed with it a bit. It's the inspiration now for a story I haven't finished yet . . . a story about an old woman who waits for a long lost love to return to her. I'm not sure it's a poem anymore (a prose poem perhaps? flash fiction?) Whatever it is now, here's the latest incarnation from 1999.

The Visitor

Knock — a single rap and then no more. Quick, soft, then gone — like a message spoken in haste, a mistake quickly retrieved. Is it real? Or have I imagined your knuckles upon my door? Like in my dreams, the echo brought to life by the wilful strength of my mind. Has my lost love returned? Or have my ears been fooled by my wish? Perhaps a tree's severed limb has been thrown against the door, like a bit of an innocent soldier's flesh flung from the trenches of war. A storm has captured the night. Thunder crashes amidst lightning flashes, like bombs launched but destined to remain in the sky forever, never landing. Lightning paints the world in unnatural jagged silver-white sheets. Trees bravely fight the fierce howling wind. The birds and little forest animals, overwhelmed and outnumbered, have long since surrendered and defeated without protest skulked home where they hide waiting for peace. Electricity cut by the enemy, clutching a candle, my knuckles white, I creep to the door hoping it is you but believing it is the tree.

Flash — a face pale and wet is framed in the window for one startling moment, frozen in the storm's paralysing photograph — then gone, the night swallowing it whole. Your face, beyond the reach of my candle's weak flame, but I know it is you. I run to the door, fumble with the locks and fling it open not caring that the wind having found the weakness in my armour will invade my fortress. And there you are. Tired. Battered by the storm. But not beaten, not wounded, unscathed and alive. You are alive and returned safe to my arms, soaked and chilled through the bone, but here with me, my dream incarnate. You are the same with hands callused and strong, body towering and lean, face hardened and sharp, eyes dancing with —

No. Eyes not dancing at all. Eyes lifeless and dull. What has happened? Have I remembered the eyes wrong? Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . But . . . Your smile remains the same, broad and so white against your tanned skin. It's so joyous to be held in your arms again. Your embrace has not been forgotten or altered in the depths of my memory. Still warm. Still comforting. Still safe. The words upon your lips are the very words I always wanted to hear, words you withheld before. The words flow loose and free, finally released, but not forming the question as I dreamed. Still, the words nonetheless — You will be my wife. Oh, I will. I will. Your lips lower and part meeting mine. Your kiss so sweet and soft like clover, freshly mowed grass. I do remember your kiss. I remember craning my neck to lose myself in that kiss. But this kiss . . . This kiss is cold as death and rank as a rotting corpse. It is not you. This man I kiss, this man I'm to wed is not you. "Who are you?" I scream clawing to escape. And the thunder crashes. And the door is blown open. And the wind surrounds the candle's flame, killing it. And the lightning flashes freeze framing the demon. Then blackness. Darkness smothers me as the demon laughs loudly above the roar of the wind. The wind tamed and powerless in the demon's presence.

Awake. The sun shines. The birds sing. Squirrels chatter in the trees. And I lie alone in my tiny bed thankful I've only had a bad dream. Nightmares my darling, from missing you so much. But now it is the day and I am safe and the day is beautiful and bright. Nothing in the world could ever be wrong. I stretch and yawn, well rested despite my horrible dream. And it is only then that I notice, only then that I see it, only then that I feel it . . . on the third finger of my left hand —

A golden wedding band.


Mood: somewhat withdrawn
Drinking: water still, we're out of the good stuff
Listening To: With or Without You, U2
Hair: I can no longer bear to look at it in the mirror

Nerds & Turds

Turns out the Nick Nolte Diary is not being written by Nick Nolte, which makes it slightly less fun to read. I should have guessed earlier that if it sounded too much like Nick Nolte it had to be aspiring screen writers. Get the full scoop from E! Online. Taia, thanks for the heads up on that one. If they continue to blog though, I think I'll keep reading. It's still pretty funny. Or I could leave those nerds high and dry and head on over to Jeff Bridges' site. They're doing some interesting stuff over there . . . apparently, they scan in his handwritten notes, which is kind of different.

So tonight while I waited for my supper to cook (I made bacon-wrapped chestnuts smothered in garlic butter and mozzarella -- Yummy! And great when you're doing Atkins, which I'm not . . . so, just a big old clogged artery in a bowl.) Anyway, I was sitting in the living room channel surfing when Mom drove in. Of course when Nick heard her car he jumped up and ran past my chair to bark in the window. I heard a thud. He skidded to a stop and half-turned to see what was up . . . and to both our horror, there was a turd lying on the floor. His belly hit the ground and he sneaked over into the corner where he threw himself down with a huge sigh. And I cleaned up the little mess. He's a long-haired beast (part sheep dog I think) so this kind of thing can happen every now and again, lingering bits caught in the hair come loose when he bounds or jumps. What's really funny is his reaction when it happens -- Oh the horror! He becomes so embarrassed he just goes and hides, sighing really loud, and looking around occasionally as if to say, "What are you looking at me for? Nothing going on over here." This I can laugh about -- solid, dry, good for making fun stuff . . . It's the times that he's been sick with the runs or constipation . . . yeah, those times, not so much fun.

Mood: perplexed
Drinking: water, straight up, no chaser, of the bottled variety, but not a name brand
Listening To: Big Balls, AC/DC
Hair: Let's not go there today, ok?

Worker Bee Mode

What an insane time I'm having with work. We're in the process of changing to a new design. I had a new issue ready to go on the weekend but I held it back a little because Jen had a new column coming in. In the meantime Joy had started working on the design change, but she didn't get it done by the end of the weekend and then she was off this week. So, I've been unable to publish the new issue because some of the site had the new look and some didn't and I've been left having to make all the changes myself. The design part is so not my thing! It's just so friggin' tedious and takes forever on dial-up. Anyway, enough griping, I just thought I'd better pop in and let you guys know I haven't run away and joined the circus . . . Yet! :-)

Briefly, in other news, I spent a relaxing evening at Carol's house earlier this week. I collected some of Kaitlyn's art for an article I'm working on about her. And we watched a movie -- Freddy Vs. Jason, which was a lot of fun. I've always loved Freddy, he's got the best one-liners and with my nightmares he's always been the horror villain I could relate to the most.

The Grudge opens this weekend but I haven't found anyone to go with me to see it . . . which is probably just as well.

I've been reading Nick Nolte's Diary everyday and loving it. I can hear his voice in my head when I read the pieces, which are always really short and there's only one every day, so it's easy to read his stuff. I get a kick out of him.

I have learned that U2 are going on tour and coming to Canada next year. I immediately went to the Ticketmaster website and signed up for alerts. If they play anywhere in Ontario or points east, I'm going! I will not miss Bono!! I can't see them coming to Halifax though . . . so, I'll probably be Toronto bound and how exciting will that be! Maybe if I'm really nice and remember to send a Christmas card this year, Taia and Ian will let me crash on the couch for a night ;-)

Mood: stiff
Drinking: cold tea
Listening To: Don't It Make You Feel, The Headpins
Hair: Mom told me today that it looks like Andy Dick's . . . so, there you go

Roughing it in the Bush

Oh Mrs. Moodie! I've never been able to finish your book . . . and now I think I know why. I don't find your "roughing it" experience to be all that exciting because it's just old hat around these parts.

This morning as Nick and I trekked about the yard looking for the best bushes to pee on and poop under, I noticed garbage strung from one end of the upper driveway to the other and all down into the ditch. Closer inspection revealed that the back end of the garbage bin had been ripped out. Yes, a bear pigged out on our garbage sometime during the night. (Really, who could resist Jen's bacon grease?) The way the boards were laying there ripped in two it kind of looked as if the beast had just swatted it with his big ass paw and sliced through the wood like a sword through tissue. So now I'm REALLY afraid to take Nick out after dark, which seems to only make him want to go out more and see what the hell I'm trying to keep from him. It's a Catch-22.

When we went out to supper and the movies on the weekend, Cindy told me her parents had a bear come onto their deck and right up to the patio doors where he licked the window. They live in the Plaster Rock area where apparently they've been having a really bad time with bears into everything, stealing stuff from people's fridges and freezers on their porches.

Stacy is going on bear safari this weekend in Rogersville area. Apparently, they've got it set up so that anywhere from 25-35 bears will come out and feed all at the same time while you watch and take pictures from a treehouse type thing 20 feet above them. That is SO not for me! It's like tempting fate isn't it? Isn't that the part of the movie where the audience starts screaming, "Don't go up in that tree, idiot! The bears will get you!" And then they groan and shake their heads when the character does it anyway. I suppose it'll be a thrill. She'll get some scary pictures. I'm just way too chicken . . . dump trauma from when I was a kid I think.

Mood: All fogged in
Drinking: hot chocolate spiked with brandy
Listening To: The Pretenders, Brass In Pocket on Virgin Classic Rock Radio live from the U.K.
Hair: getting blonder by the day . . . and fuzzy?! What's up with that?

What a Day!

My sinus infection was nearly the death of me today. I've been feverish all day, practically falling asleep in my chair as I tried to get stuff done. I do have this to show for my efforts, but the finishing touches that I anticipated taking an hour or so took about 10 hours in my drugged (and quite possibly drunken) position.

Strange dreams last night of love with a professor . . . my professor. I had gone back to school. The guy was actually a prof I had many years ago (he's probably dead by now, but hadn't aged a day in the dream). I can't even remember that professor's name now and I took several of his philosophy classes because I enjoyed him so much at the time. Pity.

Although in the dream I seemed to be more interested (quite smitten actually) by his huge trust fund than his charming good looks and warm smile. Could it be I'm subconsciously worried about all the money I've been spending lately on trips, books, shoes and dvds?

Mood: fuzzy around the edges
Drinking: brandy
Listening To: my throbbing sinuses
Hair: is that a bit of grey?

Forgotten Already Forgotten

I went to the movies this weekend and saw The Forgotten with Juliane Moore. I was a bit disappointed by it. I had seen all of the scary parts in the previews and I had hoped the plot revolved around something more complicated and less stereotypical than aliens . . . but no such luck. This is one movie that will not be getting a second viewing on DVD.

Speaking of DVDs I bought a bunch this past week. First, I got a few from the Columbia House club including Almost Famous (the Bootleg Edition), Platoon (Special Edition), The Bourne Identity, Annie Hall, and a couple for the kids for Christmas. Then we went shopping after the movie on Saturday and I got Bon Jovi, This Left Feels Right (Special Edition), Starsky & Hutch, and Duplex. I have to take the Bon Jovi one back and exchange it because it's skipping, but even with the skipping I watched almost all of it and LOVED it!! It's from the Pay-Per-View concert they did in Atlantic City, the only time they'll ever perform that album live . . . EVER! I've looked high and low for this DVD for a year now, so I was pretty happy to find it. I hadn't realised the record store sold DVDs. Now, I know where to go looking for the box set when it comes out next month.

I'm suffering from yet another sinus infection I think. Funny, how you go your whole life without ever having a sinus infection and then you get two within a four month period. Maybe I've developed allergies in my old age. Something's up, that's for sure.

In major news today, Janice's baby arrived two weeks early and wasn't the much anticipated boy everyone thought was coming. Looks like Stacy will be able to buy all those cutie girl clothes afterall for little Amy Diane.

Mood: A little high on Flonase
Drinking: hot chocolate with cherry brandy
Listening To: Vivo Per Lei, Andrea Boccelli & Giorgia
Hair: tucked behind my right ear, covering my left eye

Flexing my Writing muscles . . .

When I used to write creatively everyday, working on short stories and novels, I would begin the day with an excercise to get my brain cells into the creative spirit. Sometimes I'd write a little essay, but more often than not I would write cheesy little pieces of poetry. As I try to reconnect to my novel and the character of Callum I've been looking through a lot of my old notes and writing to reacquaint myself with everything I've already got down on that story. But I'm also finding some other things too . . . not necessarily great things, lol, but things I forgot I wrote. Here are a couple of poems I wrote a few years ago as warm-up exercises for a day of writing.

Words, sometimes
Rapidly flowing like a waterfall.
I'm unable to keep up. Sometimes
Trickling like a small brook,
Ignoring my thirst,
Nowhere to be found.
Gone to dust.

__________________________________________________

Memories,
worn like layers of heavy clothing
on a hot humid day,

immobilise,
paralyse, and smother. Peel the painful
layers in analysis;

shed
the black mourning suit in hypnosis;
the mothball scent

remains,
soaked into the very skin of the body
laid bare — naked and

frozen.
Absorb harmful UV rays, scorch the
aching tissue until it

blisters,
injured cells flake and scatter on the
wind. Skinned, raw meat and

nerves
exposed glisten, life's sweet nectar
drips forming a drowning

pool
on the ground. Do you sit unmoving,
stretching and embracing the

last
moments of tormented existence? Do
you run free for mere seconds,

rigor
mortis stopping you cold? SAVE YOURSELF!
Twist the body tightly into a

living
tourniquet, choke the spurting flow. No
need to gather the wool, memories

hold—
imprisoned in DNA.

__________________________________________________

Dark warrior pass me by,
pretend we are strangers
and have never known love.

Drawn to my white light
like a moth from the dark,
you have enjoyed sucking

my strength, extinguishing
my flame, turning my heart
to black stone. Do not

circle me, lone wolf, for
I know you are near, better
to slink in the shadows

than be recognised. My
brightness is too powerful
now, it overwhelms your brown

eyes. I am no longer damaged
or damageable. So, give me wide
berth for I can destroy you if

I desire. I have peered below
your shallow hide and seen the
soul living within that hollow

frame. And dark warrior I
must warn you —
I know your name.

Mood: surprisingly joyous
Drinking: diet pepsi
Listening To: Dry the Rain, The Beta Band
Hair: wet

Oh, the crisp air!

Man! Does the crisp fall air ever take me back! I'm reminded of . . .

school dances . . . Every year we would go to the first one in the fall and then decide they were too lame and never go to anymore until the next fall.

hot and heavy make-out sessions . . . Leaning against a tree, kissing, hugging . . . mostly trying to keep warm, lol. The taste of Hermits wine . . . God! A cigarette was always so good back then.

driving around with Bradley in that old rust coloured LTD . . . we couldn't go too fast or the roof would fall off . . . not kidding. We made him prove it to us one day on the highway by the old base (now prison). He punched it up a notch and we had to hold onto the roof when it started to fly off. Hilarious!

driving around with the boys in Mable . . . stretched out across at least 5 guys laps because we were piled to the ceiling, drinking Royal Reserve straight no chaser, listening to Bad to the Bone and AC/DC, laughing our guts out about . . . nothing at all.

meeting Stacy half-way between our houses to drink rye out of pickle jars and smoke cigarettes we stole from our dads.

sneaking into people's yards and switching lawn ornaments with their neighbours.

the Halloween bonfire! . . . and hitting someone on the other side of the fire with an egg . . . and having her blame someone else entirely, lol.

Mary Beth's parties!! . . . sitting on Kevin's lap, facing each other, my legs wrapped around the back of the chair and talking until dawn like there was nobody else around.

chicken salad sandwiches at the Pickle Barrel . . . and hot dogs from a street vendor.

the Eastwood! . . . crawling under tables, gathering up purses and coats, things crashing above me, Mary Beth and Kevin arguing about the insanity of the brawl, crawling all the way to the lobby before standing up and finding a safe crowd to stand with outside while I waited for someone to take me home.

outside a Catholic Hall Dance . . . in the graveyard, watching the most amazing meteor shower I've ever seen.

forming the Barnettville mafia at Uncle Terry's . . . staying up all night plotting our take-over of the local booze trade . . . and also the kidnapping of a particular blonde who worked at the liquor store.

the annual Halloween night Power Track sleepover to deter the kids from burning it down or robbing me blind . . . sober, cuddling on the couch watching the Stooges, big belly laughs . . .

Mood: energized
Drinking: pop
Listening To: Love Bites, Def Leppard & Here I Go Again, Whitesnake
Hair: Slick

I Will Remember

While I was away in Fredericton a couple of weekends ago, a man I used to know hung himself . . . Hangings in general bother me because that's how Brent finally went. Suicide is hellish business. I wasn't even that close to Brent and I had terrible episodes of guilt where I wondered if I couldn't have helped him more. I know, I know, crazy thoughts, but still that's the kind of mess suicide leaves behind. It's got to be 3000 times worse for the immediate family. But enough about Brent, it makes me sad. I wanted to write about Marven.

I haven't seen him in at least 10 years and the last time I did he wasn't the same guy I remembered -- too much drugs, drinking, etc. I used to know Marven when he was just a young man and I was still in high school. He would have been in his early to mid 20's I would say . . . too old for me to be hanging out with, but so was everybody in the crowd I ran with. Oddly enough at that time he represented the voice of reason in our crazy lives. He was often the one keeping the boys from getting in too much trouble, keeping us in line and under the radar, so nobody ended up in prison or dead. I'm sure anyone who knows who I'm talking about and the kind of loose cannon he turned into will find that amusing. But it's true.

Marven gave me one of the best pieces of advice I ever got in my life, something that I've never forgotten and always tried to live by. My last summer home before I went to Toronto to go to school was a pretty insane time for me. I was excited to be leaving but scared as hell. I was an emotional wreck really. I suffered from insomnia and wicked recurring nightmares. I got caught up in episodes of deja vu that lasted for 10 - 15 minutes at a time. I worried that I might get stuck in deja vu for the rest of my life, sitting by the sidelines, knowing everything that was going to happen before it did, unable to change anything or participate. It was a scary prospect and it nearly drove me crazy. Thinking back on those months, maybe I was a little crazy.

I remember I had a lot of freedom that summer. My family moved to the camp and I had the house to myself for months. I never brought anyone home, didn't have wild parties where we trashed the house . . . I just never came home, I stayed out on the roads traveling and partying, getting into all kinds of trouble, juggling two boyfriends -- I couldn't bear to be alone or straight for one second because then the reality of leaving would be too scary, the nightmares would take over. I only came home when I knew the folks would be stopping in and to shower. Sometimes I slept there, but I didn't sleep much that summer and most times I slept in cars or outside in fields. I guess I was a little out of control. And to top things off, I was pretty much a loner that summer. Stacy had stuff going on with her boyfriend, Donna and Gloria had moved. I was a girl on her own, whose best friends were a bunch of guys in their 20's, who were considered bad news. Interesting times, indeed.

I don't know that too many people noticed how fucked up I was. Well, I don't remember too many people reaching out to help me. But I remember Marven taking me aside one day. He asked me how I was, if I knew what I was going to do about school, about the boyfriends . . . It was kind of a fatherly gesture, which I know is really bizarre considering who he was, but still at that moment in that place I trusted him enough to tell him I wasn't doing so good and I was scared, I didn't know what to do. And that's when he imparted his words of wisdom that I've never forgotten. He said nothing was harder to live with than wondering what if. Screwing up might hurt like hell, he said, but I'd get over it eventually and that pain would go away. The pain of wondering what if would be something that would stay with me for the rest of my life, there would be no way to get rid of it and it would hurt more the longer I carried it around. He used to have some pretty intense philosophical moments back in the day :-) I never forgot his advice and he was right. Lord knows I've screwed up lots in my life but I don't regret my mistakes because I learned valuable lessons from each and every one . . . it's the things I didn't do, the things I chickened out on, the what ifs -- those are my only regrets.

Mood: nostalgic
Drinking: I think tea has started to give me heartburn . . . still, I'm drinking it . . . and eating peppermints to combat the heartburn
Listening To: Free, Rick Springfield
Hair: silky soft

Guest Starring . . .

I had a very active dream life last night, this dream that went on forever, and now I'm played out, won't be any good for anything all day.

Scene 1 -- I dreamed I won a contest to go to Montreal and meet Jessica Simpson at a big weekend benefit concert. But before I left there were problems at home. This bird flew into the house. It was a big bird, the kind you would buy in a pet store, not a parrot or any breed I recognised, but we knew it was someone's pet. It was pretty tame and I could hold it and pet it and it didn't bite me or anything. I was short on time, having to leave for Montreal to meet Jessica Simpson, and Mom was away so I needed Dad and/or Lee to take the bird around the neighbourhood and see if anyone owned him. But they wouldn't do it. Dad made me put the bird back outside. I was really angry that they wouldn't help me and I had to leave the bird. End scene.

Scene 2 -- I'm in Montreal at a swanky hotel/casino (much like Vegas, not much like Montreal). Celebrities are everywhere!! They're all staying in this hotel too where the benefit concert is taking place onstage in the showroom 24 hours/day all weekend long. J-Lo, Marc Antony, Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilara, P. Diddy, Gwen Stefani, Nickelback, Celine Dion, even Shania Twain (this just shows how little control I have over the celebrity guest stars in my dreams). It was a crazy mix of people, all of which I just saw from a distance across the lobby or in the restaurant, never performing. I never actually went to the concert. The time came to meet Jessica Simpson in the restaurant. Nick Lachey was with her of course. I went and sat down with them, we ate dinner, we talked. She thought the concert was pretty cool. I realised this was being taped and I might end up on their Newlywed show. They were really nice and absolutely gorgeous in real life! The both of them -- GORGEOUS beyond belief!! Nick was taller than what I expected. Actually, they were both taller. They let me take pictures of them and they took pictures of me with them. It was a great time. End Scene.

Scene 3 -- I'm on the train from Montreal to home but I can't find a seat. So, I'm walking around with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder looking for a place to crash. I come across this little room with about a half dozen people lying around on a big bed and two little cots. I go in and ask this big burly man if I can sit on the bed with him. He says sure and I make myself comfortable. I ask if this is what a room is like when you book one on the train and he shrugs so I think it must be. It's bigger than what I would have expected and seems to get bigger by the minute. Everybody is saying where they've been and where they're going, telling their stories. So, I tell them about the great weekend I had in Montreal meeting Jessica Simpson but they don't believe me. I have the pictures to prove it, I say and rummage through my bag looking for them. But I can't find them. This goes on a really long time, me looking for the pictures, arguing with the big burly guy. At first I'm kind of pissed off because I think he's making fun of me, calling me a liar. But then I realise he isn't serious and he's just teasing me. So, I get into it then and we're teasing each other, having a good time. If you've ever taken the train from Montreal you know it's one helluva long night. So, this went on awhile, other people fell asleep, the lights dimmed, and soon I was making out with the big burly guy. End Scene

Scene 4 -- It's morning on the train, bright and sunshiny, I'm almost home. Big burly guy has gone to the washroom and I'm lying on the bed feeling pretty happy when another girl on the bed (it's a BIG bed) asks me if I'm a lesbian. She has blonde hair in braids, freckles and braces. She looks REALLY familiar but I can't place her. I say no, I'm not a lesbian, which I think should have been obvious from the make out session with big burly guy. This bratty girl is like Nelly Olsen from Little House on the Prairie, early 20's, just dying to make fun and torture. So, she shrugs and says I could've fooled her with the way I've been going on. I don't know what she's talking about, she's implying I've been having lesbian relations on the train. Turns out she's from my hometown, she won't tell me who she is though, she just keeps laughing and saying, "What? You don't recognise me?" And threatening to tell everyone about my slutty escapades on the train. I tell her I don't know who she is and she can tell people whatever, I don't care what they think, but I'm getting angry and a little freaked out because I really don't understand what's going on and everything from the night before is getting a little fuzzy so I really don't even know what I've done anymore. Just then big burly guy comes back except he isn't big burly guy anymore, he is a she, and she is the butch-type love-em-and-leave-em hairdresser girl from the show The 'L' Word. This is who I was apparently making out with the night before. I'm freaked out!! The blonde girl is laughing, pointing her finger at me, saying she's going to tell everyone. The 'L' Word chick is telling me to have a good life, she's got to get off, it's been fun, yada, yada, yada. I'm feeling woozy. End Scene.

Scene 5 -- I'm back home and that bird has been hanging around outside the house all weekend, my dad says. He wants me to take care of it because the singing is driving him nuts. I go out on the front lawn to look for the bird and the lawn is covered with birds! I mean crawling with the things, all shapes, all sizes, all colours, crows, robins, blue jays, moosebirds, and more. The lawn is dead, dry yellow, they've picked all the good out of the grass. I can't find the bird amongst them and I worry that the wild birds have done something horrible to him. It's an absolutely beautiful day outside, sunshine, blue skies, a few white fluffy clouds. Just then Stacy shows up and wants to see my Jessica Simpson pictures from the weekend. So, we go inside to find them and I start telling her I had a weird time on the train, met a great guy/girl, lol, not sure who I met, but it was interesting. I send Lee outside to look for the bird while I talk to Stacy and look for the pictures. We're in the bright kitchen with the sun streaming through the windows and all of a sudden the world goes dark. It's like night has come on really quick. I turn on the light over the stove so we can see each other and run to the door. I open it and this really thick black smokish grey dust swirls into the room choking us. This is why it's like night outside in the middle of the day. I scream out the door for Lee to come back, he yells back that he hasn't found the bird yet. I'm flipping out, choking on the smoke, and Lee won't come back inside because it upsets him to interrupt a task. I beg him. But he won't come inside. The house is filling with the dust and breathing is getting more difficult. Stacy and I have to use all our strength together in order to push the door closed again. End Dream.

An odd sort of dream to have I think. I woke up feeling sad. There are some obvious triggers for some of the stuff that happened -- I watched Nick Lachey on Charmed the other night and I like his and Jessica's show. Mom and I had a conversation about Lesbianism last night and at one point I remarked that life might be a lot more interesting and even easy if I could learn to like men less and women more. Mom and I were remembering the last time Mt. St. Helen's erupted and how we got a lot of the ash here. Lee is taking a drivers' course to get his license, which scares the bejesus out of all of us. All contributing factors to this dream I think. What an exhausting sleep!

Mood: Tired
Drinking: tea with milk and eating butterscotch pie!
Listening To: Jimmy Eat World, Last Christmas
Hair: Chestnut brown (yeah, shocking, really dark today)

Ambitiously Challenging My Creativity

I had an idea for a new column in Bread 'n Molasses that I'm going to start writing this week or next. It's been floating around for several months. I was really excited by it, but then I got some feedback and almost decided not to do it . . . It's an ambitious project . . . it's REALLY ambitious.

I keep searching for ways to make me feel more excited about my work. I don't enjoy doing Bread 'n Molasses very much. It's not "real" journalism . . . and it's certainly not "real" art . . . It's the Harlequin Romance/Breakfast Television/Star Magazine version of a webzine. Now, this isn't necessarily a bad thing, there's a big audience that goes in for that stuff and we do a really good job of pleasing that audience . . . but it's not exactly the sort of thing I had in mind for the rest of my life. Anyway, I keep searching for little ways to get me excited about working on Bread 'n Molasses. So, I came up with an idea for a column that I think will appeal to our readership and satisfy some of my creative urges. A few years ago I started writing a play called Nellie's Place about all these goings on in a General Store in a small town. Kind of poking fun at small towns . . . in a Trailer Park Boys type of way (complete with a Bubbles type character, toned down for a G audience with more innuendo.) Anyway, a few scenes in I realised I had never written a play in my life and had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing so I put it aside . . . Until now.

Nellie's Place has become Molly's General Store, the new column for Bread 'n Molasses. It's a serial work of fiction written in journal format. I've set up a blog for Molly and every week or so she'll post a new entry (maybe more often depending on how creative I get). For readers it will be like reading her diary. Molly runs the General Store in a small town. So, her diary will be about the goings on in the store . . . and everyone knows the General Store is the place where EVERYTHING goes down. She'll talk about the old guys who hang out there everyday, speculate about what Mr. Jones' son got in the mail and who that nicely dressed stranger was -- there will be a story unfolding in her entries that readers can follow from week to week, each entry will be like a chapter in a novel. And it's still going to be a little bit funny I think . . . well, some of the plot ideas I've got are kind of "off the wall" but not unrealistic in a small town, lol. The second purpose of her entries will be to impart bits of wisdom she gleans at the store every day -- general sorts of household tips like rubbing vaseline on your hands to get rid of the smell of gas, soaking ink stained coloured clothing in milk before washing to get rid of the stain, cutting through aluminum foil to sharpen your scissors, and so on. These things will be woven into the story, not just listed at the end of every entry or anything. Like she'll need to sharpen her scissors and someone will tell her what to do and then she'll write about it in her journal. There'll just be a couple per entry. I hope to keep the posts relatively brief.

So, it's a work of fiction, a story, with real household tips that people can try. And I'm going to write it anonymously (well, as Molly I guess). I've already set up the Molly blog and I'll let you know when she starts publishing. I wondered though if you had any thoughts about the idea. I was really excited about doing it and then when I mentioned it to someone they didn't seem to get it (or didn't think it was a good idea) and I almost quit before I started. . . but maybe if everyone thinks that's a silly idea, I SHOULD quit before I get started :-) So, a shout out on it either way wouldn't go astray.

Mood: Chipper
Drinking: Diet Pepsi
Listening To: Brahms
Hair: Squeaky clean and loosely knotted

Old Habits Die Hard

I've fallen into my old ways . . . ignoring my blog. Sorry about that. Whenever I take a weekend off i.e. physically leave my home and travel to other cities to sleep in cozy hotel rooms, it seems to take a week or two to get back up to speed. I don't know why.

Anyway, I never finished telling you about the great Freddy escape weekend, and since absolutely nothing happened this weekend except this I've got nothing better to talk about anyway.

Last Friday morning I got up early and went shopping at Regent Mall. Pretty much everyone else was going to Fred Cogswell's burial and memorial service. But I never knew Fred, so I made other plans. I went to Wal-Mart and picked up $50 worth of new underwear -- panties, socks, thongs, etc. I cannot stress how much in need of new underwear I was . . . there is stuff hanging out in my drawers that I bought in Toronto, lol. It used to be that I would get tons of that stuff for Christmas and birthdays, so I never had to buy anything hardly. Sadly, now it's all on me and I'm not very good at keeping on top of the situation. Especially when me and Nick are really the only ones who ever see my undies. Nick likes to chew my socks and steal my panties . . . it's an attention seeking thing. Anyway, I went shopping and then met Dorinda in the food court where we had coffee and conversation. Then we headed over to the liquor store and stocked up on wine for the weekend and then we drove around the campus trying to locate buildings we needed to be at later.

I was back in my room by 11:30 a.m. I showered, watched some t.v. and waited for Stacy to show up so I could get some food. I was still starving from the night before. She got in around 1:30 and we went to Keystone Kelly's because we had a coupon for 15% off. Later Claude told us the Keystone's in Fredericton is the absolute worse restaurant in town . . . but we didn't seem to notice, had a good lunch. Then Stacy had to go help a lady with her website and I went shopping at Winners bought some Christmas presents for the kids. Then we went downtown to Claude's apartment. It might be cool to live right downtown on the main drag. We hung out there for a few minutes and then went to Mexicala Rosa's for drinks. I had a couple of glasses of wine and Stacy had a HUGE frozen margarita. We left Claude and headed to the evening's literary events.

The evening started with a screening of the film Alden Nowlan: The Mysterious Naked Man. I really enjoyed the movie. It was funny, sad, real. I loved the footage of Alden himself. I wished I had known him like so many of the Fredericton literary crowd did. Brian Guns the director/ producer was there and spoke a little about the film. I had the opportunity to have breakfast with him the next morning because we stayed in the same hotel. That was pretty cool. To find out even more about the process, where the film is going, what's next and so on. After the film there were readings. Shirley Bear gave a spiritually touching reading in English and Maliseet. Her native language is so powerful, so beautiful. She could have read all evening and not said a word in English and I would have loved it. Her poems were very spiritual, about nature and ancient myths from her culture. She was one of my favourites from the entire weekend. Liliane Welch's poetry is more deliberate somehow. In her reading she enunciated every syllabel, drawing out every vowel, holding the consonants. I honestly couldn't tell you what her poems were about, because the reading was such an art itself. Stacy really disliked her reading, got on her nerves. But I found it very interesting, educational, the way the words sounded. I've never been as consciously aware of the sound of words as I was in that moment. I wanted to leave the auditorium, go home and read aloud everything I've ever written to see what it sounded like. Alan Cumyn read a chapter from his children's novel and made everyone in the audience laugh until they nearly peed their pants. In the chapter his main character, a little boy named Owen, falls in love with a girl in his class at Valentine's Day and a lot of really funny stuff happens as the kids exchange Valentine's in their decorated Kleenex boxes at their desks. The reading was great! Hilarious! And God did it ever take me back! lol He said when he reads that part to kids who are the age of the kids in the story you can hear a pin drop in the classroom . . . they don't think it's very funny, this Valentine and love stuff is pretty serious business for them. John Smith is the poet laureate for PEI. When he read his poetry I felt like I was in the presence of a great Shakespearan actor. He didn't need the microphone, his voice was so powerful and full. I met him at breakfast the next morning also and purchased one of his books which he signed for me. Kathleen Forsythe read last. She is Fred Cogswell's daughter and before he died they were working on a book together, she was interviewing him about the process of writing poetry, getting into his head as he wrote. She read some excerpts from the manuscript which will be published soon. It sounds like a fascinating book, something I'll definitely want to read. However, she kind of highjacked the evening . . . reading on and on for a very long time. It was kind of sad really, to see her working out her grief so publically like that. Some people were really pissed at her for doing that, but I didn't mind really. Most of what she talked about was interesting and she just buried her father that morning so I figured she deserved a little leeway.

After the readings, Stacy and I went to Dairy Queen for snacks and then back to our room to watch a dvd and pig out. We watched this really funny movie I had never really heard tell of before with Billy Bob Thornton, Patrick Swayze and Charlize Theron. It was really funny and I have no idea what it was called. Got to sleep quite late and then I had to get up pretty early Saturday morning because I was registered for the workshop with Alan Cumyn at 10 a.m. The workshop was at the Ice House (appropriately named because it was absolutely freezing). It's kind of funny actually. I've always heard about the Ice House and all the great work that has been created there and come to find out it's this tiny little one-room stone building like a shed (I had to duck to go in the door)with a big old desk that must certainly be a lot older than I am and is in no danger of being stolen because they must have built the building around it. There were about 10 of us in the group. It was kind of weird as workshops go . . . because we didn't actually write much. But it was a great workshop, a life-changing workshop for me actually. I would say Alan Cumyn has completely changed the course of my writing. He gave us a topic and we did a timed writing of 10 minutes. We didn't share what we'd written, it didn't matter much. I'm not sure even what his point of getting us to write was all about, but later on when he spoke about staying connected to your writing and how a half-hour to an hour of writing every day is the key to producing a novel or collection of short stories, I looked and saw how much I had written in that 10 minutes and suddenly it all clicked for me. I think it was just his really calm matter of fact manner, but in that moment I realised I am disconnected from my novel and all I need is to get tuned back in, spend a half-hour or an hour with it every day and the book will get done. I realised that when I'm connected the story is always working in the background and if I'm touching base with it for a few minutes every day, then it's always being written in my head. This was quite the realisation. Of course, I've been home a week and haven't acted on it, lol. But I'm going to. I can feel it.

For lunch we went to the James Joyce pub in the Lord Beaverbrook Hotel. (A bit pricey but okay if you like Irish stew and fish chowder, that sort of stuff). My friend Elizabeth read one of her short stories. It was one I had never read or heard before. She seemed a little nervous but totally pulled it off and did a great job. Eventually we all have to go there . . . the public reading in order to get your name out there . . . I love public speaking but something about reading my fiction knocks the wind out of me. It's really kind of weird. Elizabeth jokes that she is the exhibitionist in our group. She done good! And I liked the story a lot. Marilyn Lerch from Sackville read some of her poems and I had the opportunity to buy her book later and have her sign it. She's one of my favourites and has been for awhile. She's one of those feisty old broads, feminist, originally from Chicago. She doesn't pull any punches and I like that. She's funny as old hell too. She's got this great poem called The Great Toronto Garbage Strike of 2002 about the garbage strike when the Pope visited. It's fantastic! And when she reads it -- LOL! I loved it! When she mutters in that tough broad gravelly voice of hers, "Give 'em a raise for chrissake!" I fall to pieces. Kelly Cooper read fiction and really sucked me into her story. I can't remember whether she has a book or not, but if she does it will be one I'll pick up if I see it. Greg Cook read some of his poetry and I was excited to meet the man who wrote Alden Nowlan One Heart, One Way. Though I didn't get the chance to introduce myself. A surprising thing happened when Allan Cooper read. He's a poet from Alma and I have one of his books already. I don't know if it was the exhaustion, the starvation, the wine, being overwhelmed by being in a room filled with so many published authors and poets, or what was going on . . . but as he read a poem about the tides in Fundy I felt a lump form in my throat and my vision clouded. I looked away, I tried to think about other things, but it was no good. I sat there and cried.

That's the funny thing about these readings. Different people are moved by different things. I looked over at one point during Marilyn Lerch's reading and Dorinda was crying, wiping her eyes, sniffling. Stacy was moved to tears during Shirley Bear's reading the evening before. It's an interesting phenomena.

After lunch I ended up going to the panel discussion on Travis Lane's poetry. It was actually quite interesting because I didn't know much about her poetry before coming to the festival. Jeanette Lynes, Robert Gibbs, Lynn Davies, and Hannah Lane each gave speeches about her work and then the floor was opened to questions. I learned a lot and it was actually quite entertaining. Next year I won't be so quick to strike the panel discussions from my agenda. After that a bunch of us went for supper at a Greek restaurant where I had the absolute worse glass of red wine -- it must have been a pinot noir, because I'm not very fond of those. I need to remember to request the merlot, even though it usually costs more, it's well worth an extra dollar or so when faced with a crappy glass of wine.

After supper Stacy and I went shopping a bit at Wal-Mart and I bought a bunch of dvds. Just got back and it was time to go to the readings. Travis Lane, Jeanette Lynes, Geoffrey Cook, Jean Dohaney, and Robert Moore were on the schedule. Jeanette had been partying with Judy and Dorinda so she prefaced her reading by saying she had been adopted by the women of Miramichi and thanking the WFNB for inviting her because she was having such a great time. She was a lot of fun to hang out with. Travis Lane is such a gracious woman. She reminds me of my Grandmother on my father's side . . . like Grammie Underhill only with balls! LOL Not literally. I mean if Grammie Underhill were to say whatever was on her mind, let loose, not hold back at all for the sake of being polite or proper. Yeah, this was Travis Lane. I loved her! There are some people you meet and they're just instantly likeable, she's one of those. Geoffrey Cook is Greg Cook's son. Greg actually emceed the evening and was very proud to be introducing his son. Geoffrey just launched his first book of poetry the night before and he was so nervous to be at the Alden Nowlan festival reading with friends in the audience who drove all the way from Montreal just to hear him. He stumbled a couple of times and had to start over but I kind of liked that, liked that he was visibly trembling as he held the book, popping his p's in the microphone and fumbling over his words. It made him more human, more like me. I could relate. And his poems weren't bad either.

After the readings we went back to the hotel to get Stacy because we were supposed to be going out with Claude to the Taproom. But when we got there Stacy was sick in bed, so we just had a glass of wine and took a cab to the university bar in Alden Nowlan's house on campus where everyone from the reading was going to hang out. What a surreally awesome time! To be sitting in the living room at Windsor Castle surrounded by all these really great writers talking about books and writing and university politics and art and workshops and grants -- I loved it! I've read so much about Alden Nowlan, so much about his parties at Windsor Castle, and I know it's tacky beyond words that the grad students have turned his living room into a bar . . . but still, it's kind of like I've had the Alden Nowlan experience I've always read about. Weird.

Throughout the weekend and at Windsor Castle, I got to talk a lot to my friend that I met at the AGM in April, Joe Blades from Broken Jaw Press. He's one of my favourite people, always doing something interesting, and he's very peaceful, has kind of a Zen-like demeanour that rubs off and makes you feel all peaceful too. Plus, he's got this really dry wit that I appreciate. I could listen to him talk for hours -- Hey, I think I have listened to him talk for hours, lol. He has a new book out and I bought it, got him to sign it. His poetry is really interesting, there are a lot of layers to peel away. I like that. The Canadian Embassy has invited him to big Book Fair overseas -- Helsinki? No, Prague? I forget where exactly. Anyway, he's a keynote speaker or something, so that's a pretty big deal. He seemed really excited about it and I'm hoping he'll pop off a note to me about it so I can include it in the next WFNB newsletter.

I was severely hung over on the Sunday but that didn't stop Stacy and I from having a full day in Fredericton. We checked out and headed downtown to Cora's for breakfast. There was some sort of a marathon or something going on and the streets were blocked off so we had to park way to hell and back and walk, then the line-up was practically out on the street. By the time we got food I was near dead, but the food was worth it. YUMMY!!! We both got the waffles with carmel apples and English cream. Wow! It was scrum. No doubt about it, Cora's is the place to go for breakfast. After breakfast we hit the mall and hit it hard. I spent it all! Mostly Christmas shopping though, so that was good. Good to get it out of the way, rather than wait until the week before like I always do. Maybe now that the kids presents aren't going to suck my pay cheque dry in December, I'll even be able to buy some other people something, like Mom and Dad. They'd be thrilled! All in all, I didn't too badly in the spending department for the weekend. Didn't get too many books or dvds. That's always a concern, that I'll spend hundreds of dollars on books and lately dvds.

This weekend I was supposed to go to a staff party at the Pond's Resort in Ludlow but I threw out my back late last week and had to pass. So, now I start saving for my next excursion -- Magie Dominic's reading, workshop and installation of the Gown of Stillness in Moncton in December. I think Jen and Jason are going to go to that with me. It'll be nice to see Ed and Elaine from the Attic Owl again, they're the organisers behind that event. Great for last minute Christmas shopping too.

Well, that's it, now you're up to date.

Mood: having a big old fat day
Drinking: Nothing, drier than a wooden god
Listening To: Andrea Bocelli, La Paterno Mano
Hair: tied up and stringy