Sitting There Alone

Not naming any names...

2007-09-23T15:17:00.000-06:00

but just to clarify, you can now find me HERE.
Heh, heh.

Good-bye for real this time.
Bye.
Miss you.
Bye.

Some Endings

2007-09-19T20:22:00.000-06:00

And sometimes things come together in their own way and push you into new directions. Like I said, I've been thinking about moving on. It's been a good two years here, and we've been through a lot together. I think you've watched me grow up a little. At least, I hope so. But I needed a space for class, and I wanted to put some things to bed and let them rest, or try to let them rest. They deserve a rest. And some peace. So, goodnight, my dear. You've been good to me. Take care, my dear. Take care. Maybe I'll see you around sometime. Goodnight.

And, hello.

Different Pile

2007-09-11T21:53:00.000-06:00

I realized a few years ago that education has become our new class system. As far as I can tell, no one really gives a rat's ass around here about where your people are from any more. They do draw some mightily divisive lines between the university educated and the not university educated, and I'm, oh, so sick of it.
C'mon, kids. Haven't we been through this all before? Didn't we just call it a different name? Like dowry, or connections, or good breeding, or pounds per year? Are we really going to shift the shit to how many degrees you have or don't have? Is it really necessary for me to become more and more of an asshole the longer I am in school?
Seriously. I have no patience for this.

Ah, I'm such a sucker...

2007-09-06T19:54:00.001-06:00

The Cleavage Issue (There will be no pictures.)

2007-09-04T20:55:00.000-06:00

Let me preface this by saying right off that I think breasts are terrific, and though I can't completely understand most men's fascination with them, I do think they are lovely and I'm glad I have them, such as they are.

But I also think (generally speaking) that everyday cleavage is kind of gross. Now, there is a time for everything, but in most situations cleavage looks tacky and awkward and makes me uncomfortable, and I've got some ( or it, or them. Is cleavage plural?). But, I have this little problem. It seems that no matter how hard I try, I put on a big ol' pair of cleavage blinders when I shop.

I don't like wearing shorts. In fact, this is the only pair of shorts I own, and I wear them to bed. But I love sun dresses, so I wear them a lot, and I just went out and bought three pretty dresses, and twice I wore them to church, two different dresses, and twice I realized all the women were staring at my breasts, because only the women stare in church. Heh. The nasty cleavage brute had struck again. And again I thought to myself, "How in the heck does this happen?"
I can't even take my mom shopping to help me out because she's got even bigger cleavage blinders than I do. I think it's because she's the most innocent person I know. I could wear a dress with a neckline down to my knees and she would say, "Oh, no one will notice. It's cute." And my friends are no help either. It's like we all just lose our heads at the sight of a pretty dress and a great price, and ignore the fact that the only place I could wear it would be a monster truck rally.
I dunno. It's not like I want to wear turtlenecks all the time, but sheesh, I've got this closet full of dresses and no one to take me to the smash 'em up derby.
Woe is me. What is a girl to do?

In Praise of Labour Day

2007-09-03T11:56:00.000-06:00

The worst jobs I have had:

Bartender
This was a bad job on a couple of levels for me since I don't drink very much, have never been a party sort of girl, and knew junk all about mixing drinks. Not that that mattered much, because they were mostly oil rig workers, and all I really needed to know was how to open a beer bottle or pour Kahlua in a morning coffee for the alcoholics that pounded on the door and demand to be let in before the place was opened. They were nice guys though as long as the liquor held out - always trying to buy me drinks, telling dirty jokes and tipping me $.25 since that was all they had left.

Door to Door Hospital Canvasser.
If you want to be emotionally abused, get a job canvassing for a worthy cause. I think people enjoy being mean to canvassers. It's kind of like watching boxing, maybe. You get to take out your pent up anger in a socially acceptable manner. No one likes people who ask for money for nothing. The funny part was that I was fantastic at the job. I always brought in the most money in my group because apparently I'm good at sincerity and begging. People seem to prefer that to slimy, fast talkin' money grabbers. Who knew?

Youth Worker
This weekend I was punched, kicked, slapped around, threatened, and close to being stabbed. I like my job. Really. But I also like my face with two eyes, and I'm not crazy about mopping up pee and poopy toilet paper. Or boogers. Hate the boogers.

Pizza Maker.
Hot, greasy, demoralizing. But, I came out of it knowing how to toss and catch pizza dough like a good Italian girl. No. I'm not Italian, but I could be, now.

Weed Puller.
I was eighteen. Needed money. The thistles were taller than I was and the sun was hot like hades.

Substitute teacher.
Hey, you all remember what it was like when a sub walked into class.

There are more. Lots more. I've been in school for so many years that I could paper my bedroom with all the throw away jobs on my resume.

You?

And now, my darling reader(s), I'm going to bed, 'cause this ain't really a holiday for me.
And goodnight.

Dear Winter,

2007-09-01T11:45:00.000-06:00

Alright, old man. I'm a ready for you, now.
Sorta.

Showering is Overrated

2007-08-22T11:37:00.001-06:00

Going to do a lot of this:

Enjoy a lot of this:

Love all of this:

See you all in a couple of weeks!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

2007-08-18T14:11:00.000-06:00

And the best part of working the night shift?

Getting to sleep in the middle of the day.
G'night, all.

Lay it down, child.

2007-08-18T08:01:00.000-06:00

Let's not kid ourselves, shall we? At this stage in the game we've all got baggage.
"Thunk."
But that's the sound of me leaving some of it at the station.

The Crazy House

2007-08-14T21:18:00.000-06:00

This is my sister, Tammy. She's sixteen years old this summer, and though she has all the hormones and emotions of a sixteen year old, she's got the reasoning ability of, say, a three year old. I don't know if "hole in her brain" is actual medical lingo, or if it's just code for, "her biological mom did too many drugs when she was pregnant with her," but either way, Tammy has difficulties that the rest of us don't have to worry about.
She's a bit rough around the edges, which is to say she sometimes doesn't make it to the toilet on time, bosses people around when she doesn't know what's going on, speaks in her own hard to translate version of English, goes to special ed classes, and is planning on marrying the boy in her school with cerebral palsy, but, "Me wont have no babies, 'cause I be too busy taking care of him." She sometimes rubs people the wrong way, but she's a good kid. She means well and I love her. I'm grateful for her place in our family.

My mom is away on holidays this week and so I'm taking care of Tammy while she's gone. We've had a rough go of it today. There were tears and raised voices and slammed doors. She was mad. I was mad. We both went for walks in the opposite directions. When I came home I put India to bed and went to the kitchen to make some coffee and relax. I found this.

And again, and as always, I am amazed by the generosity and grace in my life given to me with such open handed kindness. I went to her bedroom and told her that I still loved her, too. We hugged (we never hug), talked, and went on with things: I made coffee. She called her boyfriend so that they could happily shout into the phone at each other.

I told my mom the other day that my dad was right. He used to call this place, "The Crazy House". It is crazy, I think, but in a way that portions out difficulties with a double measure of blessings. This is not easy living here. Three teenagers, a four year old, a million pets (we're getting another dog next week), and two women.
Yes. What the say is true. The family unit has disintegrated, but in this case it has fallen apart into something beautiful.

In the Mirror Every Thing's Reversed

2007-08-13T20:49:00.000-06:00

Let's get in my car and just ride, I would say. Please.
We could drive south, south, south. It's only August and the air is winter again.
I'm afraid of the cold.
I'm too smart for my own good. My own bad. Own salvation. Tonight, I could go the way of my dad. I could snuff up a thumbnail of the stuff and stuff those little plastic bags down deep in the trash (I know all the tricks). Or, better yet, I could drive, drive, drive myself downtown. Stamp the back of my hand, have a drink, and shake it don't break it in any of the four corners to go home to some version of a marriage for a night, to some Johnny-Come-Lately, come early, come what the hell. Done so soon? And divorce in the morning with only the clothes on my back.
I could'a could'a, could'a. These things aren't so difficult, I know. They come in side steps taken with sideways glances, narrated in the newscaster voice behind my eyes saying, "This wont change me. This wont change me.
"In other news today, Angela gave in and said, "To hell with it all."

But then, I ask, what the fuck are all the rehab centres for? Could'a, should'a, would'a. You can never go back, kiddo. And if the struggle for the good asks, "What's the point?" then so does the struggle for the bad. It'll still be the same old, same old, but with broken eyes and dissolved cartilage.

So then, dearest friend, dear God, the question tonight is when does being saved begin to feel like some sort of salvation?

Let's drive.

Makin' Pies

2007-08-12T21:38:00.000-06:00

There's this kid. He's one of the kids from the group home I work at. One night a couple of weeks ago all the other kids went out to a movie, or to friends, or whatever. He had to stay home because of bad behaviour, so I hung out with him at the house and we picked saskatoon berries in the back yard. The berries hung in juicy purple clumps and were so ripe that they fell into our palms with the lightest brush and stained our fingers purple. I've never seen them so round and fat before.

I couldn't reach the tops of the trees, so he grabbed the branches for me and held them while I picked. He held the branches and told me about how he used to go camping with his mom and brothers and sisters. About how his dad lifts weights. About how he's teaching his little sister to respect their baby sister. How he wishes he could go camping again.

When our bucket was full we went inside and I taught him how to make a pie. He did it all, step by step as I told him. And when I taught him how to pinch the top crust to the bottom one he spent half an hour pinching it just so, pricking the crust with the tines of the fork, sprinkling sugar to make it crunch. We baked it and it looked so pretty and he did such a good job that I took a picture.
"Smile," I said, but of course, he wanted to look tough. In oven mitts.

I sure like that kid.

My New Favourite Colour

2007-08-11T18:36:00.001-06:00

Watch Out. I'm Gonna Mess You Up!

2007-08-06T12:43:00.000-06:00

Your results:
You are Dark Phoenix

Dark Phoenix		80%
Poison Ivy		77%
Mystique		76%
The Joker		71%
Venom		66%
Apocalypse		60%
Mr. Freeze		57%
Riddler		55%
Magneto		55%
Two-Face		48%
Catwoman		46%
Dr. Doom		45%
Green Goblin		40%
Lex Luthor		39%
Juggernaut		36%
Kingpin		14%

A prime example of emotional extremes: Passion and fury incarnate.

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz

ummm. I might be a Dark Phoenix, but that doesn't mean I know how to fix the weird layout of this post. Shut up, or I'll alter your molecular structure.

Don't Tell Me This Isn't Sacred

2007-08-04T19:00:00.001-06:00

Something to Say

2007-08-04T18:14:00.000-06:00

When my parents split up last year I was the lucky duck who inherited the collection of leather bound, gilt edged, satin covered classics that they bought when I was just a kid. They sat on a bookshelf in our family room for years collecting dust, until I pulled Ivanhoe down off the shelf sometime in Junior High. I was equally surprised that I understood it and that I loved it. So I started to read a few more of them with the intent of working my way through them all. Of course, I haven't made it all that far, though I think I've read almost everything Jane Austen wrote. I had such a crush on her in my early twenties. I've kicked around some Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Some Grimm's, Milton, Poe and Bunyan. Some I finished, some I gave up on. In high school I used to sit around with my boyfriend and we would quiz each other on the authors and titles of the books just for fun.
"Quick, Leaves of Grass?"
"Uh... Walt Whitman?"
"Moby Dick?"
"Herman Melville."
"The Poems of John Keats?"
"Uh... heh."
"The Jungle Books?"
"Rudyard Kipling. Hey, if we get married and have a baby we should call him Rudyard."

It's a different reading experience with these books. For one, they're so heavy that it's a commitment to carrying it around. You don't just toss it in your bag and go, and you've pretty much got to read it lying down with a pillow for support. Also, they smell special. Like leather and ink. And they make a cracking noise when you open the cover to the thick, creamy pages.
It's all saying, "This here is a great book. Now sit up and listen. I've gotta story for you."

I like it.

Nobody Said it Was Easy

2007-08-04T16:17:00.000-06:00

What I don't understand and what I could really use some help with is what we are expecting here.

The answer is no. "Should I accept only good from God and not bad?" The answer is no, no, no. And yet, I find that it's gotten to the point that I only expect difficulties from God and I feel naive and selfish hoping for the good. I was on the phone with one of my best friends this past week and we were catching up because it's been so long, so long, far too long, and she asked, "But how are you really doing?" and I had to try and not cry because, of course, I hate to cry and because I hate the phone and I said, "If my face were my self it would be flinched, ready to be hit."
I'm all scrunched up, bracing myself for whatever is next.
And
it
is
so
exhausting.
AndIdon'tknowhowtostopitandrelaxandexpectsomenicefathappinessthisway.

Really.What are we expecting here? When we get past these lives focused on our selves and our success and our drugstore magic books on The prayer of Jabez, and The Secret, and The Power of Positive Thinking and all that shit, when we get to the heart of ourselves, our lives and it's quiet, so quiet that you could hear a heart string pop, and God's face is right there in front of my nose that I wish he would have made cuter, then what the hell am I hoping for from him? Because I think I'm broken and all the king's men haven't a clue how to help. Because I want it to come easy for a while. Because this is the truth, the grind, the everyday, and I'm sweating here, and it's hard, so hard. Just like my dad said it was.

Cat's Ear

2007-08-04T15:20:00.000-06:00

"There are things to be said," said the girl to the cat, "that fall apart when strung into sentences." The cat purred and blinked once. "Like the way I'm afraid the moon is a hoax and the News a poorly written play. Or, the way I need love, or hands, or all my lost, 'Screw it. I'm sorries,' that get caught up in twisted stomachs and sweaty palms. Or sex. Why so quiet all the time about sex?"

The cat slid his nose under the girl's hand and pushed his head into her palm. She scratched between his ears and worked her way under his chin where the skin was thin and tight. "Like in a dream where a lover becomes another, and then home unknown." The girl stopped her hand and looked up. "I'm rhyming. I'm not supposed to rhyme in prose, not hardly even in poetry anymore. How does everyone remember not to rhyme all the time?"

He licked her palm and she laughed. The cat rolled over onto his back and the girl put her face to his ear, her lips to his ear. "I'll drop them into here, in your ear, my dear. And no one else will be the wiser." And so she did, and so did he, and no one was the wiser.

Is that the same as Cutie Pie?

2007-08-04T12:57:00.000-06:00

Seriously rethinking if I can stomach a trip to India.

This is the sound of me trying to relax

2007-08-04T10:43:00.000-06:00

Starting some time in June I began having a hard time writing. Finding time, space, rhythm, a brave heart for it all hasn't been working. There are a million drafts of posts that I couldn't finish. A bunch of essays...whatever. I'm taking things too seriously. For someone as easy going as I am, I can be such a tight ass. So, in the spirit of not worrying I give you...

Words/phrases I hope to never write...

Hearts beating in rhythm
pulsating
shattered dreams
cloud nine
devastated
cunt
Lord and Saviour
Invite Jesus in
tit
I'm so bored
Stop flirting with me
hopeless
I don't like napping
too much of a good thing
ejaculated (unless it's a joke. Then it's perfect)
Jesus saves.

I'm pretty sure I can find prettier words for all of those.

2007-08-02T22:47:00.001-06:00

How do we feel about accepting expensive gifts from good looking men we are no longer dating?

Christening

2007-07-27T08:28:00.000-06:00

I've often thought of changing the title of my blog to something that represents more what I'm thinking about these days. Two years ago when I began writing here I was trying to come to terms with that empty space in the bed, the car, at the table, in church. And as I was, I was figuring out how my life was going to work alone. Between dating and marriage I had been with the same boy for twelve years and I loved him so hard for the way he made me laugh, his kindness, the respect he showed me, his ideas, his encouragement, his faith, his patience, his generosity, his self. His self. I loved his self.
But everything fell so horribly apart. Three years later and I still don't understand why or how it happened, but in the falling I became a different person. It happens. I don't notice the empty places like I used to.

And though I'm thinking of changing names of this place that I stop in to write at I'm thinking more about how my life has changed so much within three years. This is not the life I intended. Living in the suburbs with my daughter, my mom, little siblings, one dog, two fish, a bird, a hamster, and a lizard (wasn't there a lizard when we moved in?). My pride has taken some serious hits and I have to remind myself often that: Yes, I am capable of taking care of my daughter alone. I am a grown-up. Having time for India is better than having a place of our own. It's alright to have help.

You find yourself in such dark places when you work through grief. They are ugly and confusing and full of a fear that leaves you stuck to your pillow in the morning from crying so much. This household is well acquainted with those places. They still invite us for a visit from time to time, but still, even still, we are all settling into our new home. We are all figuring out boundaries and shower times, buying groceries and, "Should we keep your frying pan or mine?" There isn't enough room for everything; there really isn't enough room for pride.

Houses need names, too, and names should reflect a history and a future, but when the kids and my mom and I tried to come up with a name for our new home we looked like a strange version of parents pouring over baby naming books, offering up the ridiculous from a lack of the plausible. Nothing fit. But a few days ago I remembered the title of a Christian Bok book and I knew what our house should be named.

There is this little house in the suburbs. There are some flowers in the front, plans to paint, a backyard with possibility. There is a bit of a rundown house with six souls learning how to live in it together, how to love each other over toast and coffee, declining invitations to hopelessness. There are new versions of a life sitting around a table together in a house named Eunoia, named for kindness and good will, for peaceable spirits, for beautiful thinking.

2007-07-26T09:42:00.000-06:00

I just found out that my dad was airlifted to a hospital three hours away because of heart problems. I'm trying not to worry because this has happened before and it always turns out alright, but still, I feel a little sick.
No point in worrying, right?
Right.

Ugh.

Only the girls were looking.

2007-07-26T08:39:00.001-06:00

I couldn't figure out why there were so many beautiful men in one place last night, and then I remembered that I was there to see Rufus Wainwright. I think I was sitting beside the only straight guy in the place.
It was fabulous.

2007-07-22T23:08:00.000-06:00

Summer time.

Strange Animal

2007-07-19T01:08:00.000-06:00

India woke me up last night and asked if she could sleep in bed with me. I’ve got a big bed. A nice, cozy, whipped egg white fluff of a bed, and I love it. And India loves it. And she looked so tiny last night in her big girl bed with her curly hair and giant eyes, that I picked her up and lifted her into my bed. She moved her pillow so that it would be touching mine, and we snuggled in tight together. For a while we were forehead to forehead, breathing in each other’s warmed oxygen, her arm slung across my shoulder, and my hand at her small hip. Then we both flipped over, back to back, and she scrunched herself down a little lower into the small of my back, and we fit together like spoons in the drawer.

“Momma,” she said to me. “Will you keep me safe from the scary noises?”

“Yes,” I said. “I promise.”

A few weeks ago, India and I were crossing a street downtown. We could have been a movie, the two of us: A smiling momma talking with her little girl. A blue, blue, sky. A pink stuffed animal. The two of us holding hands, walking across the street. And then she dropped her teddy. She let go of my hand, swivelled to pick it up and walked into turning traffic and the driver who didn’t see the small person crouched on the road. I yanked her by the hand, pulling her back in time, and looked up to see the driver oblivious to how close she had been to killing my heart, right there, in front of me.

When she was born, when that red faced, black haired baby found her way outside my body and into my arms she left inside me somewhere low, next to my intestines and liver I think, a strange and fierce animal who would rip apart any danger and eat any enemy to keep her child safe. And then a woman driving a car, a girl, hardly a woman, darts past to make it through the light and I am left on the edge of the sidewalk trying not to cry in front of her, looking for a place to sit and collect myself while she, my daughter, dances around and asks for a drink.

I am such a liar. I promise to keep her safe and all I'm really saying is, Good God, I’ve got nothing here. Please. Please.

Have we heard it too many times already, is it useless to say that there was a moment, a clean, smooth moment afterwards, when God slipped into my soul, or I into his, and I saw that same fierce animal prowling around in him? And good God, the restraint, the holy restraint that is practiced every day from consuming us all; and the love, good God, the love that sidles up alongside us and saves us from this car crash of a life.

O daughter. O beloved. O God. O father.

Tell me again, Angela. What do you think of that twelve hour drive you're making with India tomorrow?

2007-07-12T21:51:00.001-06:00

I thought so.

For J.

2007-07-10T11:55:00.000-06:00

I don't feel that my days as a writer are over. I don't care where they are. The point is for me that I must stop trying to adjust myself to the fact that night will come and the work will end. So night comes. Then what? You sit in the dark. What is wrong with that? Meanwhile, it is time to give to others whatever I have to give and not reflect on it. I wish I had learned the knack of doing this without question or care. Perhaps I can begin. It is not a matter of adjustment or of peace. It is a matter of truth, and patience, and humility.
Stop trying to "adjust."

Thomas Merton
Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

The White Stripes - The Denial Twist

2007-07-08T00:13:00.001-06:00

dancing at work with the filing cabinet again.

The Sun Never Sets on Suburbia

2007-07-07T16:19:00.000-06:00

The totem poles are stacked against the house for firewood,
the sweet grass trashed and kicked to the curb
(in a blue bag for recycling)
And my braids let loose and uncoiled, bobbed
Like the picture on page seven from Teen magazine.

I sleep on a mattress in an air-conditioned room.

Because good intentions know better
What I really need
And what I would like
And how to save me
From my strange, uncivilized dreams

Of circle dances and medicine men.

When I said red was my favourite colour, this is not what I meant.

2007-07-02T12:32:00.001-06:00

I'm Made of Atoms. You're Made of Atoms.

2007-06-30T10:26:00.000-06:00

Three years ago, during the period in my life I affectionately refer to as, “The Time All Hell Broke Loose” (T.A.H.B.L), I decided that eating was for chumps and took up sleeplessness as the hobby that I have still been most successful at. Before this time I was milk maid happy – large breasted, soft armed, dimpled cheeked, good for a roll in the hay with any nice boy who would carry my pails kind of girl. Or not. But when I couldn’t keep my clothes from falling off my bony hips, or sleep at all, or think of anything but what I had lost, I got my rapidly diminishing ass into counselling to, “Handle this tragedy in the healthiest way possible.”

I nervously walked into the reception area for my first session and up to the desk to check in, only to be told that my hour had been double booked with the man who was standing behind me. We two strangers stood awkwardly together while the receptionist asked us to decide who would get to wait for an hour and who would get to walk right in. The man informed us both that he needed to go immediately, that he couldn’t wait around, and couldn’t reschedule. I conceded. The two of us sat for a minute while the counsellor finished with her client; the man told me my skirt was pretty; I pretended to read my book, content to have an hour to brace myself before spilling all my embarrassing guts to a woman I had never met before.

My turn came. I walked in. Did the deed. Exited. Took the elevator down. The doors opened and despite the fact that it was well past the hour since he was supposed to have left for the important meeting, the double booked man was waiting for me.

Now, I pride myself in my ability to make excuses for other people’s odd behaviour. I’m a bumbling oaf sometimes, too, and people who go out of their way to point out other’s oddities and socially alienate them make me very uncomfortable, but I would be telling a fat fib if I didn’t say that when he walked up to me and asked me out for a coffee I was a little uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable than I usually am around men who are interested in me.

The fact that we met in a therapist’s office, that he pushed ahead and made me wait unnecessarily, and then waited outside the elevators for me didn’t seem to faze him. I only smiled and declined, walked to my car and left.

I haven’t thought about that man for a long time, but he popped into my head this week as I drove past the therapist’s office. I realized a while ago that the world is not full of dangerous people. And though I am not a proponent of independence at the cost of stupidity, I’ve walked alone at night through a lot of foreign cities and have always found people to be kind and generous with me, even when I’ve misjudged and needed help because of the random dangerous ones. So what I’m thinking about now is how that man at the therapist’s forced a fake nonchalance when I turned him down, how he graciously walked away, and how we went our separate ways. Un-stalked. Safe. Respected. And of how I’m an oaf. You’re an oaf. We’re a big oafish family.

Lord have mercy.

Christ have mercy.

Have mercy.

Now , That's Some Good Shit.

2007-06-27T14:31:00.000-06:00

Why I Haven't Been Posting

2007-06-27T12:43:00.002-06:00

That ain't the half of it, baby. Or, the half of my books.

Nicodemus

2007-06-16T15:37:00.000-06:00

I woke and saw some back ally god slice across the domed muscles of night and birth the earth through the bleeding horizon into daylight.
It is morning.
So I do what I do, which is drink coffee and lean against the porch rail while the trees drip and the birds flirt. I inhale pink sky and tie it round my finger for later (I am married to the sunrise).
The planet, this half of the globe is born again into light.

I've read those love letters from our mother. She played us Mozart while our cells divided and we grew fingers, gave up coffee, ate her dark greens and told us stories of the wind while we sprouted ears. She said, "I tell you the truth," and, "Do you not understand?" and "Light has come into the world," and "Can you hear it groaning?"

Poor Nicodemus, I think, and poor me. The sky has faded to grey and in an hour or two, after lunch, or maybe in the shower I will forget how this pink morning felt. So then, how will I remember the sunrise when Nicodemus finally gets it and the sun never sets again?

Why I Write About Home So Much...

2007-06-15T23:09:00.000-06:00

*I moved back into my old apartment, without a husband but with a two-year old daughter, in September 2005.

*In May 2006 we had a house fire that kicked our poor asses onto the street.

*We moved in with family while trying to figure out where to live with Edmonton's out of control rental prices.

*Moved out, and into my parents (empty) house that was for sale while we waited for a friend's house to be renovated that he was going to rent to us for reeeeeeeeally cheap.

*My parent's house sold; we moved back in with different family.

*The "new" renovated house is unfinished ten months later. I like that friend but gave up on his house. I'm moving into a different new house with my daughter. My mom and my three foster siblings are going to live with us.
We're painting our asses off to make it feel like home.

In case I lost you, that's five houses in thirteen months. I haven't slept in my own bed for thirteen months. India's toys have been in storage for thirteen months. I haven't used my espresso machine for thirteen months.

This week's gonna feel like Christmas.

Daylight Morality

2007-06-10T11:15:00.000-06:00

You come to me in dreams,
Wide-eyed-unhappy,
A boy in your doubt.
And I steer you away from me.
As much as I still dream of you,
I steer you home,
All the while remembering how your hand felt
On my back,
and your bones
Against me.

That is all I can say.
Go home.
In my dreams
Where babies turn into goldfish,
Walking into flying
And desire into morality.

Lickity Split

2007-06-09T11:18:00.001-06:00

Hey,
I've been busy painting (again), which means I'm moving (again), but the good news is that this should be the last time in a loooooong time. We're talking years.
So tired.
Will be back to regular blogging/reading/commenting/life in a week or two.
Thank the good lord above, 'cause my nomad genes are clearly regressed.

Ta Daaaaaaaa!

2007-06-06T09:32:00.000-06:00

Ahem.

I am pleased to announce that the winner for the first ever, "Sitting There Alone Book Give Away," is....

Christy!!!!

She sent me a fantastic email about how she fell in love with Anna Karenina. I figured that any mother of three who can keep all of those crazy Russian names and their various versions of their names straight while still being cognizant enough to recognize the "realizations about faith made by Levin after his marriage to Kitty," deserves a book. Plus, I really have a soft spot for moms with little kids who still read. You are inspirational. Really.

So, thanks Christy!
(I need your mailing address!)

And thanks to all of you who got me excited about reading your books. Book talk makes me giddy and weak in the knees. I've already read Anna Karenina so I think I'm gonna pick up Cecily's recommendation, "East of the Mountain", but P.A.J, I'd still love to read a copy of Alexandria's book one day!

What fun!
Thanks all.

Clean and Cracked

2007-05-28T16:21:00.001-06:00

I may be too young to have written this already.
It is what it is.

Exhalations of Gratitude

2007-05-26T18:48:00.000-06:00

"Come unto me if you're weak and laden; I'll give you rest."

And our prayer becomes,"Good God, all we want is rest."

Because it seems that at the guts of the matter all any of us really want is rest: to rest from the push and thump-throb of desire unmet and burning needs left smoldering; to rest from our expectations, educations, our culture, our poverty, our wealth, our guilt, our guilt, so much guilt in the face of naked needs; to rest from the high of success, the crash of failure, the definition of position, the categorization of body - "I am young. I am old. I am middle age. I am beautiful. I am not; Hurry, hurry, time is fleeting."

"Give us rest. Good God, give us rest."

Find us in the place where all things fall away like petals peeled from the heart of a rose. Shave our souls. Let all else drop away to the slim cool centre of life, of being; because here, where our unclothed, unburdened selves meet you, and we are left all empty handed and useless, there is nothing left but thankfulness.

And then our prayer becomes, "Oh God, make my life an exhalation of gratitude."

Yum- a- licious

2007-05-26T11:23:00.000-06:00

Just got off work.
About to go to bed.
Must affirm the already established fact that Arcade Fire's, Neon Bible is good enough to eat.

And,
Good night.
And,
Good night.
And,
Good night.

And My Shoes Are Size Nine

2007-05-22T22:25:00.000-06:00

I've been feeling kind of sick of God. I've done so much reading, so much writing, so much thinking about God lately that it felt like my head was going to crack open and spill wiggly, wormy, half-grown God-thoughts on the carpet. But, I was just reading a collection of Henri Nouwen's writing on prayer and I realized, I'm not sick of God, I'm sick of me. God's been looking like me, sounding like me, feeling like me, hell, even smelling like me lately. And, you know, God looks good in my dress, but my shoes are much too small for her.

I Suppose It's Only Fair...

2007-05-22T09:28:00.000-06:00

Annie Dillard is my hands down, all time, one of a kind, bam a lam a ding dong favourite writer. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek was the first book of hers that I read, so I kind of think that it's my favourite, although, I read Teaching a Stone to Talk and Holy the Firm as if they were my Bible. Annie Dillard makes me sweat happiness. My heart beats faster, (really it does) and I find that I can only read a little at a time or I just might die of happiness. I really, truly, honestly feel the same way when I read her books as I do when I fall for a smart boy that is nice to boot. She drives me bonkers.
In a good way.
The end.

I'm Such a Sucker

2007-05-19T08:37:00.000-06:00

I watched "The Painted Veil" last night. I get pretty uncomfortable around most love stories now, which is to say that I squirm like an eight year old who has just discovered that maybe boys aren't so gross after all, and maybe she would like to kiss one when she's older, but my glory, she would die before she admitted it. I think the movie might have been a little sappy at times, maybe predictable, but I can't really tell anymore. Either way I felt squirmy and uncomfortable, and "Man, is it hot in here?", and maybe, maybe, maybe love isn't as ridiculous as it seems sometimes.
I think that means I liked it.

It's a Contest!

2007-05-18T23:22:00.000-06:00

Dear Faithful (and transient) Readers,

This week I won an award from my University for an essay I wrote. "What fun!" you must be saying, and right you are. But, better than just fun for me, is the fact that part of my prize was a gift bag full of books from the University bookstore (superb). Now, it just so happens that I already own a copy of "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" by Thomas Hardy, (and yes, I wept like a willow while I read) and so, I thought to myself, "I will give this book away."

I would like to give it to one of you, dear readers. I delight in going to the post office, wrapping things in brown paper, and sending them off through the mail. It makes me ridiculously happy. So, I think you should write me/email me about one of your favourite books and why it makes you so happy you think you might split your skin, and I'll send the most convincing person (or, by chance only person) my book, free of charge!!!!! Plus, I'll go buy your book and read it if I haven't yet.

What fun, hey?

(The essay. Night Swimming)

Napolean's Penis

2007-05-17T10:51:00.000-06:00

Heh.

Merriam-Webster Failed Me and "Hierophanies"

2007-05-15T21:28:00.000-06:00

The word you've entered isn't in the dictionary. Click on a spelling suggestion below or try again using the search bar above. Suggestions for hierophany: 1. hierophant 2. hierophants

In case you're as ignorant as I was and Merriam-Webster still is:

Hierophanies: the manifestations of the sacred expressed in symbols, myths, supernatural beings, etc.

Oh, M-W, I shun you.

and one more thing before bed...

2007-05-14T23:01:00.000-06:00

More than a few people have told me that they feel nervous leaving comments on my blog. Now, there are plenty of things to be nervous about in this life here: first kisses, pollution, dental work, dying, but, I assure you, commenting on this blog should not be one of them. I know some bloggers get nervous about strangers reading their stuff and looking at their pictures, and knowing about them, but I'm not one of those people. If I post it, you're welcome to it. And the people that regularly comment, whether I know them in person or not, I'll vouch for them. Them's good people.
And,
if you just want to lurk and not leave a comment, please, feel free to lurk.
If you wanna email me, do. acs3@ualberta.ca
If you wanna call me, do, (780-417-1975) but only if you must 'cause I get nervous about talking on the phone.
Just maybe don't drive past my house and look in the windows or anything. That might make me nervous, too.
Let's not be scared of each other, yes?

He hath turn'd a heaven unto hell.

2007-05-14T20:50:00.000-06:00

Yesterday at the group home I was sitting with one of the kids and she said to me, "I don't believe in hell. I think if you've been bad and you die you have to come back to earth and live again." She's twelve years old and yesterday for Mother's Day she went into the city and scattered the ashes of her mother who was a prostitute and died of cancer last year.
A couple of weeks ago I was tucking her into bed and we were talking about her new bike and bright red helmet and home and moving, and she said, "I've lived in twenty-five houses in three years, and that doesn't count foster houses." I've begun to notice how none of the kids here talk with any sense of artifice or pity when they tell their stories. They recite facts.

We lived in a tent.
She left me five times.
They...
They...
I hate her.

This kid at the house, the one who thinks earth is hell, asked me to bless her before bed one night, but I didn't know what to do, so she told me, "Take your thumb and put a cross on my head and ask God to bless me," and so I did. And so I do.
It's been a year since I started working with them, and it's no surprise to me that I've learned things from them. I knew from the start that they would understand certain truths I never could, but what does surprise me is the sense of responsibility they've filled me with. From the moment their first cells divided and divided and divided, and began to form their tiny hearts with their soft and quick lub-dubs, life has set its face against them in creatively cruel and disgusting ways, and at the end of the day, the end of my rope, the end of my faith, I am left with the feeling that I need to hold on to God for them.
Thirty years of a narcissistic faith flew out the window, the doors, up the chimney, out my eyes, and fingers, and skin the first time I read a case history of one of the kids here. And I realized with such clarity that I could not afford a lukewarm, who the hell really knows, spoiled child crying for an ice lolly kind of faith. There is no time on earth for any of it, but only for love, and hope, and faith, and doubt, and confusion, and anger, and all and each with a stubborn sincerity that digs in and works at finding God in all things, for all things and despite all things. Mostly, despite all things.
Those poor, crazy, broken little squirts have less than nothing, and I'll be damned, so truly damned, if I take the hope and truth of God's love from them by the way in which I live.

Hey!

2007-05-12T14:46:00.001-06:00

I thought we were all on the same team?

Maybe You Didn't Know That:

2007-05-11T10:19:00.000-06:00

1. I get crushes on people (like Vonnegut) who can pull off words like "tiddlywink" and "adumbrated" in the same sentence.

2. My big "someday" dream is to buy (and live in) an apartment complex smack dab in the heart of the city, and offer government subsidised housing to artists (writers, visual, theatre, etc.). We would have barbecues, and a great big garden and nights when we rent a projector and screen and invite anyone walking by to come and watch a movie on the lawn with us. Ohhhhhh, that would be so glorious.

3. I'm painfully (is there any other kind?) shy when it comes to one on one interactions (passing the peace at church almost kills me every Sunday), but give me a stage or a chalkboard or a class discussion and, well, tappity, tap, tap, tap. I love it.

4. There is no quicker way to my heart than to talk books and/or God.

5. I wrote "The Curious Adventures of India Sophia" because I was taking a writing class through the faculty of extension at the university and wrote the first chapter for an assignment. My professor offered to publish it if I wrote the rest. So I did. Then he did. I'm one lucky ass.

6. I don't believe in luck.

7. I set fire to a telephone pole when I was seven or eight because I misunderstood directions that my dad had given me about lighting a pile of grass we were burning. He was so mad.

8. I spent a summer assembling furniture for various stores around the province. You should see me throw together a computer desk or wardrobe, now. It's a thing of beauty.

9. I spent another summer wearing bloomers, garters (and garter belt, of course), thigh high stockings, an apron and headscarf, baking bread and weeding a garden as a mock pioneer for a cultural heritage centre.

10. I climbed up on stage with the Counting Crows once. I was listening to the show, wondering how it felt up there, and so, thought I'd find out for myself. Security was very gentle with me.

Thanks Sandy.
Isn't someone supposed to swoop under my arms and unfreeze me now?

Dear Wind,

2007-05-10T11:00:00.000-06:00

This is a love letter.

I love you.

I am enclosing my mouldy heart (please excuse the smell). I have cracked it open and held it up over my head in the glare of the sun, moon, stars, and I am asking you, dear wind, to dry these wounds shut, or clean, or fragrant, or even just blow where you will. It's enough to hear you shake the rafters.

I could do without the dust in my eyes, though. So it goes, when you're in love with the wind, I guess.

I was hoping we could make out for a bit and maybe fly a kite, or go sailing (but the last time we did that I nearly drowned, so maybe not), or something. Whatever. I hear it's kind of hard to harness you.

Thanks for the song you sent. Wind chimes make my knees weak.

I'm free tonight some time after eight. Maybe we should just go for a walk and we could hold hands. You could whisper those things in my ear that make me laugh. That would be nice.

Love,
Ang.

P.S.
You smell like God.

All's Quiet

2007-05-09T21:44:00.000-06:00

Been feeling quiet after hearing about this. I don't know where to place these things in my life - in our collective human life. I'm all thumbs with such ugliness.
I went to the Muttart Conservatory on Monday, and the tropical pavilion was all dripping wet and blooming pinks and orange, and if I held my head just right I could almost believe that I was really in the jungle, and it was beautiful.
And God was so quiet.

Freeze Tag

2007-05-06T23:33:00.000-06:00

I like lists. Lots and lots.

It's gonna take some time to come up with new material, but it's cookin'.

Let the [Cruel] Goddess Rust Away

2007-05-04T22:55:00.000-06:00

I scare people. Unfortunately, I can't hide behind the feeble excuse that I don't mean to, because when I scare people it's usually because, rightly or wrongly, they have aroused my wrath. I don't yell, I don't swear, I don't belittle them, but I am frightening none the less. Usually my scariness manifests itself as me becoming a glaring, arrogant asshole. I'm not so proud of this frightening talent and although I am getting better at controlling it, mostly, I'm better at apologizing for being a jerk. My saving grace being that I like people; and graciously and thankfully it seems that people usually like me.

Last week in Banff I floated through campus, amazed at the kind and generous staff, the mountains, the food, and all of the above and beyonds that had been thought of to make writing as natural as breathing. Except for the early morning coffee girl.

She was young and busy on the phone when I walked up to the counter at the cafe, and she looked at me as though I were an inconvenience instead of a customer. I waited while she finished on the phone, watched as she cut up pies, wrapped them and put them away, and then finally came to help me. But I was in Banff, deliciously happy and not in a hurry, so I waited patiently and didn't begrudge her the time it took to get to me.
But the menu was a little confusing and so when she finally came I asked, "Is it possible to buy a bowl of plain granola?"
She looked at me, rolled her eyes and said, "That's why it's out on the counter. That’s why there's a spoon in it. That's why there are bowls and that's why..."
and,
well,
if there's anything that gets scary Angela going, it's being patronized to. I stood up straight (and you know I'm tall), looked her in the eyes, interrupted her and said in the best, "I'm an asshole voice," I could find, "So. Yes, then. I can buy it plain."
She wilted, backed down and became the nervous seventeen year old she was.
I paid for my granola and left.
Ahhhh, but here's the interesting part.
I went to a table and started eating and thinking about our little confrontation. And since I've been working out ideas about community for awhile now, and searching for ways to build community and take it with me where ever I go, I started thinking about how my unkindness affected the community that I shared with this girl by virtue of our humanity. What I've come to believe in is my responsibility to be grace to all, and that within this responsibility is the understanding that I will sometimes fail. So, I ate my granola and realized as I crunched away, that if I am responsible to her, then when I fail her I need to apologize to her.
Of course I wasn't so crazy about that idea because I didn't want to apologize to a strange girl, not just because she had been so rude to me, but because I was fairly certain she wouldn't understand or want an apology from me, and I would end up feeling like an idiot.
But,
one of the nice things about me is that I'm a little brave.
So, I kicked my pride in the balls and ran off while it was vomiting in the corner, and I apologized to her. And, well, that girl was fantastic. I fell in love with her right there. She was all graciousness. She said that she was sorry too, that her boss has had a lot of complaints about her, that she hated having to work so early, and that she needed to get a new job because she was so unhappy. And then, of course, the miracle for me became the reminder that she was a person with a life outside of my needs and, well, I like people.

We talked for a few minutes and then I left, all glowy and happy and though I knew that scary Angela was still alive and well, I felt like maybe I had found her bum knee and next time I might just be able to give her a good swift kick and watch her land on her ass instead of win the race.

Portable Happiness

2007-05-03T14:11:00.000-06:00

My mom used to send us off to school on cold winter mornings with a warm mug of Earl Grey tea sloshing in our stomachs while we waited for the bus. And when we got home from school, another pot would be waiting for us with a counter full of cooling cookies.

My older sister owns a tea shop now, with almost 200 different kinds of tea. They are beautiful and fragrant and delicious, and Earl grey is still my favourite.

My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors

2007-04-29T10:21:00.000-06:00

I might have been slightly optimistic with my reading list this week.

Enough

2007-04-28T22:06:00.000-06:00

I walked through the mountains today, followed the path that followed a dried river bed (a breadcrumb trail of rocks) and I came to a mossy clearing in the woods. I lay myself down. I stretched out on the damp, green sponge in the sun, and sunk into the moment, the time, which was as round and full as an old moon. And words fell away, or perhaps they joined together, and floated up like a balloon, saying only and repeating that, nothing else is needed here.

Dad

2007-04-28T08:23:00.000-06:00

Despite all the dad induced pain of my youth, I will always be grateful to him for teaching me that above all, despite all, after all, God loves me. Come hell or high water, God loves me. My dad told me these things. He said them to me.

I'm thinking about this right now because after having read the pieces on faith that I submitted for the writing workshops here, the overwhelming response from my group was, "I've been there. I know this. But I gave up on God because my entire childhood I was told that I was a bad person, full of sin and going to hell. I don't need that. Christianity does not equal love."

I've been so blessed and so stupid. I was drowned in love.

Why I'm In Love With Dave

2007-04-27T17:44:00.000-06:00

I just picked up, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers, and flipped to the page that gives the publishing information, library information, and this:

Height: 5'11"; Weight: 175; Eyes: blue; Hair; brown; Hands: chubbier than one would expect; Allergies: only to dander; Place on the sexual orientation scale, with 1 being perfectly straight, and 10 being perfectly gay: 3

and:

...all characters and incidents and dialogue are real and not products of the author's imagination, because at the time of this writing, the author had no imagination whatsoever for those sorts of things, and could not conceive of making up a story or characters - it felt like driving a car in a clown suit.

ummm, really, have I mentioned before how nuts I am about crazy, smart asses? Good glory, all my defences are down.

We Need New Words for Sin

2007-04-27T08:56:00.000-06:00

It seems to me that the greatest thing about Jesus is his kind and gracious attitude towards sin and that the overarching theme of "the church" has been to ensure that the saved are never completely saved but left to wallow in guilt and worthlessness.

Have we forgotten that Jesus has an explosive temper when the "righteous" piss him off?

Dear Friends,

2007-04-25T08:53:00.000-06:00

"Love until your hands bleed."

That's all there is.
Right now, I remember.

Banff Centre For the Arts

2007-04-23T23:11:00.000-06:00

I've got a sunburn.
Room service.
Amazing food.
Mountains.
Writers, writers everywhere I look.

More later.
Got to read.
Got to sleep.

I Am A Writer

2007-04-21T17:10:00.000-06:00

I will write of home forever in all the ways I know how, in words, only as a beginning. I know loss, we all know loss, and our lives have become allegories of homelessness, of the futility of the material, the fallibility of humanity, and yet, and yet I am in love with this dirty world, broken world, hellbent child of a world.
I am in love.
What can I do but write of home to the child, in scrubbed floors and meals cooked, in humility and confessions, in honesty and confusion, with a slow sorrow and hopeful heart? I am writing a letter penned in minutes and days and years, and mornings when the light rises and the birds wake me, I say, "Look!," with the rest of the astonished world, and sink my feet into slippers and beauty.
There is this:
a breath,
a soul tied to a body,
a restless heart,
and souvenirs of home scattered willy-nilly over the earth.
I will slip the pieces in my pockets as I find them; I will take rubbings of the proof and fold them into stuffed pockets.
I will write of home until I am.

Wake up, my child. Wake up before death wakes you up.

2007-04-21T16:44:00.000-06:00

Have we not always been restless? Are we not pilgrims on earth, built with hearts made for the infinite, yet caught up in very finite and limited lives? Should we be surprised that we are constantly tormented by the insufficiency of everything attainable? To be hopelessly restless proves little more than that we are alive, emotionally healthy, and normal. Has not God built us so that we are restless until we rest in God?

-The Shattered Lantern
Ronald Rolheiser

Tra la la la la

2007-04-16T23:37:00.000-06:00

I'm all done being sad. Thanks for letting be sad when I needed to, but now... ahhhh, now! My last essay is done, the semester is over. I unpacked our suitcases, read a novel today for the first time in ages, took India and my niece to the park, and rented THREE movies at once. Next week I go to Banff for my writing workshop and until then, I'm going to let my brain atrophy as much as possible.

I've already forgotten my name. Feels good.

For Them That Know

2007-04-11T22:20:00.000-06:00

I'm trying to write an essay about the trip I took to Bolivia. It was at the beginning of the end of my marriage, during the worst of everything, and reading my old journals and remembering all the things that happened has made me sick again. I don't want to go back to that hurt. I don't ever want to go back to that. It scares me so much. Still. It's been three years and it terrifies me. I thought I would be doing so much better by now. Why am I so bad at this? So slow? I thought I'd feel happier by now and stronger and less stunned. I still feel so stunned. So ridiculously lost. I hold God like a map but I feel like such a foreigner. Dear travelers, dear homeless, dear ones that know, can we huddle together? Maybe build a fire? Hold hands, swap stories, share a blanket, a cot? It all looks so big and I don't understand any of it.

Two Things

2007-04-10T09:31:00.000-06:00

What can we conclude then, dear friends, except that God isn't playing games? If she trades in our scalps, makes needles of our bones, stretches and tans our skin, if she is good, still good, always good, than this must point to some serious business. She does not hesitate to burn us, consume us, devastate us. She leaves our dear lives for ash with us sifting through the ruins.

I am standing nose to nose with the face of my faith. It's gone all gaunt and into shock, white lips. Faith tells me she knows only two things for sure, the first, that God loves me. The second, and the one that has left her stunned, is that God is not a safety net; she is the tight rope through.

Make A List of All the Little Things I Miss

2007-04-09T17:36:00.000-06:00

I dream of flying. We all dream of flying. I dream I hold myself up, up in the air with my inhalations and the way in which I push the air out of my lungs and past my lips. I float above houses and tree tops, exhaling in smooth, even breaths. In my dream I am teaching you to fly but you are stubborn, or ashamed, or afraid and you never manage to lift off the ground more than a foot or two. And now, I can’t remember your face in the dream, or if you were disappointed, or sad, only that I flew, that you didn’t because you wouldn’t, and that I loved to fly.

Something is Terribly Wrong With Me

2007-04-07T07:55:00.000-06:00

So, artist Cosimo Cavallaro has made a six foot, chocolate sculpture of Christ. He's naked, with arms outstretched as if he were hanging on a cross. When I first read about this I thought, "Oh, it's a commentary on the commercialization of Easter, or on the mixing of faith and non- faith celebrations of the season. Sort of interesting. Not terribly clever."

Apparently, my first thought as a Christian was supposed to be that this is, "one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever." I was also supposed to be horrified that Jesus was naked, because that would mean he had a penis (and in this case a chocolate one) and he really was a man. Most importantly, I should have felt compelled to utter death threats to the artist and to the art gallery employees that were going to exhibit the piece.
I probably should have said, "Jesus! Made of chocolate? Is nothing sacred! Bread and wine is one thing, but oh my God, chocolate is something altogether different. Kill him!"

I definitely should have felt compelled to celebrate history's most generous sacrifice by protecting it with a little bit of violence and insecurity.

This Christianity thing is tough.

I Painted My Nails Pink.

2007-04-03T13:36:00.000-06:00

I never paint my nails.
It made me feel like this.

Laughing While Crying

2007-04-03T13:35:00.000-06:00

Bicycles Are Red Hot

2007-04-02T12:12:00.000-06:00

I'm saving my pennies. Lots of pennies.

Those are birds on the front. Oh, I'm gonna fly.

Look Out, Baby. I'm Back.

2007-04-01T23:02:00.000-06:00

The bad news being, we've moved again and still not into a place of our own.
The good news being, I've got Internet access again.
My sincerest apologies for lack of returning emails, inability to open attachments, download anything, post consistantly, be a decent friend. Forgive me?

Call me 417-1975
or,
call me delightful.

Either one will do.
Sigh. I'm going to bed, rather, to futon.

Night, lovelies.

Last Week I...

2007-03-31T11:05:00.000-06:00

wrote this.

Last Week I...

2007-03-30T23:31:00.000-06:00

found out my ex-husband is dating someone new, and I felt oddly and wonderfully happy for him.

Last Week I...

2007-03-30T23:29:00.000-06:00

Prayed for you.

Last Week I...

2007-03-30T23:28:00.000-06:00

said, "This isn't working."

and then we cried.

Last Week I...

2007-03-30T22:45:00.000-06:00

drank an Indian beer in a bubble bath and started "Love in the Time of Cholera," with the candles lit.

Last Week I...

2007-03-30T22:43:00.000-06:00

realized that marriage is also like the church in that it's not the institution that's flawed, but the fucked up people who are trying to create something beautiful within it.

And that made me happy because that equals grace, and if it's grace, then I ain't got nothin' to do but look up, baby.

2007-03-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

and sometimes you're driving to work at 8:30 at night and you are snug in your car, sipping your coffee with sugar, no cream, listening to a song that makes you want, when you look to your right at the long snake of a train that has paused and see silver shooting sparklers flying up above the boxcar and you imagine two kids laughing their asses off as they light them - no, better yet - you imagine a boy and a girl, noses running from the cold and excitement, lighting the flying sparklers and kissing, something to celebrate, to mark a passage, a four month anniversary or something, and it is enough to make your heart lift its head in gratitude for the gracious surprise of random silver sparklers in the middle of the city, on the way to work, and so you shoot up a prayer with the sparklers, thanking God, asking a blessing on those two kids in love, kissing behind the train.

Colour Like No Other

2007-03-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

Playin' around with genre.

One Night to Speed Up Truth

...and, if you want- the commercial.

And We Will Become a Happy Ending

2007-03-03T00:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am thinking about Lent and death and preparation and sin and salvation and hope and the cross. Last week on Ash Wednesday, I went to church and spent most of the evening service trying to still my squirming three-year-old. I came wanting more than a physical reminder of the season I was entering into, hoping to feel my heart realign, my brain calm, and my soul still, but all I left with was a smudged black cross on my head and an over-tired daughter.

I went to a Catholic school for nine years and always liked the Ash Wednesday Mass that marked the beginning of Lent. I think it was because it was one of the few rituals of the Catholic church that I could fully take part in as a Baptist. Unlike Communion, I didn't have to wait in a pew by myself while everyone else rose and formed a line in front of the priest; I got to be a part of the line, feel the priest's thick thumb on my forehead, and then, walk through the school halls proudly marked and sealed for God. But even so, I have always been unable to understand Lent. More to the point, I think, is that I have been unable to understand the meaning of Easter. All that blood and hammering, Jesus' sacrifice and sinner's repentance, the empty tomb, the running women, have often left me cold and guilty, wondering at my doubt and lack of feeling. The older I have become and the more I have learned, the less I remember my need for the cross. Sin has become palatable, and Jesus, embarrassingly dramatic.

I am so forgetful: bills go unpaid, emails unanswered, library books unreturned. I forget that people are starving, that injustice abounds, that we are consuming the earth to death. I forget that God loves me, made the world, speaks daily. I forget that what I see is not as real as what I don't see. I forget that I was once twelve, twenty-two, that one day I will die.

This week, I was on my way to a play when my phone rang. My mom told me that my Grandpa was dying and that I had better go to the hospital immediately. So I did and sat in his room in my fishnet stockings and pointy black shoes with the bows. I held his hand, stroked his forehead, and for a moment felt like a mother to a ninety one year old man as I tried to breathe courage and kindness into a fearful boy on the edge of a frightening journey. He passed in and out of sleep and I knew for a moment, just a moment, (already it's dull in my mind) that soon it would be me: grey, toothless and weak, surrounded by family and helpless to do anything else but die. And I was so furious at the stupidity of death and the brokenness of our lives - the lies and strivings and failings and betrayals and weaknesses and sin. I was so sorry that this man was dying, had to die, could do nothing else but die, and that we would all come to this same point, eventually.

He died at 6:30 Wednesday morning and will be buried on Monday. I do not understand any better where he is today, or why exactly blood pays for blood, but I have remembered, even for just a moment, that death, like sin, kills love and goodness and beauty and that I do not want this to be true. I do not want to believe that death is the last word. This Lent I will pray, "God, oh God. Jesus, oh Lord, thank you," and do my best to remember that Easter is coming, Easter is coming! that Jesus is alive; we have not been forgotten.

La la la Wahooo!!

2007-02-28T09:23:00.000-07:00

Hello,

I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to participate in the Writing With Style (Spring) program here at The Banff Centre. We received an overwhelming response to this year's call for applications and are very excited to have you join us here this spring!

Congratulations!

Sanctification

2007-02-24T21:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I was listening to a show on the process of canonizing saints. It went through the various political rigmarole and arguments that happen with such things, but the last two minutes were of a Jesuit priest and of his personal views of sainthood - that there are common, holy people in his life that he looks to, and considers as saints. His father was such a man and the priest said that he often turned and prayed to him. "Father, help me to be good as I go down these stairs."
And it resonated within, that our holiness and our movements towards God are as vast and complete as the gift of salvation, and as intimate and as daily as walking down the stairs.
As I go down these stairs,
As I cook this meal,
As I drive this road,
As I dress my daughter,

Draw me near, make me holy, in all these moments, dear God.

Why I am Surviving February in Edmonton...

2007-02-24T21:02:00.000-07:00

and dancing with my reflection in the kitchen window to boot.

Wolf Parade

Listen on CBC Radio3. Or, give in to February and die a quiet, white, death.

Time

2007-02-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been thinking about time, mostly, about how she will not be cheated. We have thus far cheated gravity, the rules, the odds. We have flown without wings, prospered without work, succeeded without failures. But time, it seems, digs in her heels and refuses to be impressed. She makes us wait our nine months and then live out our old ages, and all the rushings we do in between - into love, out of love, jobs, children, faith, are bought in minutes and hours and years. All that healing, all that hope, all that want, living in the now, and the not yet. Biding their time.

She will not be cheated. Dig deep.

How long, oh Lord? How long?
Still. Still. Longer still.

Mmmmmm. He Makes Me Happy

2007-02-13T14:19:00.000-07:00

Final Fantasy

Unhappy with the sound of his own voice, his violin playing and his soggy appearance, Owen holed up in a little room in Barcelona to work on new material. The album that would become He Poos Clouds began with a list.

1. A set of songs that attempt to modernize each of the eight D&D schools of magic
2. Every song will be written for string quartet and voice
3. Nobody who listens to it will ever again entertain thoughts of suicide.

When It Don't Come Easy

2007-02-03T05:53:00.000-07:00

Being on time.
Grammar.
Giving up.
Waiting.
Falling in love.
Asking for help.
Saying no to chocolate.
Sewing.
Reading academic blather.
Not using absolutes when I'm angry.
Working instead of napping.
Talking on the phone.
Long distance relationships.
Selflessness.
Mechanical stuff.
Loosing people.
Following instructions.
Living without Internet access.

Winter Passing

2007-01-27T05:41:00.000-07:00

If you missed this when it came out, go rent it. Delightful. And I cried. Just a little. Just enough - when she touches the book at the end. Nice.

Heating Vents

2007-01-27T04:16:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday morning I woke up early, before India early, and tiptoed around the house, showering, dressing, measuring out coffee, and then sitting with a mug on the floor - on the heating vent beside the large front window, and I watched the sun pull itself up into the sky through the twiggy trees. Just as the snowy ground was blazing pink and gold, India woke up and I poured her some milky coffee in her own miniature mug and we sat together talking about the world changing colour. "I never knew the sky could be so pink."

I have not thought of it for years, until that moment, but on snowy days after school I would often take a pillow, a blanket, a book and curl up on top of the heating vent - like a cat, in the little nook in the family room. I would read until the warm air sent me to sleep, listening to the sound of my mom in the kitchen making supper, my brother and sisters playing, talking on the phone, talking with my mom, my dad coming home and kissing everyone, loosening his tie and pouring a rum and coke in the tall green glass. My mom would wake me for supper and I would pull my warm, slow body from under the blankets to the table, cheeks overheated and shivering at the loss of warm air.
I don't remember my brother ever falling asleep on the vent, maybe because he didn't enjoy reading, but my sisters and my mom and I all took turns doing so, and whenever the cold soul came to the supper table we always eyed her with room temperature superiority, saying, "It's not cold in here. You just fell asleep on the heater."

I miss those winter nights. I've been seeking out heating vents since Wednesday morning, and that feeling of home since the day I was born.

Things I Have Recently Said At Work

2007-01-21T00:03:00.000-07:00

It's short for mother fucker.
I don't get what's so difficult about peeing in the toilet.
What's with all this blow job stuff?
No. T. said he didn't get poop on the sink. He admitted to putting it on the bath mat, but R. put the poop in the sink.
I love you, too.
Relax!
No. You may not have seven pancakes.
Ya. I can understand why you would want to kill your mom.
Speak appropriately.
I don't want to talk to you anymore. Just go to bed.
Hustler and Playboy? Ewwww.
Did you just blow your nose without a tissue?
Did you just wipe snot on your chest?
He came upstairs smelling like poop.
Oh God.
What did the police say?
Why weren't they taken away sooner?
I made a bad decision.
You're one crazy kid.
Do you want to be tucked in tonight?

Sacred II

2007-01-20T00:25:00.000-07:00

"I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven."
Matthew 16:19

All we've got are these lips and hands, and with them, the magic that creates the sacred. Our, "Open Sesame", "Abracadabra", our magic wands are the words we speak and the actions that follow.
I speak, put my hand to your cheek and draw you in; this becomes sacred; we become sacred.

We pour holiness on the everyday, every day, with our, "I love..."'s and our "I promise..."'s and our "I thee wed"'s.

This, is all we have. These words lived out are all we have, and somehow, oh God almighty, somehow, heaven moves with our moving. But not only heaven. We are blessed, we are cursed by the sacred we bestow and break from. Here, now, today, we inhale the heaven we create.

Oh, be careful little lips what you say.
Be careful, little hands.

I Want...

2007-01-10T23:00:00.000-07:00

an Americano from the corner cafe in Florence.

a floppy hat and gloves.

some spring flowers on my kitchen table.

to be tucked into bed, under a big, white, feather duvet.

a plane ticket to England - to L'abri.

a night out to go to a movie, babysitter included.

a book so good it makes my neck sweat with happiness.

a train ride through the mountains.

ocean, ocean, ocean. Give me some ocean before I die.

for my body to stop hurting.

a week to write and eat and sleep - no interruptions.

a little bit of money left over, after the bills have been paid.

to believe marriage is worth all the trouble.

to find my new favourite cd.

to watch a movie that makes me cry.

to smell green things.

to swim in a lake.

to sit by a fire.

to cook outside.

Internet access.

2007-01-09T00:02:00.000-07:00

I read the essay, "Professions for Women" by Virginia Woolf, last Sunday as I waited for church to begin. I'm not sure whether it was more encouraging or disheartening, that she struggled so much with that damn voice that told her to shut up and mind her place. Encouraging - because she's so fantastic and still found writing so difficult. Disheartening - because, well, she did end up killing herself.

I suppose we all have various forms of various voices that tell us to stop embarrassing ourselves, live quietly, move slowly. I was reminded of my own version yesterday. I got a paper back that I wrote last semester. It wasn't the kind of paper I enjoy writing. I felt all floundery and ill-at-ease and reluctant, but wrote that sucker out, did my best and handed it in. I got 79%. Gross.

All of a sudden, I was so ashamed of everything I had ever written - of all my blundering, mistake filled, emotionally vulgar and vulnerable crap. I imagined the mean people I know sniggering behind their hands, and the kind ones, sweetly embarrassed for me. Had you all eyes I could have seen yesterday, I don't think I would have been able to look into them.
Silly? Yes.
Unnecessary? Yes.
Truthful? I don't know.

My professor didn't mean to discourage me so much, I'm sure. In fact, he said some pretty fantastic things about my writing, but I get so scared. I hold my breath so much. I flinch. I wait for the slap.

Still, I write because I have to - some days more so than others. I write because if I didn't, my soul would probably explode like a loose fire hose, spraying all over the place and knocking out any children, dogs, or overly thin people that got in its way. I have yet to understand to whom I am writing. I think it's somewhere between myself and God - with the occasional man I can't stop thinking about. Sometimes it's family. Sometimes India. Most of the time I feel like a kid waiting to be sent upstairs to bed. Once in a while a few words join together like clasped hands and I imagine them twirling around on my tongue like a helix. I weave them into my hair, sew them to the inside of my shirt, wear them for clothes next to my soul, all day long. And, of course then, my shoes don't touch the ground at all.

Reason #4 500 096 453 of Why I'm Glad I Can Read

2007-01-06T23:50:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've read anything that's made me sweat happiness (see this if you're confused) . But tonight, I sat in my favourite coffee shop for a glorious hour by myself, before work, and read, "The Way to Rainy Mountain" by N. Scott Momaday.
"Wow!" I say.
"Oh, glory, glory."

That's what I'm talkin' about, kids.

If They Can't Find A Way to Help Her, They Can Go to Hell

2007-01-06T22:30:00.000-07:00

I drove towards the moon, sliced a piece off the round of cheese and swallowed it down. I drove with the windows open and the heat blasting: doing battle with winter air. And I stopped. I pulled my car over, under that dark sky, opened the door and danced on the black, wet road; because why the hell not; because one day I will be rotting under ground; because I've only danced on the side of the road once before.

I've got all of these silences tucked in my pockets and I can't give them away for trying. They keep returning to me, unchanged. I'm all wordless and floundering. Still.
When, I wonder, does fear buckle under the possibility of relief? When does it not feel like loosing a layer of skin at the thought of saying, "I'm so afraid of 'this'"?
You've got me thinking in love scented sentences, but I've been here before, and there's the rub, my dear. There's the rub.
The trinity of past, present, future - of was me, is me, will be, take turns arguing their case. Those bastards have stolen all my words and I've nothing left for you, but that look I make when I bite my lip and you ask me what I'm thinking.

Tonight, I'm full of the moon. I pull on the tides and set the wolves howling. Oww, oww, oww owww.
Your skin is so soft. How'd you get it so soft?

New Words for Old Desires

2007-01-03T12:47:00.000-07:00

Still no Internet access at home. To which I say, "Blah!"

I wrote this though. If'n you're lookin' for something to read.

I miss you all!