Hurricane Warning

My aunt lives in Florida. Earlier, forecasts predicted an east coast disaster. Now the 'cane' seems to be on a western coast finish. Yikes! The CNN weather plotting shows that Frances will hover over Tampa tomorrow. All people affected by natural disasters have my sympathy. However, when the safety of one of my own seems to be threatened, emotions rise to the peak of concern.

I am a lover of severe weather. The tremendous tree shattering thunderstorms of my youth, pelting rain pinching my hair follicles, magnificent, blinding blizzards that blanketed the entire house with shelves of snow, golf ball sized hail stones pounding the terrain to smithereens, flooding river gulping the banks away in a night , a prairie brush fire devouring all grasses in a second, any tree in a minute... All these I have witnessed. I have found these acts of nature enthralling. High winds have been especially exciting to me. I enjoyed the sting of airborne dirt nip at my cheeks, the push of the force swaying me off balance. If I was in danger, I did not feel it. Yet the power and devastation of a hurricane has remained distant to me, an event that was read about, televised and confronted vicariously. Now, a loved one can be hurt, or worse. I find my senses numbed, my inability to act on her behalf upsetting. She has been a resourceful woman. Surely she will prevail. I need to believe this.

Snail Mail Delivery

Our landlord, love her, decided to install a mail slot in the front door of our building instead of allowing the postman access to our mailboxes. One likely reason, apparently a good reason, is to prevent incoming thieves from entering the building during postal delivery. Another theory is that keys were lost, and once lost, the key for a postbox cannot be replaced. There doesn't seem to be a master. Whatever the ambiguous raison etre, the post is fitted through this horizontal aluminum fitted break in the bottom of main door, and sits on the carpet until someone picks it up and places it in a plastic container on a table under the mailboxes. This allows anyone to rifle through all mail. The landlord, attempts delivery when she is available. Door to door she goes, up and down the 3 flights of stairs on each side of the building (elevators don't exist here) slipping letters under doorways, when it fits, or leaving the mail in front of tenant doors, when mail cannot be shoved between door and carpet on the other side.

Anonymous posties undoubtedly make their judgements about recipients of certain mail. Having landlords and fellow apartment residents know your business is entirely disconcerting. Having Aunt Bea's stickers flash before 3A while searching for an important document is less worrisome than having neighbours spot a collection notice. However, seeing any type of mail that remarks somehow on your public image, whether positively or negatively is embarrassing and an invasion of privacy.

To date, no mail, I believe has been stolen by a resident. The residents of this building are a docile bunch. Content to remain in the same place for up to 22 years, they obviously don't want to become confrontational. They simply accept the new process for mail delivery without so much as a blink of disapproval. When I am at home at 11ish in the morning, the urge to fly down the three flights upon the sound of mail being shoved through the mail slot is tempting(yes, you can hear everything in this building), and sometimes, a neighbour will have beaten me to the pile. This shows me that although they won't openly complain, the idea of me or anyone else seeing a certain item would mortify them, and to avoid the passing of judgement on their insular world, they choose to sort the delivery before the prying eyes of others will witness a part of their lives they would rather have private. I am relieved to know that they have some sense of independence, that they value their privacy and are just as confused by the new system of mail delivery as I am.

When the landlord slips the letters under the door, she has witnessed every cheque, knows our habits via all bills, has a comprehensive notion of our passions through mailers and magazines delivered. She is a kind and unobtrusive soul, but there is obviously a need for voyeurism that remains in her method for mail delivery that can't be ignored. I have to passively accept this and hope that my race for the pile at the foot of main door can be reached when and if I need my mail to be self delivered. I am exhausted by this concern for privacy every day. I love email.

Early Memories

I cannot remember the beginning of my life. I do not remember birth.

I remember a blue greyed fence placed in our living room, although at the time I could not differentiate the name of any rooms. It was the faded wood that surrounded my square playpen, apparently built by Avi, my grandfather, for my protection and freedom. All wood used was recycled from a farm house that used to stand where my parents' house now occupied. The house was built from this wood too. The boarder occupied enough space to allow an adult sized lounge position in the confines of this restrictive area. I remember my Avi, Thorvalder, leaning against the wooden wall beside me, his bristling, tobacco stained moustache forming a smile. I assume this memory was lodged in my brain before I could steadily walk.

Another of my early memories was in an October morning, hoisted skyward by my mother. She allowed me to view the golden and crispy leaves she was raking from the fork of a dark, damp oak. I felt the smack of autumn's brilliance enveloping me, the scent of yearning upon me that still wafts in my soul to this day. I can't have been more than 3, as we were still residing at my first residence.

I have held this image as being my earliest memory for some time, until I remembered the coarse boards of my playpen. Memory can be odd. It can dodge, avoiding placement, until suddenly images place themselves conspicuously in the mind of the rememberer. A memory game.

Some flower memories

Hollyhocks in my grandmother's garden wave in silence as their long stamens bob in the quiet afternoon oblivious to noisy bees darting, foraging in yellow stamens weighted for their benefit - my namesakes.

I remember the stupefying scent of lilacs in mid July, shrouding my mother's tears, as incense will penetrate, preserve thoughts in a church during a mass.

Nighttime nicotine, white star shapes, scenting the heavens, heralding the nightlights above.

Spring plenty, daffodils bursting through March grasses; park of child-pickers, armloads of pale yellow heads bobbing as they stooped for more, gleeful.

Yellow lilies, mournful blooms marking my inability to continue to conceive.

Red, the loving rose - a full dozen, baby's breath contrasting the abundance, and a smile of happiness for the unexpected thoughtfulness.

Living Memory

I have taken my memory for granted. I like to remember. I can remember many precise details from the binging of my youth. My memory is my solace, my connection to the past and and a history lesson for my present endeavors. Not everyone remembers the same things, but collectively, memory can enhance all events, when shared.

I have a sister that does not remember her childhood. My father cannot remember past today. I have relatives that cannot remember significant actions. I have friends that do not remember anything negative. Others will not remember the positive component of a memory. Most bizarre are the memories that are constructed. People I known will draw on an event and develop a memory that never existed.

I feel estranged by those that were part of my memory and refuse to continue to keep the memory safe and alive. Living memory is vital to ensure a moment, a celebration, a pivotal transformation is never forfeited. Lost memory saddens me. I enjoy rekindling and renewing memories. I need my memory.

My grandmother had the best memory of anyone I have known. She could remember at least 20 stanzas of sagas that she sang until her death at 103. I aspire to develop my memory. I need to be part of her legacy.

De-boraing

It's a crafty scenario.

Daughter and mother chat. Mother speaks. Daughter listens. Polite interchange. Conversation ends.

What volumes were not said. Another year to wait for the next quasi-conversation? Are all imagined evils white and motorized? Are all failures someone's fault? I can't imagine that any occurrence of monetary interchange can be all good or all bad. I can't believe all giving is for naught. I can't believe all resistance is formidable.

Selective memory is an astoundingly powerful tool to rearrange the past for one's self-preservation, supposedly. Privately, I have ascertained that weakness can be the dismissal of all familial ties, rearrangement of the facts to prevent the possibility of remembering the love, feeling the love.

This operation is a puzzle cube that only the angels can solve. The 'run-away bunny' hops, but will not be caught. Just found. Silent night and day, again and stored in the book of best forgotten moments. Life is too short to forget. I cannot pat the bunny, but I can keep the phone connected.

People

People I know and like, and like me generally can be considered my family.

These people are not necessarily blood relatives, although some of my relations are very close to me. Friends, if they stick around, eventually become related. Few stick.

Acquaintances can be more annoying than strangers. Sometimes strangers will interact with me more honestly than acquaintances. Those people that think I am their friend because I think and do things they admire or wish they could do are deceiving themselves because if I acknowledge their persistent attention with cordiality; they mistake this for friendship.

I choose friends with great discretion. I will hold back a relationship for years, waiting for the hole from which the blood will flow. You have to be tough on yourself to be my friend. You have to have undivided concern and care, enough to share. You have to be willing to take risks, defy conventionality, and be interested in the unknown, a kind of explorer.

And you have to be able to laugh; cosmic laughter, belly laughs at themselves, their inanity, at the beauty of existence, at the misdirection of life's well planned impossibilities. They must love well. They must believe in dreams and live their own, integral to a creative, intelligent life and precious newness - this especially warms my heart .

Some people I like fit this criteria, but think that being with me is too much work. They don't know how happy I am that their perception is revealed. Their resistance is the beginning of the blood flow.

I see it spilling like spilt water from an overturned glass. And I am relieved. I am not that thirsty.

What I want

'They' say, "Ask to receive", "If you don't ask, you won't 'get'. "Be careful of what you wish for... You might get it!".

The premise is - if you don't articulate your wishes, needs, desires, if the cosmos doesn't hear your soul's preferences, you won't allow the delivery/experience of your most cherished wishes to occur. Speak to be heard. Seems simple.

Here's what I want: (my prayer begins here...)

1. I want to write for money, earning enough to make my travel and all my dreams and family's dreams come true; I want this to endure for at least 3 decades.

a. I want to write for people that appreciate my gifts without having to submit a resume.

b. I want to travel and write. I want to write and travel. I want to write about what I discover on my travels.

DETAILS: I want to meet people and tell their stories. I want to get paid for this privilege. I want compensation that will perpetuate this cycle, without financial hardship, with financial comfort, with enough money to support my family's/loved ones' needs and my dreams. (I have restated these dreams to make sure that this is heard, and that nothing of the complete wish is omitted.)

Also, and importantly integral to the above 'wish list'...

A. I want to be healthy, with all the energy, drive and integrity and more to spare to make all my dreams happen, and continue for decades.

B. I want a home to come back to after traveling; I want to share this home with my loved one, as we have discussed - dual studios on the ocean, surrounded by nature, to perpetuate our need for discovery of his science, technology and my art.

C. I want to always continue my education, perpetuate my art practice, and live without fear of poverty, infidelity, inadequacies and ignorance.

D. I want my loved ones to be healthy, happy, and be fulfilled, utilizing their gifts; I want to continue to be active in their lives.

E. I want to continue to laugh, be happy in my activities and pursuits, enjoy my loved ones, friends and family with humility, dignity and joy.

Birth of a Girl

She was a blue light, nay a haze
Hovering above a Toronto cross-section
Before she was conceived.

There were tendrils of her need to be in this world
Saturating the space between
Wisps of knowingness
Urging the collaborators to parent her body.

At birth she was observant of her lust for survival,
A spirited gusto for life.
Guzzle and sleep, she saw all, listened well and
Stored the memories for future burgeoning.

Frighteningly early she spoke her name.
She could enjoy the mirth of the ages,
Laughing well, she exploded with the joy of the small,
Largely a wondrous gift to behold.

Walking was a necessity, not an interesting activity.
Her pleasure was the poetry of the Rhyme Time,
Colours and the taste.
Music concentrated her concentric mind.

Within a year of life, she insisted
On sitting on laps...
To see sewing,
To hear reading,
To feel sounds of talking.

And now, in the second decade of her life,
The opera continues,
Moving herself to the foray of sensational places
Where sights, sounds and sensations are plentiful
Where new memories are possible
And pink is passion transitionalized,
Azure sublimates carefulness,
Emerald secures the growth and
Nary is there a day
When the buds do not bloom
Into a canopy of wonder.

June 7th

Good Morning, World.

This post originates from the west coast of Canada. This place is a conundrum to me, and I am marooned here for the time being. As I have something to say, usually, I want to share these thoughts with you.

Today is a sunny scorcher. Hot numbness, as today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I awoke with the memories of the last look, the pale blueness, inarticulate acknowledgement of camaraderie dwelling in a shocked awakening, knowing that I am still hearing what couldn't be said those years ago. I am driven to remember the sweat and stillness of a life fulfilled by loving. A rare gift.

Today is a waxy wane. Facing myself, the nub of my search to rekindle the art in me has brought me to this public revelation. And this act is much more frightening than solo travelling in a country far away, or exhibiting work to the cloister of the art aficionados. Organs are pressed into upright alignment, poised for the keyboard to flow. I walk away (mentally) as I would from a work in progress on the bench, tool in hand, and expecting to know how to proceed.

There is a 'leap of faith' that occurs with the greatest of joy when the muse guides and all is proceeding. Yet writing has been a latent development.

Poetry was the first love, and a discarded love. Prose revived itself from necessity. Art critic became a title, and a means of propelling myself into the nebulous intricacies of other's creative forces. This was mode endured an abrupt conclusion. Recently, writing for others has been the form of need. I want to rekindle the gentle art of self expression.