Concerts

So, unless by some obscene miracle Andrew has Saturday off, I have an extra ticket to the concert this weekend that I can't even give away. Who would've thunk that it would come to this? I'm tempted to go out to the bars on Friday night and kidnap one of these young university boys, force him to be my boyfriend for the day . . . TAKE THE TICKET!! IT's FREE! Ah, those were the good old days, huh? When I could be counted on for some good kidnapping stories if nothing else.

Seems most heinous not to use the ticket at all, I don't mind paying for it and giving it away, as long as someone gets to enjoy it . . . but to pay for it and then have nothing happen as a result, just seems wrong, a little cold. Of course then I'll have the full ticket, not just a stub, as a souvenir of what is surely to be the most fantastic event I've ever attended. But still, 'tis a shame. I don't know that I'm up to kidnapping a boy though . . . maybe a girl?

I'm not a big Stones fan. I think I've said that before, SEVERAL times. But everytime I hear Our Lady Peace or The Tragically Hip I freak out with the excitement of the thing. And yes, I do want to be able to say I saw The Stones . . . THE ROLLING STONES . . . I mean, it's THE ROLLING STONES, not the tribute band, the real deal. The opportunity will never present itself again, it's now or never. So yeah, even though I'm not their biggest fan, I'm excited about seeing Mick and the boys too. The emotion in that crowd is going to be so overwhelming, all ages, amazing. Finally, something huge and rather than watch the clips on tv, I'm going to be in it.

God there's nothing like a concert. Years ago at Magnetic Hill, that weekend concert with so many acts . . . Heart, Pat Benetar, Foreigner, Lynard Skynard and scores of others . . . it was overwhelming. When Foreigner was on stage I had this completely unexpected reaction, pure emotion, tears I couldn't hold back dripping out underneath dark sunglasses. Me and some stranger I met, from Doaktown, having the same overwhelming "Oh My God!" experience, hands waving in the air, singing at the top of our lungs, over our tears, instant bonding.

That's what I love about concerts. That's what people who've never been to a rock concert don't understand -- the bonding process. You get in the crowd, touching shoulders, perfumes mixing, different walks of life . . . but you all know every lyric to the songs, every beat, and that's enough . . . that's all there is at the rock show, nothing else matters. Society, class structure, all that stuff falls by the wayside, it's about the music, (and sometimes the drugs) nothing else matters. You find yourself laughing and dancing with strangers who feel like best friends. It's natural. It's a high that sweeps you away, whether you're actually inhaling or not.

A lot of people are afraid at the massiveness of this -- 85,000 people (not gonna be that many) my mother top of the heap, scared to death for us . . . of what? That the earth is gonna open up and swallow us? I don't know. How many people went to see the Pope? Did anyone die? It's a rock show for godsake! Rock 'n Roll, baby! Old style. The love and joy in that field is going to be something to behold, something to be apart of. The most amazing thing I've ever had the opportunity to partake of in my life so far . . . and my mother wants me to stay home.

When I think about that last concert, the one with Foreigner, the drunkeness that started Friday afternoon and didn't end until Sunday night. The recklessness. The chance encounters. Let alone the camping for chrissake, 28 year old woman alone in her tent, passing for 22, surrounded by morons . . . I was living in dangerous times and didn't even know it, didn't even care. At least this time there'll be none of that reckless foolishness, no arguing, no drinking even . . . it's all about enjoying the show, remembering the show, not the fights at the beer tent or the cute boys from Halifax or any of that crazy stuff that clouded the last concert. I can't even remember all the acts from that weekend, bailed after Skynard did two or three songs. I do remember Foreigner though. Fun stuff.

Haven't really been to that many big concerts. John Mellencamp at Maple Leaf Gardens. I've been more of a club girl than arena. But one of the things I wrote on my list a couple of years ago, when I decided I was going to start living differently, focusing on me and doing the things I want, was concerts. I almost went to the Sars concert in Toronto, big regret that I didn't. No more regrets. If the earth swallows us whole, Mom, well, so be it.

Mood: nostalgic
Drinking: a little cheap Chilean red
Listening To: Our Lady Peace, Innocent
Hair: tickling my shoulders

A Dollar Short

It's almost 5 pm and I'm done, can't work anymore today, yesterday, I don't think. The new email worked, some tweaking, but not bad. Positive feedback immediately from some readers/ contributors. Will be better when the new site is ready too.

Cooking a few chicken wings now, gonna have some salad, a glass of wine (which will probably knock me on my ass). First foodstuff since peanut butter fix in the wee hours. Probably left it too late, not hungry anymore, but I forgot, got into the zone and couldn't get out, emails flying back and forth from home base. Problems to be dealt with. Fixed up now for the most part.

Damn hyper throughout most of the afternoon, that coffee must be good. Yawns starting to come on now, but mustn't lie down before appropriate bed-like time or I'll be up all night again.

Lots of rain today and the air is bad, can feel it in my fingers, wrists, neck. Looks like a pleasant forecast for the weekend though, for the concert. Yay! Air traffic being routed overhead today. Planes are huge, flying low to land in Moncton, shooting right over my roof.

Mood: pretty decent
Drinking: water for hydration
Listening To: Kid Rock, Forever
Hair: completely undone

Blog Day 2005

In honour of Blog Day 2005 I'm supposed to recommend five new Blogs different from my culture, point of view, attitude, etc. I'm not a hundred per cent certain that all of these qualify, but since I do read them and they don't belong to the usual suspects who hang around this place, here goes:

William Gibson's Blog it's sporadic, but hey, he's writing, we know how that gets.

My Boring Ass Life, Kevin Smith's Online Diary -- I enjoy Kevin Smith, not everyone does I know, but I get a kick out him, out of his movies.

Back-to-Iraq 3.0 -- I've been reading Christopher's blog for years, before he was getting any legitimate freelance work, when it was totally independent journalism.

An Ontarian in Newfoundland -- I surfed into this one day not long ago, quite by accident, and now I find myself checking everyday. I feel like we share something in common maybe, having recently relocated myself, though not as far, or maybe it's just interesting to see this new perspective, I dunno.

Scribbling Woman -- She's out of Saint John, got some press awhile back and I've been reading her ever since.

Mood: is it almost bedtime?
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: crows
Hair: going frizzy in the dampnesss

Hell on Earth

Is everyone on crack? Or is it just me? I don't mean that I'm on crack, obviously. I mean is there something wrong with me or is everyone else on crack? Some of these things . . . I really should know by now . . . awww shit, just when I was all set to ream on some people I get a lovely email thanking me for being me . . . God help me, I think this might be the one that kills me.

Mood: bleary-eyed, must be time for another pot of coffee
Drinking: the final remnants of the ginger beer, blech
Listening To: Bif Naked, I Love Myself Today
Hair: do i have hair?

An Unscheduled Break

Ohhh, this just gets better and better. This happened the other night too and I went to bed in the frustration of it all.

Every friggin' morning at 4:30 my Internet connection disappears. I mean disappears completely. I get booted off and can't get back on. Aliant obviously takes this time to do work on the system or something . . . obviously, right? I mean why else would this continue to happen? Surely it is not the hand of God come to drive me even further up the wall than I am already. Surely I am an insignificant speck of dust undeserving of this kind of messing around. Surely.

Well dammit! I'm not going to bed this time. I'm waiting it out. Yes, this Jamaican Ginger Beer is THAT good. I am energised, charged, ready to proceed . . . and pissed off to the max. Of course I need an Internet connection to proceed . . . can't publish the thing unless I'm online, can't email the appropriate parties, can't do anything only write crazy blogs to post later.

Mood: pissed
Drinking: the jamaican ginger beer still
Listening To: the hum of the computer and little else
Hair: half up, half down

Another Break

My body hates me. Arthritis flaring in fingers, wrists, ankles, knees, neck and let us not forget the spine. Nothing like some good aching in the vertebrae to propel you forward in your work.

Have I mentioned how much I loathe Internet Explorer? No. Well I do. I hate it big style. But I can't do the bnm website in Firefox because the software is incompatible. And using Explorer is a nightmare. The program keeps timing out, changes aren't taking, I continually have to log out and log back in . . . it's driving me a little nuts. Tasks that should only take five minutes are taking 20. My patience is wearing thin. These things will get better (I think, I hope) when the design switches . . . soon. But for now, I go crazy.

Still . . . I go, I continue. Time to stretch and perhaps slip into jammies, but no bed for me just yet.

Mood: headachy
Drinking: Jamaican Ginger Beer
Listening To: a raccoon in the garbage bin and the train whistling through town
Hair: coming undone

What classic movie diva are you?

Your inner classic movie diva is:

Elizabeth
Taylor

"La Liz" is best known for her long
career, striking beauty, and many husbands.
Whether playing the role of an innocent teen
(National Velvet), a prostitute (Butterfield
8), or Queen Cleopatra, Liz has always been
adaptable and in command of the situation.

Yet, like all of us, she has her foibles too, which
make her one of the most admired and human of
the great classic movie divas -- and,
incidentally, one of the last living greats of
the Golden Era.


"I've been through it all, baby, I'm mother
courage." -- Liz Taylor


What classic movie diva are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Another All-Nighter

Just taking a break, not having a Kit Kat, ingesting some peanut butter for protein energy. Purchased wine earlier, if I were smart I would've also purchased whiskey or brandy or something to help me get through this long night. Something to spike my coffee. Wine doesn't cut it in that department, though a glass with dinner was not unpleasant. Am not going to bed until work is done, could be awhile . . . but at least I probably won't miss the garbage truck in the morning.

Registrations are flooding in for my writing workshop, freaking me out big time. Les keeps emailing me everytime someone signs up. I've heard from him three times in the past couple of hours. If this works, they may want me to come back . . . to hit the Access Centre circuit even . . . how utterly bizarre. So far I know none of the people who have registered. They're coming from all over Miramichi City and even Doaktown, it's really weird. My brother-in-law overheard people talking about me at the Irving -- and NOT making fun either, talking about me seriously, like a person from "away" who is really supposed to know what they're talking about. See, I knew people thought I went back to Ontario after the club closed. Told ya.

In other news, I've got an extra ticket to the concert of a lifetime at Magnetic Hill this weekend that I can't even give away -- 85,000 people is NEVER gonna happen, I'm predicting 60,000. I am starting to get excited finally. Listening to the Hip earlier, they're gonna be awesome. After I see them I could totally go home a happy girl. Though I am curious to see just how bad Keith Richards looks in real life.

Mood: bright-eyed, still, for now
Drinking: coffee, strong and black
Listening To: Billy Joel, You May Be Right
Hair: pulled back for serious business

Rain

The students are here. One day they weren't and the next they were. Half a dozen charred mattress remains surrounded by orange pilons in the residence parking lot. Are the fire department investigating? Why is the area cordoned off? People everywhere in the street, asking directions, greeting long lost friends. You can tell the first year kids. There's fear in their eyes. They don't know anybody, don't know why they are here. Some of them have parents by their side, doing the tour. Prices at the Save-Easy have taken the Fall leap, who knew they could go even higher? Many of the cheaper generic brands have disappeared completely. It's all brand name now. I can't bear to pay eight bucks for a little package of coffee I can get in Miramichi for $4.75.

Rain again. I should be out in it where Callum would be, feeling my hair soak through, the water running off the tip of my nose, the chill after, the roughness of the towel. But I feel so far away from that poor Irish Catholic boy, I don't want to empathise, to wear his skin. He's stopped talking to me anyway, gone into himself again, treating me just like any of the other girls. Of course, the girls have tons to say, tonnes! But it's all so terrible. Oh the things this boy does to them, the way he treats them . . . how am I supposed to redeem such a character?

Mood: restless
Drinking: concha y toro
Listening To: Guns 'n Roses, Sweet Child O Mine
Hair: having a great hair day, long and loose, yet not too wild and frizzy

Different Day, New Stuff

I tried all day yesterday to extricate myself from work to run to the Save-Easy for essential items (garbage bags, coffee, cream, veggies), pick up the mail, and get some printer ink. I couldn't get away from work though, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. I've got so much to do it seems. I can't just take a week off and do nothing and not pay a HUGE price later . . . and this summer I've taken two weeks, one for Stacy's wedding, one for the Maritime Writers' Workshop, now I'm paying the piper. Buried to my head and shoulders in press releases and documents, not even bnm stuff for the most part.

Adding new projects to my plate too. And before you say anything, yes, I know I'm busy and I'm looking at a super busy year of bnm stuff (changes are in the air), WFNB stuff, Sackville Writers' Group stuff . . . even Frye Fest stuff, plus my own personal stuff (that IS a lot of stuff) but money talks and I'm being summoned, what can I do? I need the cash. I cannot pay the bills AND maintain my wine habit PLUS buy all the shoes and dvds I desire -- who can live like this? I needed another paying gig and one fell into my lap, so I'll take it. Sleep is over-rated really. Long as you get a few hours here and there you can survive for many months, certainly until spring.

In other news, I've got a new blog on the go for bnm. Bnm has been without a blog since the Mighty crew decided they wanted to focus the blog on Miramichi only. Not being in Miramichi I haven't been contributing, so now I've got my own to play with. Maybe that will cut down on some of my blogging here, so you all will be better able to keep up with me.

Mood: blah, grey day
Drinking: tea, black
Listening To: Led Zeppelin, Communication Breakdown and also fire trucks (again) university students like to set things on fire . . . is my town getting younger or am I getting older?
Hair: thirsty

Dreams

I dreamed about my cousin Stacy last night. Not the one on Dad's side of the family. Not my notorious sidekick. The other one. The guy who lives in Calgary. My cousin on Mom's side of the family. It's a bit unusual to have two cousins named Stacy . . . it's even more unusual to have two named Stacy Underhill. Yes. My mother's sister married an Underhill, so I've got two first cousins named Stacy Underhill, same spelling, same everything. In another twist, both their middle names start with the letter D . . . Stacy Dora . . . Stacy Douglas . . . And they are the same age, were born the same year. Douglas is about a month and half older than me, Dora is a month and half younger than me. They can be a bit like peas in the pod when they get together. Names are an important piece of our identity and different ones bring out different characteristics, so they share a lot of the same character traits. Have had similar experiences. It's almost like they're siblings, twins even. Yes, it is kind of bizarre.

Anyway, Stacy Douglas was in my dream last night. He had come for a visit at my parents' house. He looked like he did the year we graduated high school, young and thin, before the gym and Alberta Beef calendar. I had the sense that something was wrong but he insisted there wasn't, kept saying he just popped by to hang out. He was just here last fall for the first time in something like 18 years, I couldn't understand what had brought him back so soon. We went out to eat at a restaurant I've never been to before, a restaurant that maybe doesn't exist. It was in a lodge or something, big dining room, lots of wood, very rustic. My niece, Anna, was running around the dining room playing, driving the waitresses crazy. Her parents weren't there, she was on her own. When she saw me she came over and I got her to sit with us and ordered her something to eat.

Stacy chitchatted about silly things like "how's the weather" and "any fish going" but he had this intense look in his eyes. I kept asking him what was wrong but he would just smile and say nothing. Most of the time he was quiet (and he's not a quiet boy) studying me it seemed. This really bothered me but I was busy with Anna, getting her fed. She had come to the restaurant with someone who was working in the kitchen. Mom? Bonnie? I don't know. But when we went to leave I asked one of the waitresses what I should do with Anna, should she go back in the kitchen. The waitress said the person in the kitchen had been sent to another restaurant, wouldn't be back today and the waitresses couldn't look after her because they would be too busy. "You'll have to take her," she said and handed me a diaper bag. I scooped Anna up, turned and Stacy was gone.

Then I woke up.

Mood: fuzzy about the edges
Drinking: tea
Listening To: Peaches & Iggy Pop, Kick It
Hair: loosely knotted

On the Edge

I cooked a roast and baked potatoes for supper . . . then couldn't wait for it to finish cooking because I was starving to death, ate a sandwich to tide me over, which of course ruined my appetite and I couldn't eat anything I cooked. I really need to plan my meals better, hire a personal chef, buy some f-ing fruit and veggies so I can eat when I'm hungry without cooking, something . . . oh well, all the more leftovers for the rest of the week, right?

I put in On the Edge awhile ago . . . just for a moment I told myself, just a wee break from computer land . . . watched the whole thing again. I've lost track of how many times I've seen this movie. It's Irish, about suicidal youth in a mental institute. I love Cillian Murphy's character, Jonathon. His sarcasm is fantastic. It hooks you right from the first shot.

It's a funeral and the priest is waiting to start the service. A man, obviously a grieving relative, holds up a finger indicating to give it another minute. We hear the church doors open and slam. Cillian strides down the aisle, walks up to the coffin, stands at the end of it, where the head of the body would be. Just stands there for a second, building suspense, then knocks on the coffin, puts his ear close to the wood as if listening for a response.

"Still dead," he says and swaggers back down the aisle, leaves the church, puts on one of those hats with the ear flaps that my five year old nephew wears, gets on a bicycle and rides away, no hands while he lights a smoke, while Smashing Pumpkins, 1969, plays in the background and the opening credits roll. It's bizarre and only gets more bizarre and I absolutely love it.

The movie has serious subject matter but it's really funny. Better than Girl, Interrupted. The only thing that bugs me about it is they've got an American actor playing an Irish part and his accent is pretty terrible.

Mood: this would be the manic part of my week, i feel a full blown dose of Sunday Night Anxiety coming on
Drinking: water
Listening To: David Bowie, The Man Who Sold the World
Hair: dammit! why is it so hard to find a new do?

Seasons Twist

My sleepy little town is starting to wake up. Lots of drunken carrying on in the street last night. Much whooping coming from houses across the way. Young men struggling with dressers and mattresses in various yards all afternoon. A steady stream of people to the landlord's door wanting to view other apartments he has in town, picking up keys, signing leases . . . but still no sign of my housemates . . . methinks the walls are way too thin for a pack of twenty-something housemates . . .

Every morning I nearly jump out the window when Jacques is getting dressed. My bedroom shares a wall with his closet. The scraping of the hangers as he looks for a shirt provides quite a jolt at 6 a.m. Still, I could live with that, it isn't so bad, when we're here alone . . . one person isn't very loud usually. But four people is a different beast. Four youngin's . . . well, we'll have to see.

I don't want to work today. Want to go outside and walk around, see what's new and exciting . . . find the Catholic Church . . . I know there's one here someplace. Go buy an ice cream and sit by the swan pond. I wanted to go out and have breakfast on the sidewalk at cafe. I wanted to go to the market at the civic centre, grab a coffee and stroll the boardwalks at the Water Fowl park. I wanted to take my notebook and lay down some sights, sounds, smells . . . Yes, I'm aware it's Sunday and those are all appropriate Sunday type activities, but I'm got H2 SUT people on my back (still) and bnm has got to look alive soon in order to make them go away. So, I work. Though I'd rather be drinking margaritas and eating nachos on a deck somewhere with a fabulous view.

Mood: bubbly
Drinking: tea, organic pekoe, black
Listening To: Violent Femmes, Blister in the Sun
Hair: googling new dos

That Boy!

I have done the unspeakable. The one thing I was told NOT to do by my psychic sometimes side-kick. A most heinous crime any way you look at it. But gosh darn it! I just couldn't help myself. I am weak. That's all there is to it. Weak.

It all started when I went searching for a song called God Kicks . . . I've only ever seen it online one time and it was gone so fast I couldn't download it (back in dial-up days) . . . I heard it on one of my imported Irish films, On the Edge, starring you guessed it, my boy . . . Cillian Murphy. And whenever I think about Cillian I begin the never-ending search for a copy of Disco Pigs . . . and usually I NEVER find anything, the thing is always out of stock . . .

But tonight on Amazon.ca (somebody slap me for even going there, I do know better, really I do) there it was . . . a pre-order for October . . . Disco Pigs Special Edition!! ONLY $16.95! I almost wet my pants.

You see before 28 Days Later, Batman Begins and Red Eye . . . before anyone even knew who Cillian was (and some still don't) . . . way back in the last century, early 90's, I saw Disco Pigs and knew this boy was something special. I've wanted to own this movie since way back then and I've never been able to connect with a copy . . .

So, before I knew what happened it was done. Ordered. Will be shipped upon release. It and another Cillian film released this spring that I don't have yet, Bitter Harvest. I am a bad, bad girl. And what is this thing I have for celebrities who marry their school sweethearts? Jon Bon Jovi, Cillian Murphy . . . it's all a little bizarre, don't ya think?



Mood: lusting after blue-eyed boys
Drinking: water
Listening To: Sex Pistols, God Save the Queen
Hair: still checking the magazines for a new do

Saturday Six #72

From Patrick's Place, play along if you like:

1. What is your current desktop picture? What made you select it?

I do not have a current desktop picture because those things tend to use too much juice, slow the system down . . . however there is one I throw up there from time to time when I need extra inspiration.
It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Aren't you inspired?

2. A close friend who you consider to be up to date on fashion suggests that you should update your look and offers to pay for a session with an experienced hairstylist you've never dealt with before. Knowing that it's free, would you go?

Absolutely. And I would let them do whatever the hell they wanted to me and never complain, not once.

3. When you do look in a mirror, what is the first thing you usually look at?

It depends upon the reason for the mirror gaze. Am I checking to make sure I'm not falling out all over the place? Am I washing my face? Seeing how big my butt looks in those pants? . . . You know, it depends on the purpose, I'm not in the habit of checking myself out without a reason.

4. Take this quiz: Which Bugs Bunny character are you?
Wile E. Coyote!
You scored 57 Aggression, 71 Sophistication, and 71 Optimism!
You are intelligent, sophisticated, and the physical personification of
the can-do attitude. No matter how many times something blows up in
your face (figuratively or literally) or prized project collapses
around you, you will pick yourself up and try, try again. There is a
good chance that you are very skilled in problem solving and would
probably make a fine engineer. Your main weaknesses (and this is likely
obvious to everyone but yourself) are your overconfidence and complete
lack of perspective. When you inevitably fail at a task (you can�t
possibly achieve all of the lofty goals you set for yourself),
you tend to take it personally. If you are not careful, you can become
thoroughly obsessed with what is not really a very meaty goal. Try
taking a step back from time to time and figure out for yourself if it
is really worth it, or if your talents could be best put towards a more
rewarding goal. Also, your desire for things to work out the way you�ve
planned can make you a bit gullible.
Link: The Which Looney Tune Are You Test written by coolguy3000 on OkCupid Free Online Dating

5. What label seems to describe you the best as a whole?

Ah gee, I don't like labels . . . way too hard for my swirling Gemini mind to narrow down to a single thing . . . open to suggestions though. Go ahead. Label me. I dare you.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #60 from Stacy: Is there a specific person that you credit with your successes? and HOW did they help you?

There have been some influences for sure . . . but credit? That's tough. I would have to credit myself for being just enough of a rebel that I've always gone my own way no matter what anyone else thinks . . . and even if it sooo wasn't the right way.

Mood: hungry
Drinking: tea, black
Listening To: Leonard Cohen, You Know Who I Am
Hair: considering pictures from magazines

Gun Play

4.

At age eighteen, Katt escaped murder.

A jealous boyfriend stood five feet in front of her with a loaded double barrel shotgun, safety off, aimed at her chest. Katt held her breath and waited for the bang. She stood like an ice sculpture, paralysed and cold, only her eyes betraying her fear. A friend struck the boyfriend from behind and wrestled the gun away from him. The gun went off in the tussle. Katt lived to hear the shot. She raced into the black night and flagged down the first passing car. The guys in the old Malibu drove her home without questions, and she thanked God for saving her before collapsing into sleep.

-- Excerpt from Katt's Lives

By age 16, the gunman has been dating one of my best friends for at least one year, probably closer to two. About six weeks before they hook up, I kiss him in the back seat of a Camaro while parked at the dump waiting for bears. He wants to do more, but I go home. Despite a few phone calls and chance meetings, we never get close again. It was one night, a couple of hours, nothing more. He seems like a nice guy. I like him. And when he starts dating my friend, I'm happy for her. She finally got a good one, I think. He brings her roses and little gifts for no reason. Their song is "I Just Called to Say I Love You" by Stevie Wonder . . . because that's what he does, just calls to tell her he loves her. It's serious. He gives her a promise ring. They talk about getting married after high school. He seems like a good boyfriend, the perfect boyfriend.

The six of us, three couples, go everywhere together. We party, see movies, play pool, dance, nobody makes plans on their own, we stick together. My role in the group is as mediator. When couples fight I negotiate a peace treaty. Everyone comes to me to dump their problems. Because I am a good listener. Because I'm always willing to help compose the love letters that will put them back in each others good graces. Because I have a knack for seeing both sides to an issue and offering practical advice. Because anything said in confidence, stays in confidence. I know everyone's dirt, and that seems only natural. I hope by being a good listener, being helpful, someday someone will listen to me, someday someone will be supportive of me. Do unto others seems logical.

When the gunman starts showing up at my house after fighting with my friend, I think nothing of it. I listen. I advise. I tell nobody he dropped by. I treat him the same as everyone else. They start fighting more. He shows up a lot. I think they are going through a rough patch, they are on the verge of breaking up but maybe I can help save their relationship somehow. I think it is a coincidence when he shows up on a school night when I'm off doing my own thing and I accept his offer of a ride home.

I think I'm being a good friend by listening, by helping him to realise what a great girl he has in my friend. I think I can fix things. I want to help so much and I'm so naive that even when my mother questions his motives I shrug her off as being paranoid. Almost every night of the week I run into him on my own. And on the weekends I see him with the rest of the group. But even still, the night he pulls me close and kisses me comes as a complete shock.

Both hands on his chest, I push him away. What are you doing?! And then he confesses. Lied . . . never liked her . . . lied . . . only went out with her to be near you . . . lied . . . gave her gifts to show you how it could be with me . . . lied . . . not fighting, never fought . . . lied, lied, lied . . . just wanted to be with you . . . lied . . . all of it just to be with you . . . lied for years . . . for you.

Shock. Sick in my stomach. Wind knocked out of me, like a deflated balloon. What to do with this? Why would anyone do this? How can I live with this? And I can't breath, and he's crying and the windows are steamed in the spring rain and I feel trapped in this bright cave of too white leather, and he's begging. Please . . . please . . . I've done so much to show you . . . please . . . just give me one night . . . one chance . . . please.

And I don't know what to do. I can't process. I feel dirty. I feel like I've done something wrong. I should've known. I should've guessed. I'm so fucking stupid! I'm so god damned fucking stupid! I'm so fucking, fucking stupid! What the hell is wrong with me? And my tears are hot and angry . . . I don't feel the same way about you . . . don't want to be with you . . . I love my boyfriend . . . This is wrong . . . It's not right . . . I have to tell her . . .

And he goes poker straight, lays a big hand on my thigh and squeezes a little too tight, voice low and calm . . . She won't believe you . . . I'll say you're lying . . . that you made it all up . . . you're the one who makes up stories, writes the poems . . . nobody will believe you . . . you'll lose her and him and the others too . . . you can't tell . . . you'll end up alone . . . if you tell, people will get hurt . . . there's no reason to tell anyone . . . I made a mistake . . . I'll make it up to her . . . you'll see . . . don't cry, it's going to be okay . . .

I want to believe him. I want to believe it's all a mistake, he lost his head for a minute is all . . . nobody dates someone else for that long just to get to the person they really want . . . just to get to ME . . . that's crazy, just crazy.

I get out of the car, go into my house and straight to my room. I do what I do best. I keep my mouth shut, tell nobody, pretend nothing happened. I begin the process of rationalising . . . people say things when they're drinking that they don't mean . . . people say things when they're high that don't make any sense . . . he didn't mean it . . . it doesn't make sense . . . he was drunk or high or both . . . just forget about it . . . ignore it and it'll go away.

Months pass and he stays away from my house, isn't showing up in the middle of the week when I'm off doing my loner thing. Things seem really good with his girlfriend, my friend. The incident fades, seems to mean less and less as each day goes by. I feel relief. I feel like I can relax again. I'm so melodramatic sometimes, I make more out of things than they deserve. I need to relax, stop being so serious.

School's out for summer and we're partying at the dead end of our road. Car stereos blast AC/DC, Platinum Blonde, Def Leppard and in an odd twist, Ricky Scaggs. We pass around bottles of Hermit's Wine, swill cases of Alpine and drink quarts of Royal Reserve straight, no chaser. I'm wearing the crop top I got for my birthday. It's white with capped sleeves. On the front are three grey rabbits lined up in a row and on the back are their bunny behinds with puffy white tails. The tee ends just above my belly button. I'm also wearing my favourite pin-striped jeans, the ones with the zippered pockets and the tapered leg. They have a little lycra in them and look like a second skin. My boyfriend likes this outfit, it turns him on. I like this outfit too because it's very comfortable to wear unlike some of my other stiff denim and frilly Sweet Baby Jane blouses. This is an outfit for playing and I like to play. I can climb fences, sit yoga style on the roof of a car, run from the police, jump into my boyfriends arms and wrap my legs around his waist . . . without constraint, as if I am wearing nothing at all.

This night when I'm wearing my bunny crop top, the passenger door to the camaro is open. The gunman is sitting sideways in the front bucket seat, feet on the ground, with my friend in his lap. They are kissing, have been kissing for awhile. I'm sitting on the runner wedged between the back seat and the front. My boyfriend is standing in front of me talking to me. He leaves to get more beer out of a cooler. While the gunman is kissing my friend, he reaches one arm around the bucket seat and grabs me by the leg. Starts running his hands up toward my crotch. It's chilling. A sharp intake of breath and I jump up and back away from the car. My friend doesn't notice anything, they continue kissing passionately. Her mind is far away. She has her back to me, but over her shoulder he's looking at me. His eyes seem to laugh and he winks. I don't know what to do. Nobody has seen anything. Everyone has seen him kissing her, but if I claim anything has happened to me, they won't believe me. I find my boyfriend and tell him I want to be alone with him, lets leave. He doesn't mind.

It is the summer of secret winking. If I look his way, he winks at me. If I get too close, he touches me, gropes me . . . my breasts, my legs, my butt . . . nothing is off limits . . . if I am alone, I am in danger of having his tongue in my ear or his lips on my neck . . . He takes advantage at every opportunity. I'm too little to stop him and too afraid to tell . . . and nobody sees a thing. I'm going crazy. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make him stop.

One night I get drunk and blurt the whole story to my boyfriend. He doesn't believe me. I swear it's true, I'm not lying, I'm not being melodramatic . . . I ask him to keep a better eye, to protect me, to watch and see and catch him in the act. He promises me he will, promises me that it will be okay, nothing is going to happen to me on his watch. But he's patronizing me. He thinks I'm exaggerating.

The bad behaviour continues . . . my boyfriend sees nothing. I'm so confused. I don't understand why he is doing this, why he won't leave me alone? I drop hints to my other friend about inappropriate things going on in the group, but she dismisses me . . . I'm the drama queen, I make things up, I usually write them down . . . nobody takes me seriously. It's frustrating. I feel like I'm going crazy. Maybe I am going crazy. Maybe I am making it up. Maybe nothing has happened at all. Wink, wink. Fingers ripping into my hair. Why can nobody see?

Summer turns to Fall and I'm spending more time alone with my boyfriend, avoiding the group altogether because I don't know how to function in it. I'm best friends with the girls at school, I do girl-only things sometimes at home, as long as I'm certain he won't show up, that parents are close by . . . but I'm trying really hard to stay away from group outings and parties.

Until Christmas.

His grandparents have gone to Florida and he's got the run of their house over the holidays. He's having a big party he says. Lots of people. My boyfriend wants to go, says it will be fun, misses hanging out with the others, wants to socialise more . . . and I give in.

It is only the six of us and not a big bash as promised. He is bolder than ever before, getting up right after I do and following me into the kitchen in front of everyone, pressing into me from behind in plain view of his girlfriend sitting on the couch in the living room. If she turns her head, she'll see him whispering into my hair, nuzzling my neck. I'm pinned against the sink and I can't breath, can't get the stench of him off of me. I see our reflection in the window, the huge whites of my eyes, my tight lips. I just want it to end, to be over, whether anyone believes me or not.

My boyfriend walks into the room just as he pulls away. My boyfriend isn't sure what he saw, but thinks maybe he saw something. I'm ready to just tell and be done with it, be thrown out of the group, be friendless, have everyone hate me . . . none of it matters anymore. I'm just so tired of trying to protect myself and never fully succeeding. I'm downing doubles of rye and coke, but I haven't been mixing them, the host has been doing all the bartending, it is only later that I wonder with what ingredients . . .

My face is starting to feel warm. I feel very far away, like I'm just a little speck deep inside this huge cavernous body of mine. My body feels foreign, heavy and light all at the same time. I'm not really here anymore but I don't know where I am. It feels like a long way off.

I find myself being led into the basement. There's a rec room, laundry room, spare beds and a bathroom. My friend is there with me. And my boyfriend . . . And him. But I don't even care that he's there with us, I'm giddy and warm and light. I'm incoherent, not making any sense, words tumble out of my mouth in the wrong order. This is a different kind of drunk. This is new.

We've got beer now and we're going to play caps. And it's only when I see my friend in her bra that I realise it's strip caps and people are losing . . . but I don't seem to be one of them. Am I playing? Am I here? I have a sense like I should care more about these things but I don't. I can't stop laughing and it's nice to be here with my friend and to be so giddy. It's a relief to have this good time together with her after these months of tension. And then the guys leave the room and soon after she says she has to go to the washroom. And I'm alone on the floor in the rec room, green indoor/outdoor carpeting stained with spilled drinks. I try to get up to go find everyone but I can't, my legs buckle underneath me.

And then I hear her yelling and crying, and my boyfriend rushes in and helps me to my feet. We're leaving. But what's wrong? Why is she crying? What is all the yelling about? The other couple comes downstairs. And my boyfriend has me in the hallway. Everyone is standing at the bottom of the stairs, my friend is striking the gunman and screaming. He's shielding his face with his hands. What's happened? She turns and looks at me and spits. He wanted to switch! she screams. I heard him asking if he wanted to swap for tonight, so he could have you. Her eyes are filled with hurt and rage and hate . . . hate for me.

My boyfriend's taking me out, forcibly, dragging me up the stairs. We're leaving and I'm glad. It's all out and over and I'm glad. Everyone hates me and I don't care. My boyfriend knows the truth, he believes me now. It's all over. I feel like I could sleep for a month.

Standing in the doorway putting on my winter boots. They are grey, pull on, Peter Pan style, but lined for winter walking. I see him come out of the basement, walk into the living room, reach under the couch, bring out the gun, come back into the kitchen, cock and point it at us. I watch this happen like a movie in slow motion. I can't understand what I'm seeing. It's like I'm standing outside my body off to the side watching the scene. I watch myself from a safer distance, hand slipped into boyfriend's, face blank, devoid of expression except for the googly eyes glossed with fear.

He's going to kill my boyfriend. Then he can have me. We'll go away in his truck and he will have me. And if the police find us he'll have to shoot me and then himself but it will be okay because first he'll have me and we'll be together at the end like we're supposed to be. This isn't what he wanted. If only I had given him what he wanted, none of this would have happened. It's all messed up and now people have to pay. Someone's going to die. And it's all my fault.

I am frozen. It's a fear unlike anything else. I'm looking down the double-barrel of a shotgun, loaded, cocked, ready to destroy. There is no survival. Guns kill deer and moose and bears . . . and people too. It's over. I'm holding my breath, completely still and silent, without even a twitch. This is how it ends in movies, not here, not in real life. It's some horrible nightmare and I'm going to wake up. WAKE UP!

Friends come out of the basement. There is screaming and crying and the other guy shoos the girls back downstairs after he sees the gun. The gunman isn't spooked by any of it. His eyes are locked on me. He's calm and deliberate. Pull the trigger, claim your prize. It's that simple. He is a hunter and I'm the prey, but my boyfriend is the target. The other guy approaches the gunman from behind, carefully, hands semi-raised in surrender, trying to rationalise and calm, soothe. The gunman allows him to approach, but he doesn't lower the gun, doesn't lower his gaze, holds me with his hazel eyes, probes me, touches me. My skin crawls.

And then the movie moves from slow motion into fast forward. I'm horrified as I watch the other guy lunge for the gun. Oh my God! It'll go off! And in a fraction of a second my boyfriend has opened the door, pulled me outside and we're running for the street. The night is freezing. And dark. And deserted. I expect at any moment to hear shots, to feel hot lead rip into my body. But my ears are full with my pounding heart, jagged breath, I can't hear anything else. My chest hurts from running, from the cold. We run, holding hands, fleeing on foot, not knowing whether to hide or keep running, eyes darting . . . there is nowhere to hide in the snow . . . expecting to hear the truck start behind us, expecting to be run down on the road like porcupine.
And then headlights on me and I'm trying to run out of the way, panicked, into the ditch, get away, get away.

It's okay, it's okay, it's not him, wrong type of headlights, my boyfriend knows cars and he's pushing me to the white line, forcing my arm out, thumb up, this is something I know how to do, this is familar. This is our way out of here. Please, please, please, I beg . . . and the car stops.

I know this car. I've been in this car before, but never with my boyfriend. It's a Malibu. There are four guys, friends of mine. I'm so happy to see them, I start crying, climb into the backseat between two of them. My boyfriend rides up front. The boys are nervous, they don't like my boyfriend because he is from downriver and going with one of their girls. Rightfully, I should be dating one of them. This is what they think. What has he done to her this time? What's wrong with her? And I can't stop crying but still I lie, there was a fight with my best friend, a girl thing is all. Shoulders relax in the front seat. There's no need for counterviolence. I turn around to look out the back window to see if we're being followed. The highway is dark.

At my road the boys want to know if I want a ride all the way home or where I'm going. Here is fine. We'll just get out here. My boyfriend and I huddle under the streetlight. He hugs me and kisses my forehead. We don't know what to do. We left in the middle of a fist fight over a gun. What happened? Is everyone okay? Has he been restrained? Is everyone dead? Is he coming for us right now? We don't know. Can't stand not knowing. Can't stand doing nothing.

We walk to my friend's house, where her sister is babysitting younger siblings. I want her to call his house, ask to talk to her sister, make sure things are okay. I try to be vague but she won't help me until I tell her everything. It's such a relief to speak of it. She calls, but there is no answer. We're worried. Her parents come home. It's obvious I am distressed but we tell them nothing, make light stories to encourage them to stop prodding, insist that I've just been a bad girl, drinking too much and now I'm weepy. Nothing to worry about.

My friend bursts through the front door, wild-eyed, angry, accusing . . . I can't believe you'd come here . . . I can't believe you'd tell them . . . It's not what you think . . . don't listen to her . . . she's a liar . . . he didn't mean to do it . . . she's been teasing him for years . . . And I'm trying to interrupt, trying to tell her they don't know, I didn't tell, I didn't do anything wrong . . . and she's striking at me and pulling my hair, hysterical . . . I don't feel the blows, don't feel anything, numb. My boyfriend is pulling her off me and her sister is telling her parents everything and I get up and walk through the chaos, out the front door into the quiet snow. I start walking home. I don't have a coat. My boyfriend runs and catches up, dresses me, zips me, puts my hand in his pocket and leads me.

One foot in front of the other. That's all I can understand, all I can think about right now. Left, right, left, right, stride, stride . . . home.

I shiver under the covers. My boyfriend can't warm me, can't calm me. I sleep in fits and starts, waking in sudden screams every time a car passes the house. I dream he's out there, with the gun, waiting. I dream he shoots holes through the house, killing my family, my boyfriend, my dog . . . but never me. When everyone is dead he enters the house and finds me quivering in my bedroom closet. Then he makes me his. Terrible nightmares. I'm afraid to sleep alone. My boyfriend wants to sleep on the couch because I keep waking him up and he has to work most mornings. The first night is not the worse, every night is equally bad for many weeks. The nightmares stay with me for years, trail me into early adulthood, once in an odd while still resurface.

At school I am shunned by the girls. They refuse to speak to me, refuse to listen. It's generally agreed upon that I did something to lead him on, that I was trying to steal him away from my friend. For a week I am completely on my own, a true loner, whispered about when people think I can't hear, pointed at, wondered about. I am a freak. I am miserable. I don't want to go to school. Don't want to get out of bed. Don't want to do anything. I'm depressed. Making lists in my notebook of new and inventive ways to kill myself passes the time. Most of the time I wish he had shot me.

My friend breaks up with him within a few weeks of the incident, mostly because her parents forbid her to see him anymore. He is no longer welcome in their home. Her family soon moves and she starts going to another school. My other friend drifts back to me but only after I agree to silence. We will never speak of these things and pretend like nothing ever happened. She's not interested in what happened, doesn't want to hear my side of things. It's a deal I can live with, I'm good at pretending.
The incident slowly fades from public recollection.

Four years pass before I see him again. I have graduated high school and moved away. I come home for a few weeks vacation at my parents. I find myself at a party. I don't know it at the time, but the party is at his new girlfriend's house. I've heard about the new girlfriend, heard they are engaged. But I don't know her, don't realise this is her party. It's an outside party, and it's huge. People are everywhere on the lawn, in the drive, throughout the yard, cars line both sides of the road for a half mile in both directions . . . I'm walking alone, passing through clusters of people, looking for friends.

I pass through some groups and there he is, right in front of me. He's standing, hugging his girlfriend from behind, kissing her ear. He sees me and smiles. A slow grin. Like he's been expecting me. He winks. Whispers something and then leaves her. Starts walking toward me, smiling . . . I turn and bolt, zigzagging through clusters, muttering hello if I recognize people. Every now and then I turn to see where he is and he's still coming. He's tall, I can see his head above most others. I'm trying to walk fast rather than all out run, trying to compress myself into as short a person as I can be so maybe he will lose sight of me amongst all the people.

I'm not watching where I'm going. I run right into a guy I know. We collide and I scream a little. He laughs, thinks it's funny that I'm jumpy and spooked. He's just arrived. He has a car. It's parked down the road. I grab him by the arm, whirl him around and demand that he take me for a ride. I assure him I've scouted the party and there are more happening things elsewhere. I kidnap this man and piss off another girl in the process, but I don't care. I latch on. Taking one final look back I see that he's stopped a few feet from us. His eyes are flashing. His jaw is clenched. For now, I am safe.

I've seen you walk unafraid
I've seen you in the clothes you've made
Can you see the beauty inside of me?
What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?

Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: U2, City of Blinding Lights
Hair: blonder than I used to be, but not as naive

Like, Duh!

No shit!

Mood: a bit snitty
Drinking: coffee, a blend of all the bottoms of various cans, with cream
Listening To: Bon Jovi, Out of Bounds
Hair: loosely pulled back in brown scrunchie

Belated Saturday Six #71

From Patrick's Place. Play along if you'd like, it's never too late.

1. Other than the "Saturday Six," what weekly or daily memes do you play most often? (Please give a link to that journal.)

None really . . . but I do the occasional quiz from Blogthings.

2. If you could look back at photos you know of that were taken during your childhood, from your first school pictures to snapshots taken ten years ago, which one do you think would be the most embarrassing and why?

It's difficult to say which is more embarrassing, the chubby little kid in the plaid pants . . . or the anorexic twenty-something who's face has sunken into her skull . . . probably the latter.

3. What was the last thing you made yourself do, even though you really didn't want to?

That's tough, cuz if I don't want to do it chances are I won't. Hmmm . . . it was probably something to do with work, interviewing someone or writing a press release or something. I NEVER want to do that stuff, yet I persist.

4. Take this quiz: How do you live your life?

How You Life Your Life

You are honest and direct. You tell it like it is. You tend to avoid confrontation and stay away from sticky situations. Your friends tend to be a as quirky as you are - which is saying a lot! Some of your past dreams have disappointed you, but you don't let it get you down.

How Do You Live Your Life?

5. What was the last book you started but never finished (aside from any you're currently reading)? Why did you stop reading it?

The only book I've started and never finished, aside from the half-dozen or so I'm slowly getting through now, is Roughing It In the Bush by Susannah Moodie. I've tried many times since Ryerson and failed each time . . . it's just too damned boring, I can't do it.

6. Are you named after anyone? Has anyone ever been named after you?

My middle name is Valerie Anne. The Valerie is after my Aunt Valerie on my mother's side, the Anne is my mother's little bit of rebellion at being forced to name me after my Aunt Valerie . . . I surmise. Nobody has been named after me -- HEY! Why is that?

Welcome Back, Blogger

I'm alive. Think I was a little anemic, a bit low on iron, steak and eggs helps, it's not just a breakfast food. So what if it took me all day to straighten out and fly right! I did the interview I was supposed to, the press release is coming out, the other one is gone . . . things are happening, slowly but surely . . . and now that I have some friggin' energy and actually feel like I can stand up without passing out . . . sheesh! Hello fer stuff!

I stumbled out to the bank earlier and discovered I have just enough money to make rent . . . and nothing more . . . I should have a little more . . . has something gone wrong along the way? This is a dilemma. But with a cupboard full of canned goods, at least I won't starve. Thank you Mama!

Saw Ann, a girl from the Sackville Writers' Group, at Jean Coutu . . . it's weird to be running into all these writing girls all of a sudden. First Emily, now Ann . . . this IS really a small town.

Much to do, little time, just thought I'd check in and let everyone know I'm all right.

Mood: sooooo much better
Drinking: coffee, organic light roast with 2% from Bridge Street Cafe
Listening To: Bob Marley, War
Hair: damp and loose

Feverish

I'm not well. Fevered I think, though without the tech there's no way to know for certain. I've had chills since about 9 last night. Had to get my blanket and curl up to watch Stewie on Toon. Family Guy re-runs certainly win over Tommy Lee going to College. Maybe I've got a bug, maybe it's wine withdrawal, maybe this is the crash after the whirlwind . . . I don't know, don't care . . . all I know for sure is that I don't have time for this right now. Need to snap out of it. Too much to do, not enough time.

Mood: head is swimming
Drinking: water
Listening To: Articolo 31, L'italiano medio
Hair: down 'n dirty

It's Done

I'm caught up. Last week's adventures have been chronicled and included as they happened for your reading pleasure. If you look back you will find things maybe that you haven't read before mixed amongst things that you have read already. But now I'm done the backlog. Full speed ahead.

Mood: spirits are high
Drinking: water
Listening To: Gerry Beirne on CHSR in Fredville
Hair: back for working

The Harlequin
You scored 26% Cardinal, 46% Monk, 50% Lady, and 35% Knight!

You are a mystery, a jack-of-all-trades. You have the king's ear, but
also listen to murmurings of the common folk. You believe in the value
of force and also literature. Truly you are the puzzlement of the age.
The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test written by KnightlyKnave on Ok Cupid

After the Carnage

I am home in Sackville again. If I could stretch my arms round it, I would hug my apartment and give it a big squeeze. After a week of chaos at the folks and a whirlwind outing in Moncton, I'm ready to go back into hiding for at least a couple of weeks. Slow down and get some work done. Of course looking at the calendar I see next week is also chaotic with a daytrip into Moncton on Tuesday to workshop (which means I'm prepping this week) and the concert at Magnetic Hill on Saturday. It's time for the Stones already! How did this happen? I'm not ready, haven't wrapped my head around 85,000 people in a field.

It's a beautiful day here on the marsh. The air is a bit thicker than usual but not nearly as dense as it could be, was last night in Moncton. I'm feeling a big sluggish though I slept for a long time. A restless sleep, nervous at being alone again here for the first night. The kind of sleep where I wake up repeatedly but am so exhausted I can't actually move, my body is frozen and heavy, only manage to open my eyes, caught between reality and dream, meshing images of dream world angels against reality of my bedroom wall, feeling like someone is there behind me but unable to turn for confirmation. Nightmare after nightmare after nightmare until finally dawn brightens and I break free from sleep paralysis.

I've got some blogging from the week written long-hand that I'll type, back-date and post. So, keep checking below if you're interested.

Mood: loopy
Drinking: coffee with cream ... which could benefit from a shot of brandy
Listening To: Carson Downey Band, Are You In Or Are You Out
Hair: suffering from the wrath of Sherry's scissors

I Should Move to Moncton

What time to check out of dorms, this is the dilemma. Is it like a hotel? Bathroom facilities are a bit scary . . . a sticker in one stall asks me to call 911, another stall says I can have sex if I'm here at 9:10 pm. It's unclear what kind of sex I'll receive. But I've missed it. Too late. Too early. Nevertheless, the shower feels good, hot, lots of water.

I unpack and repack my suitcase. We drink the last half of the wine, munching on the remaining cherries for breakfast. A taxi to the bus station. Get tickets though we can't leave until much later. Dump luggage into lockers for safe keeping. And go for breakfast. Doc's all day happy hour, steak and eggs. It fills the hole.

We walk out to the river again, tide is going in different direction today. We walk along a grassy path past ducks and dog walkers and kiddies on bicycles. The air is thick. Humidity is high. Rain threatens. I don't like the look of the sky. Bluish/green hues in the clouds smack of major storm. I don't mind getting soaked in my Mighty t-shirt, I won't melt, love walking in the rain . . . but don't want to chance lightning on this day. I've been too sparky lately. I feel like I would draw it in. At the first few drops, I bolt. We cut through a construction site and cross streets I've never been on, make our way back to Doc's. Sit on the edge of the patio hoping not to be spotted by poets gathered next door. Blame it on me if caught out.

The rain comes and the air cools a little. A breeze picks up. How can I get a job sitting at sidewalk cafes all day everyday drinking coffee and wine and writing? Can I do that? Will somebody support me to do that? I suppose if I wrote amazingly successful books . . . I could do whatever the hell I wanted. I'm pretty sure the J.K. Rowling's and Stephen King's of the world do whatever the hell they want. "I should move to Moncton." We pass the afternoon with drinks and conversation and punch buggy and people-watching. It's not unpleasant. Then off to the bus for the first departure and I'm left alone in Moncton with a couple of hours to kill. I want coffee. Want reading materials. And though I really shouldn't go there, Reid's offers what I want. Many journals and a mega java later, I arrive at the station, get my luggage out of the locker and find my bus.

My bus is not my bus. I'm on overflow. So many people traveling today. The station is packed. Twenty-something boys repeatedly ask me arrival/departure/ destination questions. Why me? I have no answers. Seldom travel the bus. I must carry an air of authority or I look like their mothers or something, for some reason they seek me out and inquire. On the bus I get a window seat but turn to see Emily from the writing workshop I took this spring walking toward me. We are surprised to see one another. She joins me. She's been visiting friends, busy getting ready for school to start again, course loads and all that. And for a moment I get that back-to-school excitement . . . remember I have not officially withdrawn from course yet . . . wonder again what I should do, if I can swing it. We talk all the way to Sackville and then wave as we head in different directions. Humid on the marsh. Hmmm. Unusual.

Ahh, Monkeytown!

The train arrives in Moncton around noon. A boy waits on the platform with a bouquet of flowers hovering by his side. He fidgets a little, bites his lip, excited or nervous to greet his traveller.

Our bags don't take as long as they might -- there is a lot of baggage on this train, an increase in travellers by rail and bus it seems, with gas prices being so high. We grab a cab to the UdeM residence . . . where writers and poets and all forms of starving artists eventually come to roost. There is some laughable confusion at the front desk, two nights for one, one night for two.

A quick lay-over and we're off to get paparazzi wedding shots processed. Headed downtown. I want to walk on the bicycle path . . . the cyclist thinks it's not a good idea, advises me of risks . . . I don't see any cyclists, like taking risks . . . can't sue if I'm in the wrong, move to the soft shoulder. On the bridge I start to feel weak, a little faint, that feeling I get on bridges over highways sometimes, like I'm going to jump and I won't be able to stop myself. I move to the outside away from the railing, just in case. I don't like walking on some bridges. Others are okay. This one is not okay.

A crazy man stands in the trees reading, spots us and comes our way ranting in French, waving his book. He is a little frightening, maybe more so if I knew what he's saying, and I wonder again at all the truly mad people who seem to be loose on the streets of Moncton these days. I follow the navigator on blind trust because I don't recognise these streets, am not familiar enough with this part of the city to know where I am. He has a map he consults occasionally, gives no outward appearance that we may be lost. And we are not lost. Thar she blows! The great green roof of Stupor Store.

Film is deposited for one hour. Thief detectors buzz our arrival and departure. We decide on cheap stupor deli rather than heavier restaurant fare. I need juice and water. I'm dehydrated. My third breast is not as delectable as I imagine the other two, rather dry, still I enjoy a little before discarding. Time to kill before photos are ready. We walk to the Chateau hotel, the one with the jumper awhile ago. Cross the parking lot, ogling Harleys all the way. Walk into the middle of another bridge. This is a good bridge. I like this one. "I should move to Moncton." The water in the Chocolate River is an insane swirl of tide movement, funnels sucking things under, ducks taking the express route. It's an awesome force, scary. People pass on bicyles, on foot, walking their dogs . . . but nobody else stops to witness today.

Time's up and we're off for the pics. Branded thieves again by alarms, but everyone just laughs. I think, what a great opportunity to really slip something into my purse. I eye dvds I know I mustn't buy, but should I steal? We leave and try to get run over in various parking lots as we scan pictures and walk toward the downtown. Can we sue if we get hit in parking lot? Who's wrong is that? Great shots of Jar coming right at the camera. The bride is beautifully soft with her father in tow. The Underhill circle has never been captured, let alone in such a revealing way. The reflection of me in the train window is better than the physical being. Which one is really me? Sometimes I feel like I live in glass, like I am but a mere reflection of something else I can't comprehend. Nice pictures all around. I'm pleased.

Much time to kill before poetry as we amble up Main Street toward Felix. "Well, what are we going to do now?" I ask. And God answers with sirens. Many loud sirens blaring by the Rodd Parkhouse. Not one police, not one ambulance, not one search and rescue vehicle -- but many. We stop on the corner and turn, shading our eyes against the sun trying to see what's happening. It's too far away. A helicopter hovers over the river. The Chocolate River with the swirling wicked tide. "Oh my God! Do you think someone fell in?" Flashing lights come into view as the sirens approach. We wait for the answer . . . and then we hear it . . . the unmistakeable roar of a thousand Harleys! It's a Hog Rally! Joe can't get the camera out fast enough. It is incredible! Bikes from all over the States and Canada passing our corner, waving to us. A sea of motorcycle leather. Beautiful paint jobs in sienna, plum, topaz and more. Absolutely amazing and I can't believe our good luck. "I should move to Moncton!" Right place, right time. No easy rider handlebars. But it's all good.

We take our high spirits to the Pumphouse brewery and enjoy an afternoon of drinks on the patio ("I really should move to Moncton.") before heading to Felix for dinner and poetry. It's difficult to focus on poetry with Hogs running freely in the downtown. Some readers don't speak loudly enough. Others are flamboyantly overbearing. And still others are just a little . . . mad scientist-like? Joe reads poems that make me laugh out loud . . . though nobody else appears to get the joke . . . why is that? It's funny, right? Apologies for being made into a mystery woman are brushed off. I really don't care. Prefer the witness protection program over full-identification any day. I don't need any unsolicited PR . . . yet. Dinner is pork loin with apple/cranberry chutney and WAY too much rice . . . apparently pilaf, but not very impressive. I keep ordering disappointing rice dishes everywhere I go. I need to embrace potatoes again I think. I drink much wine, again. Am exhausted. Could maybe suck it up for downtown bar time if prompted, (Maybe, I should move to Moncton.") but really would rather have quiet time.

A poet delivers us to the dorm, where we load up on supplies and head out for a campus stroll. Another poet from Felix claims things have been stolen from his room. First only adapter for computer. Then camera and computer itself. Everytime he leaves and returns, something else is stolen. He is WAY worked up. WAY! Too worked up to be rational, we think, something else is going on, he's been going into different rooms or putting things away without realising it . . . there's got to be a rational explanation. We find a gazebo at the edge of campus overlooking the highway and buildings in the distance. In the darkness it is an amazing view. And a dry place out of the scattered rain. I drink another half-bottle of wine and wonder why I'm so wobbly on the walk back. Do I stumble? I think so. But I don't fall. Weebles wobble . . . I'm asleep before the light is turned out, dead to the world until morning. I hear nothing. See nothing. Dream nothing. And it's fabulous!

Moncton Bound

The train departs 25 minutes earlier than what I thought. 10:10 not 10:35, still with Mother in charge of driving we arrive with plenty of time to spare. Yard sale at Gladys' this morning. Mom buys me a butter dish, glass, I can't pack it, maybe someone will bring it to me the next time they visit.

On the train Joe types in Notepad and I laze, look out the window, watch Jack Black through the crack in the seats ahead of me. I want coffee, badly, but the urns are too small. It's a caffeine crises. Everyone wants some and there's not enough to go around. In an open market the price would go up, be $10 a cup by the time I get mine. He takes my picture. Will not be a shining moment, but it's the morning after the night before, it will be accurate.

And So It Is

Hours in a hard straight-backed chair being poked, prodded, pushed and pulled into an upsweep of curls. A Nicole Kidman up-do and I'm wearing it. Time is running out and I want to do nails. Phone rings. I'm being summoned. Jar and the Mystery Man have arrived, bride is freaking, I must go now. No time to finish my prep, the girl needs me. A quick stop to show Jules the new improved girly-girl aunt. Two thumbs up and a "You're beautiful!" and I'm off to the races.

Stacy is without make-up, still getting hair done, in peejays. Hmmm. She worries about crazy little details that make no sense at this point in the game. It's done or it's not but there's no time either way. Grace snaps the real shots. Joe snaps secret paparazzi shots with Grace in them. Guests arrive. Much last minute chaotic running around. Who's doing wine? Is the fountain turned on? Do you know how to work the sound system? Where's the band? Here's a cd. Where is the license? Where's the groom? Does everyone have their flowers? Did anyone fill the little one's basket with petals? Where's the father of the bride? Someone please help us!

The walk down the aisle is difficult in these shoes because the aisle is grass and my shoes are 3-inch spiky heels. We start late so I've already been in these shoes too long and it's only just begun. My feet hurt. I make it to my mark and turn to watch the kids. Flower girl is right behind me and here comes Brett with the rings. I fumble trying to free my ring. Damn thing is going to knot and I'm having a mini-fit. But there, finally, it frees and AJ gets his. Then the wedding march and my girl coming down the aisle on Blake's arm. Who ever would have thunk this? I will not cry. I will not cry. I'm not crying, my nose is just running a little bit . . . the whole thing feels like a play, like a poorly rehearsed high school production. We're not real sure of our roles and lines, looking to Gordon, our director, the only one who's done this sort of thing before, for guidance. He cues lines, nods directions and we proceed toward the celebration, the food, the wine, the music.

A receiving line, hugs and handshakes from people I don't know, people I do. What do I say? Hi. Hello. Hey there. Great day. Thanks for coming. Over and over again. Then more pictures. Do I wait to eat? Do I eat now? Nobody has said. It's unclear. Then the food line where I find the Underhill potato salad to try some of Grammie's homemade salad dressing. A little Blass with dinner is nice. But I want out of this dress, out of these shoes. It's getting cold and my feet REALLY hurt. Then gifts. So many gifts and cards. A fortune I don't want to be responsible for. I need a drink, a sweater, a pair of pants.

Finally I am released from duties. Going for the wine! The jeans! The comfy shoes! The world gets a little fuzzy around the edges, soft focus. Then totally blurry. Do I have nachos? Do I see my dog? Do I say anything I shouldn't? Do I dance in the teahouse? Does Kevin say I'm being rude? Am I being rude? Does Alan really say he had her from hello? Do I walk home? Do I stumble? Do I sleep? Do I dream? . . . What happens?

Shields are down! We're breaking up!

This week is the great sleep deprivation challenge. Will we break? Or can we hold it together? Stay tuned. I'm tired. I'm really, really tired. I've never known tired like this before. How to function naturally, without pharmaceutical assistance? I dunno.

Morning greets me much too early. I creep from the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room where I fall onto the couch and immediately drift off again. Mother calls me again and I try to sit up, try to open eyes, use fingers to pry the lids. I have no legs, can't feel them beneath me, can't stand. The wedding is today and I'm spun.

Supposed to go to town with Sherry, leaving by 8 a.m. to be there when store opens. No wedding gift for happy couple, no personal gift for my girl, no shawl for me. But paralysis grips me, can't get from the living room to the bathroom. Sherry's calling. It's the second time. I've missed the first.

Need to dye my hair. I'm not colour co-ordinated yet. Two-tone roots. Some grey only tall people might notice. Alan's Jardines are tallish, Stacy's are not.

Do I really need to go to town? Can I make do? Will my girl be understanding? Yes. Yes, I think so. I'll just lie here for a few more moments.

I can do this. I can get up. Go dye my hair. Get out of Dodge and back again in plenty of time to ready for service. I rest for a few minutes while my mother clucks her tongue . . . annoyed with me. Yes Mother, I AM irresponsible, but must we discuss it today? I never said anything. Hand over heart, taken aback, the nerve of me to be accusing such things.

I lurch into the bathroom ready to dye. Mom immediately flees the scene in the car. I have no idea where she's gone, she hasn't told me, but assume I need the car too. Now I'm stranded. Mix the dye. Dab at tips. How long are you going to be? Dad's up. My worse morning nightmare. 35 minutes, I say, I'm dying my hair. $%#%#%&^$#%&(&(%&$! He stomps down the hall and into the kitchen to roll a cigarette. I want one so bad right now, even his hand-rolled ones are appealing. What am I lacking in life that is making me crave so much now? Is it chocolate? Champagne? Strawberries? Sex? I don't know. Can't stand the swearing in the kitchen. Cease dying, throw everything into a box, take to bedroom and call sweetly to Father, "It's okay. I'm done now."

I am done now. I'm sooo done. I can't handle this morning. Can't hold back the sobs and tears, need to get hidden away quickly so nobody sees. Fight it down just for a few more minutes. Call Sherry.

Hello.
Hi.
Are you ready?
No. I don't want to go anymore.
WHAT!?
Yeah, no, I just can't do it.
You've got to be kidding me! You can't do this to me!
But it's just not that important anymore.
Click.

She hangs up on me. She's pissed. What have I done that's so wrong? Worth a hang-up? Inconvenient, yes. Inconsiderate, yes. But worth the wrath of Sherry? I'm not convinced, she's trying to steal my melodrama and I've got the full license for it this week. Sobs wracking me now, can't hold on, can't hold them in. I've never been this tired in my life, not even in insomnia weeks. Run down hall, sequester in little room with multi-coloured walls and Dora the Explorer posters, climb into too squeaky bed, cover my whole body including head, assume the fetal and wail into my pillow. This is bad. This is really bad. I may cry for the rest of the day. I may cry forever.

I cry for ten minutes. Pillow beyond damp. Chest sore from sobbing. It's the guilt I can't stand. Who am I to be having a nervous breakdown and changing my mind? What's wrong with me? I'm stronger than this. I need to just suck it up. It's not that late. If I throw on glasses, pull up hair, leave right now, it'll be like I never made the phone call, never changed my mind. I can do this. Drag myself to the phone again. Call Sherry.

Hello.
Mom?
Yeah.
What are you doing there?
Babysitting.
Where's Sherry?
She's gone to Blackville.
Well, when she comes back, tell her we can go. I'm ready.
No, no, she's alright now, you don't need to go.
But she hung up on me.
Yes, but she's fine now.
Oh . . . okay then. Bye.
Click.

And I'm crying again, off down the hall, tears spilling all over. God, I hate crying! I hate being the stereotypical emotional road kill! What is wrong with me? I've still got dye in my hair from earlier that I never bothered to wash out. I can't stop crying. Nick is whining with me, because that's what he does. He tries to lick at my tears, but I swat him away, he needs a breath buster. He throws big paws at me instead, trying to get me to snap out of it. Crying makes him nervous. I worry he'll pee on the floor.

I cry for another 10 minutes. I'm still crying when Sherry comes in. Now, she's concerned. I'm crying, incoherent. I can't talk to her. She's better. I'm a wreck. I'm not supposed to be the wimp. I don't do it well or gracefully. A maid of honour breakdown is normal, she says. She had several. If this is my first one, I'm doing good, I have been strong. I calm slowly but surely. We decide to go to Blackville for coffee and to seek a small personal gift for the bride.

I buy Sherry vodka for all her help.

Cap'in, I Can't Hold'er Together fer Much Longer!

Technically it is the day of the wedding, the early morning, after four. But I haven't been to bed yet, so it still seems like Thursday.

A 10 am road call for Thursday. I'm dressed up. We've got business matters to attend to today. Important stuff. Though nobody wants us to go, seem to accuse us of slacking off. There's just too much to be done. Too much doing, not enough time.

We meet Terry at his house. I get to see the garage office space for the first time. Nice! This could be Stacy's new home base. We take care of business. Stacy comes away with unanticipated cash allowing her to do some things she wanted but couldn't afford before.

Phone lunch into Pizza Delight so it will be ready when we get there, saving time. Last minute grocery shopping for Darlene. Pick up cakes. Liquor store run. And we're outta here but it's late afternoon. Unload at Teahouse. Barely enough time to run home, change clothes and return for rehearsal. I pop in some olives, drink a glass of wine, change and leave Mom's within 20 minutes.

Rehearsal starts late. Alan jokes and lightens the mood, no crying here. The kids are adorable. Blake wants to say, Lorraine and I, instead of, her mother and I. Gordon says that's not acceptable. My role is silent and I'm thankful. After rehearsal we decorate.

I'm no good at decorating. No good at flowers. Seriously, no good. "It's a good thing you can write," Stacy says around midnight. And that's it, right? It was the only thing I was good at, so I had to make it work for me. It was that or administrative work. I'm very good at admin, though I dislike it. I could've always been a prostitute I suppose, it's a no brainer.

Still I'm handy for reaching things for the little people, passing things so they don't have to keep climbing up and down. I do what I can and I stay until the end. Almost 4 o'clock. Are we ready yet? Not sure.

Still Here

Goin on 3 a.m. and i'm on the last cd . . . music selection here is not what i have at home, hard to get country for the groom, but have included some Stacy staples like stones and nazareth. 70% burnt and climbing. Need some sleep. 6:30 will come very soon. I am very near to calling old friends, truck drivers, scaring up some insta-energy . . . but would a Red Bull work just as well? I've never had one before. Caffeine won't cut it methinks.

Mood: into that giddy kind of tired now, where everything feels funny and I can't stop laughing
Drinking: nuttin' . . . parched chick
Listening To: abby have some sort of coughing fit in her sleep
Hair: earlier this evening it was teased and curled and sprayed into a very girly girl practice up-do . . . proving once again that there is a first time for everything . . . last time will be Friday . . . currently in chaotic remnants

The Longest Day

It's the week that won't quit, the day that refuses to die. After 1 in the a.m. and I'm at my sisters. She's long gone to bed and hubby way before that. There are children in the house that will rise in a few hours, rest is needed. I'm burning music. Then I'm going home and planned to dye my hair tonight . . . have to be on the road, organised, ready by 10 in the morning . . . hair may have to wait. Too tired for sitting upright, and still I'm doing it.

Grocery shopping to feed a hundred people is not an easy thing, two carts piled beyond capacity, no sharp turns on those wheels. This wedding thing is great exercise. . . on our feet all day every day running from place to place, lifting large cumbersome objects that I never imagined I could carry on my own unassist, pushing carts round and round the aisles . . . hungry all the time it seems, but no ice cream for brides and maids, even on the hottest day of the year . . . until after the ceremony. Silly rule. Who made that up?

Decorating challenged. Will it come together in time? Stay tuned . . .

Mood: Beyond exhausted
Drinking: Beyond wine
Listening To: Beyond music
Hair: Beyond redemption

Mighty Chaotic

From Sackville to Miramichi to Blackville to Fredericton to Millerton and round again. Many miles, few hours . . . not done yet.

I knew the bride when she used to NOT run over every pedestrian she sees . . .

Mood: getting more stressed
Drinking: nothing, but do I ever need a glass
Listening To: Stacy . . . WORKING!! WTF! Gotta go stop that.
Hair: soon to be a little blonder

Freddy Road Trips Are So Much Fun or Lingerie Sagas

Nick goes for pants leg and gets only flesh as Stacy's car pulls in . . . I'm wearing capris. He's confused. Where are you going? You just got here! Why won't you stay? Hugs for him, reminders to Lee that technically I'm not REALLY home, can't be the dog owner this week, no time for animal loving, in other words Nick stays with you on your schedule so maybe this week won't screw him up as bad as I imagine it will.

Escape with Kevin and Stacy for road trip. Stop at Janice's for first lingerie fitting of the day . . . it's a no-go. Off to Julia's. Waiting in the car with Kevin, we are quiet, need coffee. Waving to Faith W and someone I probably should know out for morning walk. Then Lisa's for sample headpiece. Tommy is in residence. Kids playing with hairpiece. A bit of chaos. Did he know high school was going to be as good as it ever got? I get my Irving coffee because I'm unwilling to wait until Doaktown for Timmy's. KC or Tim, I don't care, coffee is coffee when you're in morning crises.

A flurry of cell phone calls as service permits . . . Anne's Welfare Wedding Store, Janice, Anne's again, Darlene . . . and so it goes, all the way to the grand capital.

Arrival is only semi-dangerous in a round-about not real sure where we're going kind of way. Mr. Jar is called to announce our arrival to the Freddy network. We breakfast at Cora's where melons are popping out all over and Kevin can't take his eyes off them. The boss is in the house, shadowing all the girls, people are tense. My omelet is okay . . . but not as good as the one I had on the last Fred trip at a different restaurant (can't recall which one).

We stuff our faces and then head out to try on corsets, how crazy is that? Figure we'll deal with the worse case scenario just to be safe. No corsets of the kind we want are to be found in Regent Mall but there are lots of suck it in and prop it up lycra products available. We kick Kevin out of lingerie, grab armloads and head to the change rooms. It's torture. We are moaning and groaning at each other across the hall, wondering what other tryer-ons must think we're doing. Not only can I not breath, I can not find a cup large enough. How can I be losing weight without losing breasts? This makes no sense to me. We decide to go to Fredericton Mall after medical appointment for one final look-see before we split the scene altogether.

While Stacy goes to specialist and Kevin lays about the parking lot smoking, I try to buy everything I need at Shoppers Drug Mart. Hair clips, dye, shampoo, conditioner, etc and so on. Overspending once again, I join the smoker on the grass and people watch, wishing for just one drag off his cigarette, a glass of wine, something to eat. Our girl emerges having been given a clean bill of health. Doogie said not to come back no matter what anyone else says, suits us fine.

Kevin goes shopping crazy at mall when we abandon him and lose track of time at bridal shops and Zellers. Crossing things off our list, but corset is so NOT happening . . . and we're not sure we even want it too anymore. No bondage for us free spirits!

Several pedestrians barely escape with their lives as we wing our way back downtown to Victory Meat. I'm so hungry, I'm feeling faint. We decide to go to Jar's restaurant for late lunch. I call Joe. He's sleepy but coming over. We buy big ass turkeys, ham and salmon. Dump what we can in trunk cooler. Find Rye's based on my not so good memory. Nearly run down two more pedestrians. Kevin is having a backseat driving fit.

We arrive alive . . . albeit on foot from pulling over and parking immediately after the hit and run scare. Sit on the patio with the pigeons. I keep my eye on Stacy knowing her dislike of birds. Joe arrives soon after and Jar-Jar checks in, soon off his shift and will join us. I order wine and greek wraps (why wraps when I should have just got the salad . . . not so sure, think the chicken sucked me in or i'm too hungry to comprehend the menu). Wraps are HUGE! HUGE! Too big for eating. I play with one, give Joe the other. Kevin keeps ordering beer, though Stacy is freaking out, we've got to hit the road. I don't want to go yet, want to sit on the patio and drink wine until I'm giddy. Already I'm freeing myself from slavery instead of becoming deathly thin, yet, it doesn't seem enough. I want to kick back and relax after this crazy day, this crazy past week or so . . . but I know it's only just begun. The finish line is so far in the distance we can't even see it. Stacy leaves us to it and goes to the barracks to see an exhibit by a friend of hers. I order more wine. We laugh over my fist fight with the wedding hairdresser, hope she won't recognise me when the time comes. When she returns it's time to hit the road.

Relatively peaceful ride home, not home, but to Darlene's, where somehow I lift big ass cooler out of trunk and carry to kitchen unassisted. I am finally wonder woman. Eyes have been watering since Upper Blackville, Janice wants to know why I'm crying. I don't know, I say, I started as soon as I saw the Blackville signs and I haven't been able to stop. She laughs . . . but it's true. Kevin wants to linger, have tea, chat, but we've got a hair appointment already rescheduled at least three times. Millerton bound!

More cell calls and list crossing as service allows. I navigate to house of hairdresser I once trounced getting me barred from the Renous Rec for one year. I was a troublemaker they said . . . self-defence, I said, but all water under the bridge now, I hope.

Kevin and I make camp in the yard while our girl enters the lair. I call Terry, delegate tasks. Kevin smokes. I want to smoke. We watch the moon rise, wonder about the swimming pool, the trampoline, the swing set . . . the woman's backyard is a death-trap for small children. A yappy little dog glares at us from his rope and barks. Hours pass.

She emerges feeling really good about the experience. Wedding hair will be fine. Hairdresser has proven competency. We head for Chatham under clear dark skies. Drop a sleepy almost incoherent Kevin off at his place and head to Nelson where all the cheap gas hides. Debate food, decide on Irving coffee and snacks instead. I get coffee but no snacks entice me, Stacy gets nuts.

Back in Barnettville I take the list, much against the control freak's wishes, tell her I'll see her in the morning bright 'n early. Stumble into the house and work on music selection from cd collection. Remember Rock Star . . . but it's too late, I've missed it.

Moncton to Miramichi

Gary from Montreal lies to me, asks if he may join me, says he wants to write . . . then talks non-stop while I try to continue writing in the notebook. He doesn't like planes, frequent train traveller and also bus, prefers bus on longish trips but not long enough for sleeper car. Prefers Amtrak over Via. Has crossed country via train to Vancouver then down into California and back across US to Montreal. No weeks spent anywhere, all sightseeing done on lay-overs, whirlwind cab rides through cities. How bizarre. He subjects me to a blow by blow accounting of every city, seeing the Atlantic and Pacific all in the same week. What kind of a vacation is this?

Across the aisle, youngest traveller is getting tipsy. Think one of the older ladies might be her mother. The two older women and man are trying to convince the young woman to leave her boyfriend. Not very subtle tactics. An all out gang up. This won't work.

W#1: If you stay with him, you're never going to make any new friends.

M: And you're going to lose all your old friends.

W#2: Look at all the friends you've lost already.

YW: Yeah, I know, I know. But it's not that easy, I don't have anywhere to go.

M: Say the word and Carol will get a place with you. She doesn't like her apartment anyway and wants to get someplace else.

W#1: That's a good idea. You can afford to pay on a place, can't you?

YW: Yeah . . .

W#2: Of course she can! She makes enough to pay half on a little place. You should call Carol when we get home.

YW: But what about him? I can't just leave.

M: I don't see why not.

W#1: Oh yes, you can do it when he's at work even.

M: I can round up the boys and we'll have you out in an hour.

W#2: You wouldn't even need to be there if you didn't want to be.

W#1: Yes dear, that's probably best. Just tell the boys what's what, me or her could go and pack up your suitcases, you wouldn't even have to be there at all.

YW: Oh, I don't know . . . really, you know, he's not that bad a guy . . .

W#2: (whispering) Does he hit you?

YW: Oh God no! NO! Nothing like that. No, no, I'd never stand for that, never. That would be the final straw.

[W#1 & W#2 exchange raised eyebrows look across table]

M: But do you love him? That's the thing.

YW: I-I-I . . .

W#2: You know, when you're at work can you not wait to get home to see him?

W#1: Do you miss him when you're not together?

W#2: Or could you care less whether you saw him again?

YW: No, when we're not together I don't even think about him at all.

M: There you go then.

YW: But then I see him . . . and I want to be with him, can't imagine being with anyone else.

[W#1 & W#2 sigh and tisk as an uncomfortable minute of silence flows over their group]

YW: Yeah, I love him --

W#1: Well, we don't have to talk about this now, dear.

W#2: No, no, forget about it and just enjoy your vacation.

M: Nothing you can do from Toronto anyway.

W#1: Right. Just enjoy your trip, dear.

W#2: I'm worried about tornados and terrorists.

W#1: By Jesus, me too, me too. Toronto gets those wicked tornados and you just never know who any of the people are. Could be terrorists right on this here train.

[YW slips her headphones on, cranks the music, lies back in her seat and closes her eyes.]

Train Sitting in Moncton

An old man in a wheelchair holds a cane, saying good bye. Family kissing him, hugging him, tears, helping him ease from the wheel chair and climb the steps, guiding him to his seat . . . and before I hear him, before his voice comes my way, tears are choking me, my throat closing . . . and then I hear the gravelly old man sound . . . and it's complete -- Grandad.

Grandad going on a trip. Calgary maybe. It must've been a bit like this, though he would've gotten around better than this man. And now I'm breaking up for real, no better place than in station to do so, everybody cries here. Let it flow. Tears stain page, blur ink.

Look out the window. Seek abstraction, distraction, anything to block the familar voice.

Train to Moncton from Sackville

Wedding week. On the train from Sackville heading toward Stacy and Kevin and a big bottle of wine. Neck killing me but can't find my brace, must've fallen behind something. Tired already and it hasn't even begun.

Clouds looks like fingerprints, like handprints, like someone touched the sky, left their mark. Fine lines, swirling lines and crotched trees. All the markers a lab would need to prove identification. God's private joke, hiding in plain sight.

Four people from Truro travel to Toronto for the first time. They're in for a long night. Playing cards, crazy 8's instead of crib or euchre, drinking beer. Lots of kids going somewhere today too.

The further away from Sackville, the cloudier it gets, the more my joints ache. I'm at home on the marsh, the climate pleases me, helps limit crippling attacks and uncomfortable swelling, feeds my creativity . . . and yet . . . and yet I feel afloat, like somebody let go of my string and I could end up anywhere, many wheres. Haven't had time to bond with my community and it's already been months . . . where will I float to next? Can anyone reach the string and pull me in?

Starving. No food today. Not much yesterday. Too busy to eat. Terry's voice running in my head, "If you don't eat, you don't poop . . . and if you don't poop, you die." Sound advice. I'll eat when I get there.

On the new train, the one with the single seats. Man across the way looks vaguely familar . . . now that I look, the four of them seem familar. Do Maritimers all look the same? Are we all cousins?

Dorchester. The Pen. I know entirely too many criminals, too many people who have been in Dorchester and beyond, as if crime is okay and I endorse it.

I am not at my best on this trip. Need coffee or something. Worried I forgot to unplug stuff . . . knowing I didn't forget, I NEVER forget.

Memramcook.

Chocolate River.

Almost Moncton . . . and no snacks yet. No coffee. I'm hungry. There are supposed to be snacks served at my seat on this train, usually before Moncton. Stacy and I will go for supper.

The woman across the way has a brother living in the Carolinas that she's never visited . . . I can't imagine having family I never visited, no matter how far away. Can't imagine a life without sisters and nieces and Samuel. Can't imagine children growing up without me seeing them. Even when I lived away in Toronto, I came back, they came out, we saw each other many times every year.

Today, Sackville and Miramichi. Tomorrow, Miramichi and Fredericton. Moncton by the weekend maybe. I'm on a coaster and it's shaping up to be a wild ride.