Flexible as Bamboo

Maeve Binchy’s “Silver Wedding”

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 12:50:00 +0000

Maeve Binchy est une auteure très populaire peut-être parce que’lle peut raconter une bonne histoire. Ella a érit cet roman en 1988, et cet un roman plus tôt pour elle, quand elle a érit seulement cinq romans. Je ne sais pas combien de romans qu’elle a ecrit depuis 1989. Je pense peut-être un roman par an. Wow! Maeve Binchy est une auteure très proflifique, très fécond!

“Silver Wedding” est un roman sur le sujet d’une famille qui expérience d’alienation. Ce ne’est pas une famille heureuse! La famille Doyle est composé de Deirdre et Desmond, la mére et le pére, et leurs enfants, Anna, Helen et Brandan. Tous les famille ont des sécrets. Anna est triste parce que son ami est infidèle à-t-elle. Il est un acteur très beau, main il n’est pas sérieux sur elle. Brendan est insolite et étrange. Il n’aime pas la vie en ville, et il cherche une autre vie plus simple dans la compagne. Il veut traivailler fort avec son oncle silencieux, et il veut échapper la famille Doyle. Le dernière enfant, Helen est la plus étrange de la famille Doyle. Elle veut devenir une bonne soeur et, come Brendan, échapper la famille.

L’événement principal dans le roman est le “Silver Wedding.” Les parents, Deirdre et Desmond veulent célébrer leurs vingt-cinq anniversaire. Anna, la plus bonne enfant, dois organiser cet grand événement pour toute la famille. C’est beaucoup de travaille pour elle et elle trouve que c’est aussi un travaille difficile. Personne veut aller a cet anniversaire, mais, finalement toute la famille est allés.

Moi, j’aime Maeve Binchy. On peut toujours compter sur elle pour founir une bon roman!

Colin Dexter: The Way Through the Woods

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:17:00 +0000

Ce matin, on va à un vacance pour visiter ma famille. On n’attend pas de mauvais temps. Peut-être il va neiger mais on n’attend pas beaucoup de neige.

Ce matin, je vais aussi discuter le roman qui s’appelle “The Way Through The Woods.” J’ai fini cet roman de Colin Dexter en Novembre, mais je n’ai pas ecrit quelque chose sur cet livre. C’est domage, particulièrement parce que c’est une habitude chez moi d’écrire des revues de livres! “The Way Through the Woods” est un très bon livre d’un très bon auteur, Colin Dexter. Dexter est un homme plus intelligent, et je lui respect beaucoup beaucoup. Cet roman a l’action compliqué, avec des personages intrigant et surprenant. Morse, l’agent de la police dans ce roman policier, est, comme Dexter, très intelligent. Il peut pénétrer des mystères. Bravo pour l’inspecteur.

J’ai regardé le film qui aussi s’appelle “The Way Through The Woods” et il était différent de le roman. Par instance, dans le roman, il y a une “Swedish Maiden.” Dans le film, cette personage est différente. Elle n’est pas suédois. Elle n’a pas les cheveux blondes. Vraiment, elle n’est pas la même personage! Mais, le film était très agréable. Maintenant, je suis un peu fatigué et j’ai autres choses à faire. À bientôt!

Le livre qui s'appelle "God on a Harley"

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 14:02:00 +0000

Paul Darcy et moi, nous avons fini le "Reader's Den" pour maintenant. On a trouvé cet blog trop de travaille et on veut faire autre choses. Maintenant, je veux ecrire en francais. Malheuresement, je ne peux pas trouver un papier avec les accents pour mon ordinateur. Donc, je dois omettre les accents tres important (pour aujourd'hui seulement, j'espere).

Peut-etre mes amis ne savent pas que j'ai réussi a mon examen en francais et je vais preparer pour enseigner le francais. Maintenant j'ai beaucoup, beaucoup d'apprendre. Heureuesement, j'aime beaucoup d'apprendre le francais. Pour moi, d'ecire et d'écouter le francais sont les taches plus difficile.

Aujourd'hui, je veux d'éricre sur le sujet d'un livre qui s'appelle "God on a Harley." J'ai lit cet livre en Novembre, quand j'avais prendre un bain chaud. "God on a Harley" est un livre tres court. Des mots sont écrire tres grands et il est tres aisé de lire. L'auteur est "Joan Brady" et son héroine s'appelle Christine Moore. Elle n'était pas heureuse parce qu'elle ne pouvait pas trouver un mari. Aussi, elle était tres triste parce qu'elle n'avait pas de foi d'elle-meme. Mais, dans le livre elle a trouvé cet foi quand le Dieu est arrivée dans sa vie. Il est arrivé sur un Harley.

A bientot.

The piano, and a not too successful mother

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 16:34:00 +0000

Le Piano.

Ce matin je suis allée a mon professeur de piano. Elle est trés gentile, et je trouve que je peux apprendre beaucoup avec elle. Maintenant, j’ai presque fini mon premiere pièce de musique, qui s’appelle Swabisch. Cette une pièce dans le niveau trois dans les livres de Conservatoire. Chaque jour je joue le piano et practique cette pièce. La dernière section a encore besoin plus de travaille. Je veux memoriser toute cette pièce!

Now, as part of my saying farewell to old pieces, here's the opening to a story about a mother who's tried to be a big success, and, well, isn't.

The successful mom........

“You weren’t at work today; you weren’t at work yesterday, and I doubt that you made it at all to work this week. What’s going on?”

Lynn was a mother, distraught as all mothers become distraught. When do you stop worrying about your child? From the beginning, Cynthia had been difficult, mood swings in grade four, long before p.m.s. came into play.

Cynthia pulled her long hair back into a severe pony tail. “And when did this become your business, Mom? I think that you forget: I moved out of your house several months ago to avoid this kind of questioning. And now you’re spying on me, checking up on when I’m working and not working.”

“I’m not checking up on you. I happened to phone your office today and yesterday and I couldn’t reach you. So I was worried and I came over here to see what was going on.”

“And you find me at home, in my track pants, healthy instead of sick as a dog, and you decide to rant.”

“I assumed that you were sick, yes, and I worry, yes, because you’re my daughter. And so tell me. What’s going on? Why are you home?”

“I’m home, mother, because I want to be. I’ve got some things to work out and I can’t work them out when I’m sitting at the office with a bunch of complaining twits who should have found a life a long time ago.”

“Then what are you working out? What could you possibly be working out except looking at the bills for all your crazy clothes and wondering how you are ever going to pay for them?”

Cynthia stood up and began to gather up some of the clothes that had fallen onto the floor the last few days. A black blazer, several pairs of capri pants, one of them covered with silver sequins for clubbing. Lynn stared at each item as Cynthia hung them up in her closet.

Her girl was extravagant. She was sure that a large portion of her paycheck went towards clothes and more clothes. She had friends who were clothes horses and this didn’t help. But Lynn knew that you can’t save up much when you’re spending so much on clothes. And what could you do with all these unnecessary items.

Where in heck could Cynthia even wear some of these crazy things? That polka dot halter top, for instance, with puffed sleeves. It was silly. Men might like it, of course, especially since it cloaked Cynthia’s sleek young body, but that didn’t make the item any more ridiculous. It wasn’t a cheap, hooker outfit, but it bordered on strange and Lynn was uncomfortable with anything strange.

“Where did you wear that thing?” she asked, pointing to the halter top.

“Oh, I was out clubbing on Wednesday, I think. It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“Cold more like. Funny that I always taught you to wear sensible, non-revealing clothing.”

“Yeah, and look where it got me, Mum. I’m worse that your worst nightmare, aren’t I?”

“I never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth. Girls have to go through all these stages.”

“Oh Mom, don’t give me all that psychology crap. Stage one development, part five. Teenage development. That chapter doesn’t fit me anymore. I’m too old. And I don’t think it ever fit me.”

“But I based my book on you!”

“Don’t I know it; and you revealed all my childhood and teen experiences at those talk shows. You made your career on me. First you watch me, analyze my behaviour, and then you write about me and your incredible strategies for dealing with a difficult daughter.

“You were never difficult. Just....”

“learning a separate identity, moving beyond parental patterns, reproachful but also simultaneously grateful for the strong, guiding influence’ See mom, I have your wonderful book by heart, don’t I?

Lynn sat down on the bed amidst the myriad of clubbing clothes. She looked at her neat little high heel shoes. She was always proud of her size five feet. “Cynthia, you’re awfully hard on your poor old Mom. Why aren’t you proud of me. Look at the success I’ve had. Admittedly you have been my case study. How else could I have found experience.”

“Why not test your theory out on rabbits instead? Or baby chipmunks for all I care. But no, you showed me again, as if I needed to have the message reinforced that you didn’t respect me.”

“That’s absurd and unkind. What greater respect can I give you, lets even use the word honour, than to use you as my starring subject in books that have helped a nation of girls.”

Lynn was gesticulating small, almost frantic movements with her small hands, those same hands belying what she said, for some small part of her realized that what she had done was not right. That respect and honour were not the right words to use. But this knowledge was shoved into a tiny part of her brain that she refused to access.

“Okay, Mom” Cynthia ventured. “Imagine I were at a bar tonight.”

“You’re not going out again tonight. You can’t. You’ve got to make it into work tomorrow. How can you keep your job...”

“Stop it Mom, this is just an example. Again. Imagine I were at a bar.”

“The last place you should be,” her mother piped in. I never condoned drinking. I know that in adolescence some people feel the need to....”

“Stop it, stop it, stop it. Just imagine me, drinking, dancing, wearing one of these outfits.” Randomly she picked up the polka-dot puffed sleeves.”

“You’re causing me pain,” Lynn said. “But carry on."

Cynthia smiled. "But there I am at the bar. I decide to pick up a guy. You’re watching me, but there’s nothing you can do. You know that the guy is a jerk. Let’s say he’s the sons of one of your publisher’s: a spoiled, selfish brat, but for some reason I must find him attractive.

..... to be continued?

On sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 18:47:00 +0000

C’est Mecredi. Ma fille a un rhume aujourd’hui, et elle reste chez nous à la maison pour toute la journeé. La pauvre fille! Aussi, elle a l’asthme, et elle tousse beaucoup. Elle a la difficulter de respirer. C’est un jour tranquille, et j’ai decidé de nettoyer toutes les salles de bain. J’ai déja fini
le salle de bain à l’étage inférieur, et je dois nettoyer les deux salle de bain en haut.

Trouvez sous, ma description d’un mon experience avec le sommeil. Maintenant she dors très bein. Mais il y a quelques années j’etais beaucoup de problèmes de sommeil.

It is 2 a.m. I am still awake. My thoughts wander, as I lie in bed, waiting for sleep, longing for that merciful moment of sleep. Sleep is a very strange phenomenon, and one that a lot of people, especially young people, take for granted. But people who fall into patterns of insomnia, as I have done lately, know how precious, how wonderful sleep is, and just how hard it is to accomplish. For sleep cannot be simply accomplished. You cannot will yourself to sleep. Willpower has nothing to do with that gradual sense of falling that we experience. Sleep just happens or it doesn’t. Sleep happens when you are utterly relaxed. Your body and mind both have to be relaxed. It is not enough to have one or the other relaxed. They both must together allow that gentle movement into sleep happen.

Falling to sleep is almost an unconscious action. As you fall into unconsciousness, you are not really aware that it is happening. You are not aware. That is the beauty of it. When you are aware, you are not asleep yet. You lie in your bed, aware of your body’s level of relaxation, aware, aware, aware, not blissfully unaware. You think, my head is heavy, very heavy, my limbs are heavy, but my mind, and here is the problem, my mind is alert, active, monitoring the state of my body. Your eyes are not open, and yet you are entirely awake. How can your body be relaxed and your mind still be going on and on in circles

. At these moments, you play mind games with yourself. For instance, you might try, “I will lie in this position at all costs. This is my final position. I will not move again until I fall asleep.” And this seems to work for a few minutes. You manage to keep your body relatively still for a time, but then a certain restlessness hits you, and you turn. So much for that one.

Another game I have tried is the game of imagining myself falling. The movement into unconsciousness is often seen as a moment downwards, a falling. So perhaps these images are enough to bring on sleep. I imagine a roller coaster, whee, whee, whee, over and over, down and down, never up, always down. Then my mind turns to a childrens’ slide. Yes, I’m at the top now, and I come down again and again. Then I’m joined up to an IMAX film, or a Disney ride where I believe that I’m in a boat or starship and I’m moving very fast and downwards. Children scream. Down I come.
Not being able to sleep drives you a bit insane. You get more and more tired, each day, hoping against hope that sleep will come blissfully this time. Hour after hour pass by, and, nothing, nothing at all happens. What time is it anyway? 2.30. Read a non-exciting book. I’ve heard that helps. I read a book that I actually like, and it turns out to be more exciting than I had anticipated. I read, kept in suspense, and my mind stays as alert as ever. I think to myself. Boy, my eyes should be closing now, really they should be drooping down, like an older person whose head falls down and down.

In the book I am reading there is an older woman who never sleeps. Older people often don’t sleep well. Something happens with age that make sleep more difficult. Parenting doesn’t help, and if you are a woman, and a worry-wart, and a parent, your chances of sleeping well are not particularly good. Stress causes sleep disorders too. Some people have anxiety attacks in the middle of the night. Their heart races and they become very frightened. They panic, and sweat.

But back to sleep and now, a celebration of falling to sleep. I can only describe sleep’s arrival as the arrival of grace, a grace that cannot be controlled, but is given, suddenly bestowed. And you can’t thank anyone for the gift, for you are gone.

And where do we go when we sleep? We all have memories of dreams, subconscious pictures, reflections, images, distorted ones of real life. But are these pictures so wrong? Why do we assume that our waking lives are the reality? Maybe our sleeping life is tuned into the real world.

That’s why I liked one fantasy book very much, that was half dream, half real. That dreamy land of the surreal is a neat place, and reflective of our psychology. Lots of people have written about dreams. The ballet is so often dreamy, a place of dreams. I think, for instance, of Swan Lake, where the young male dancer dreams of his snow queen, and the dark queen dances into his dreams and he dances with her in a beautiful dreamy sequence of movements. The whole of ballet is like a dream, much more so than opera. Opera is full of heart flesh, guts. It is visceral and in your face. But ballet is distant, dreamy, ethereal.

I once played a fairy in a Gilbert and Sulllivan play called Iolanthe. The play opens with we fairies lying on the stage with that dreamy, fairy mist floating above us. How many sets use that stage gas to create a misty atmosphere? I wonder what its made of, anyway. The chief fairy, I recall. Her real name was Gretchen, waved her little wand at each of us and woke us up. The effect was very dreamy.

Another dreamy scene, I recall from the novel, Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening,”. In it, the young heroine is caught between the world of dreams and a beautiful yet tragic awakening. Then scene occurs in a drawing room where an older woman is playing Chopin. There is not much dreamier than Chopin. If one closes one’s eyes, one leaves the planet for a few minutes to join the fairies and dance about heaven for a while. Maybe that’s what happens when we fall asleep.

13 ways of looking at a library plus some French

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 15:57:00 +0000

La langue française

C’est très difficile d’écrire de la langue français. Mais je veux essayer beaucoup de jours. Il va m’assister d’apprendre cette langue difficile.

Aujourd’hui je fais le lavage. Il y a beaucoup de vêtements dans mon panier de lavage qui sont très sal.

Trouvez ici une pièce d’écrire sur le sujet de les bibliothèques.

Thirteen Ways of looking at a library. Part I.

Way #1: Libraries and Children.

Some public libraries are not that kid friendly, which is unfortunate. Some kids never go into a library until they reach school, when they are escorted in and out for specific library times. This is sad, but perhaps not surprising.

How have libraries been represented in the past by the media?

In all the old fifties movies, libraries shushed children. Now libraries are rarely shown in movies and seldom represented in books. What does this mean? Why the neglect?

There are two different ideologies working here:

One is romantic(think Wordsworth). Children in a library should be discovering and developing. Sound familiar? We all pay lip service to this romantic ideal, but do our institutions really do this?

Then there’s the older ideology of childhood that hearkens back to the eighteenth-century and further back still. Children were seen as little adults. Little immoral adults to be more accurate. They had to be trained and frightened into growing up into adults who would fit perfectly into a shush/be quiet kind of library.

So what should we do? What kinds of libraries should we be building?

What does your local library do for its kids?

2) The French word for library is bibliotheque, biblio referring to books, presumably, and interestingly related etymologically to the word “bible.” A friend once told me that the bible contained all other books; all stories were within it; I wonder. The bible does contain many stories, and it is arguable that there are only 12 stories in the world (with variations), but I still can’t believe that bible contains all. This is a rather Northrop Frye mythic outlook.

3) I’ve been in a number of different libraries; I spent the most time in Robarts library, on the corner of St. George and Bloor in Toronto. It is a massive concrete building, which is an example of the brutalesque style. In other words, it is as ugly as hell, inside and out. The building is supposed to be the same shape as a bird of some kind, I can’t remember which. Inside it is a busy place most days, with rows and rows of computer terminals, with anxious students staring into them. Upstairs are many floors of stacks, an extraordinary collection of books that you can easily get lost in.

One of my favourite areas to go to was the section with old periodicals from the Victorian period. You could read “The Strand” there, and see the original illustrations for Sherlock Holmes. You could also read Dickens’ and George Eliot’s works in their original chapter by chapter publications. I loved the old advertisements in these periodicals and even more, I liked the editorials that made fun of authors and poets that are now turned into untouchable and hallowed “great writers.” The Queen’s library I spent less time in, for I was young and less interested in libraries. But I did recall hearing about a couple that bought a pizza and slept the night together in the underground stacks as a kind of erotic entertainment.

4) Many people have large home collections of books that really deserve the name of library. Some have fantastic science fiction and fantasy collections, all organized alphabetically. One such famous library is in Toronto and called the Merrell collection. Unfortunately, you can’t visit it without supervision, and you can’t take a book out. But these books were all donated by a collector. Some people collect only certain authors; others certain genres. Some people just hoard all the books they c can find. Book collecting can easily move from a hobby into an obsession, and I’m sure that there are all kinds of conventions for people who want to talk about their home libraries and make lucrative deals to buy and sell different words.

5) Very, very special libraries cannot be seen at all by the ordinary plebe. If you travel to the bibliography section of Robarts, you will find all kinds of little slim volumes about such special libraries. For instance, there are many special collections of Byron’s poetry, early editions etc. There is a very specific way to write about such collections, and it requires a master of codes to understand what one might find in these holdings. Code words refer to sizes of books, types of print, types of paper, different ways that papers are folded etc. etc. I knew professors who were in love with bibliographic studies and fascinated by such details. I had a hard time understanding them and believed them to be unimaginative bores. Why is the outside of a book more important than the inside. Now, I am a little more respectful of their work. A great deal of information can be had from studying the original form of a work. From that stand point, it might be worth all the travel and red tape required to actually visit these special library collections.

6) The dreaded Dewey Decimal System. I wish I knew it better. As a child, and even as an adult, I have never got my head around the the dewey decimal system. I liked university libraries better because they are organized an a system that I became familiar with. I always know, for instance, that Byron, Bronte and Dickens could always be found in the PR section, and that the American novelists were further ahead, in the PN section, and that PS always held very modern British things. It all made sense to me, perhaps because I was so familiar with it. The history books, if you needed them, were to be found two floors down, a quick walk down two flights, or a long wait on a busy elevator.

7) My home library, the library I grew up with probably shaped my life and way of thinking. My father had all kinds of German books, which I was interested in, but couldn’t read. My favourite book of his was the Washington Gallery pictures, a volume full of pictures and right-ups that I pored over many times, loving the Dutch painters most of all, probably because of their simplicity. My Mum had old books by Somerset Maugham, like “Of Human Bondage,” that I read and only partly understood.

My parents’ basement library was my private area. The books that they had long since lost interest in became my playtoys, and I read, read, all day long most days. I organized the books alphabetically in grade 7, and then I vowed that I would read them all, cover to cover, going right from A down to Z. I made it through all the Austens pretty well, read all of Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson (11 years old), But I really was slowed down by Dickens. I must have read five or six of his novels before I lost patience with my plan. But Dickens really influenced me. I look back at a short story I did in grade 9, and it is full of names like “Bumble” that are very Dickensian.

8) Any discussion of libraries must include some comment on librarians. I've met lots of librarians, most of them very helpful. A big thank-you to those who help people navigate!

9) Library behaviour. What do people do in libraries? In public libraries, you avoid any kind of interaction, perhaps occasionally bumping into another browser accidently. In student libraries, it is a different matter. I’ve seen an uncanny amount of flirting, fighting, sexual encounters even. Typically, grad students flirt with each other in the stacks. They find each other’s carrels and hang about them, discussing ideas and making a substantial lot of eye contact.

10) Every old English house had what was called a library, just as many had private chapels. In many Victorian novels I’ve read, the heroine, staying as a guest at such a house, sneaks off to the library and reads either very educational books appropriate for her station, or finds access to a different racier kind of book, like French novels. How many Victorian ladies are corrupted by such racy reading! In novels, a person’s character is often indicated by the kinds of books he or she keeps in the library. In Charlotte Bronte’s first novel, the devilish Hunsden keeps all kinds of French novels and republican texts. When this is mentioned, we know that he is a dangerous radical, an unpredictable libertine perhaps, or one who believes in Rousseau’s freedom. I like one of Trollope’s novels, in which an extremely indecisive man hides a lost will in a book in his library, and then stays in the library for weeks and months because he is too frightened to leave the room in case the document might be discovered. In the past, men retreated into these libraries, and I always wonder where women retreated; nowhere, I think. Like Jane Austen, they permanently were faced with the company of others and never had a private library of their own. Hence Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own.”

11) I am forgetting one excellent library, the one in one’s head. We all have whole collections of books and ideas in our heads, many of which we unfortunately can’t access a lot of the time. If all the books I’ve read are really in my head, and they are, somewhere, the details are not readily available as they would be on a screen or text.

12) The Library of Congress? I'd love to visit it one day.

13) It makes sense to conclude with the computer library. The internet can be seen as one, extremely large library. And it is a lucky thing that you can’t see all the books contained in it at once. The mind can only handle so much.

learning to drive at 30 years old (um...over ten years ago)

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 16:29:00 +0000

You're thirty and you can't drive?

For many Canadian women, turning thirty can be an important time to reevaluate their lives and ask important questions: Should I have children, and when? Is my career where I want it to be? Should I get married, or continue living with my spouse?

Before I turned thirty, I found myself more and more concerned with the fact that I still couldn't drive. Although I knew that other women (and men) hadn't learned this important skill, I felt alone with my problem; everyone I knew could drive and had been driving for as long as they could remember. So where did that put me?

Sometimes the subject of driving would enter into a casual conversation, and I would pretend to be a driver like everybody else. "And don't you hate those people who don't signal?" I'd hear myself say. Or, "I'm pretty good at finding my way through a new city," which was at least partly true, as I'd had years of reading the map and directing the car - from the passenger's seat. At other times, I would cautiously admit that I wasn't a driver, which would cause the inevitable tactless person to exclaim loudly, "Really, you don't drive? Why not?" leaving me red-face and apologizing incoherently.

My reasons (or excuses) for not driving sounded reasonable to others, but weak in my own ears: "I have always lived in the city" I'd say, or "I think driving only contributes to the urban smog". Even worse, I'd find myself sounding woefully unliberated with "My husband drives me everywhere I need to go," which was only partially true, anyway.

Not being a driver was more of an inconvenience than I wanted to admit. I couldn't drive on my own to the grocery store, to the library, or to my weekly choir practice. I couldn't think of night classes at inconvenient or only partially safe locations. If I went out to a friend's for dinner, or went to parties on my own, I had to rely on others to drive me home, or pay a rather nasty cab fare. Even worse, I knew that I wouldn't be much use in an emergency, as I wouldn't be able to take the wheel. Most inconvenient of all, I couldn't write cheques or be admitted into a dance club without a licence, one of the few forms of picture I.D.

After much reflection (and much trepidation), I made my big decision: I would brave driving in Toronto and get my licence before I turned thirty; instead of berating myself for having waited so long, I would tackle driving the way I had tackled other problems in my life, like finishing my education.

My life was changed when I first walked through classroom door of a reputable driving school, for in those few seconds I realized that I was not alone. Although there were a few teenagers in the room, the vast majority of the would-be drivers in the class were in their twenties, thirties and forties, and many of them were women like myself. For a wide variety of reasons, they also had never actually completed their driving tests.

From an adult's perspective, the first portion of the driving school's curriculum was not really appropriate. We didn't need to be insistently reminded of the dangers of the road, hammered over the head with frightening statistics and gory videos. Many of us had lived long enough to have experienced or witnessed car accidents that had left unforgettable images in our memories. We were no longer cocky teens who needed to be reminded of the serious responsibility of driving.

On the other hand, we all benefited from the in-depth explanations of driving techniques. Unlike teenage learners who were often more concerned with just getting their license, we cared about learning how to drive well: we knew the value of life, and wanted to learn the best methods of preventing any accidents at all. If it was important to keep space between cars, for instance, we would learn how to do it.

The next step in learning to drive required the most courage because over the years I had actually built up some fears about taking the wheel. So it was not without much apprehension that I sat in the driver's seat with my instructor and learned how to turn on the ignition and position the rear-view mirror. My instructor had a great deal of confidence in me, however, and from the first day worked to instill that confidence in me. He made me understand that I could do it, that I just needed some practise.

I can't describe the wonderful elation I felt after that first ride and after each of the many rides I took with my kind instructor. I remember telling all my friends about each of my new successes. "I learned how to make a three-point turn" I would say proudly. Or, "I made my first lane-change today, and my instructor said that I did it perfectly!" My friends were always as pleased I was, sympathetic and encouraging. They admired my courage, they said, reminding me that it takes guts to learn to drive later in life.

After driving for a while, I made my second revelation. Driving was not a mysterious ability, divinely given to those lucky members of society who happened to be mechanically minded. Neither was it the exclusive territory of the aggressive and overly confident. And it did not make one a superior human being. Driving was simply a skill, one that could be learned at any time in one's life.

It took me three tries to get my driver's licence, and there were definitely moments when I second guessed myself, but after working very hard to get this far, I wasn't prepared to turn back. Both times I failed I cried for the rest of the day, feeling humiliated and even a bit angry. And when, after the second try, I came home to a bouquet of flowers, which my husband had bought me to celebrate my anticipated success, I burst again into a fresh set of tears. Still, I soon nerved myself up for a third try, and in the dead of winter, on a blizzardy day, I earned my license.

That day I felt more proud of myself than I felt after any other successful venture in my life. This meant more to me than getting any job, or even getting my degree. By earning my driver's licence, I had conquered one of my biggest fears. Although I knew that I would still often prefer to walk rather than drive, I felt empowered and more independent. After tackling driving in Toronto, the sky now seemed the limit.

New goals

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 14:57:00 +0000

What do I really want to do in life? The trick is to decide and then stick with that decision. Hmm. Why don’t I do that? I keep making a decision, motor along well for a while with that decision, and then change my mind!

I was darned sure that I wanted to be a teacher. I worked hard for two years reading educational texts (can’t say I enjoyed those much), and passed that degree with flying colours.

Good for me!

Then, after three unsuccessful interviews - unsuccessful meaning I didn’t get the jobs - I’m all ready to give up and try something new. What does this mean? I’m fickle? I can’t stick with a decision?

One day at a time. I’m trying to think up a motivating writing goal. The 100 day plan is working well for cello and piano, so it’s a possibility, and Nano works well with that.

The reality in our economy right now is that there are not a lot of jobs around, so what me worry. We’re okay for money, and something will work out in the end.

- - - - - - - -

We tried out tennis aerobics for the first time at “the bubble.” My first response was .. hey... where’s the change rooms.... then... what’s that loud echoing noise all around me? I was informed that it was the air circulator/heater. It took a while to get used to it, and gosh, why did I drink that cup of jo in the morning that’s making me dizzy and weird feeling. Then, into the tennis aerobics, and I was feeling great.

I highly recommend tennis aerobics, even if you’re not really into tennis.

-------------------- --------------------------------

Lastly, the move has been made. My computer is sitting right here, upstairs, and I’m looking at trees, grass, and a yellow fire utility whatchamacallit.. Much better.

There’s light here, and a great picture of two wolves sitting on icy looking hills during a lightning storm. There’s inspiration for me! Also, need a new poster on my right. Will look for something inspiring.

One problem....My little one just brought up all my junk. Uh.oh.. The lair is spared, and my new habitat is now cluttered. Okay. It’s time to ditch the old broken disks, and rid the house of unneeded items. There’s a couple of hours work.

A demain. (Hey, maybe I’ll start practicing my French on this blog - that would be a great challenge. Just have to figure out how to do those accents.

Two Musical Ideas

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 01:43:00 +0000

Body Memory

I was truly amazed today by the power of “body memory.” I’ve experienced this phenomenon before with tai chi and a bit with yoga. But for me the true experience of body memory comes from piano and cello. The key to body-memory is simple repetition. If you want your body to remember how to do something eg. shift from one position to another, you repeat it hundreds and thousands of times. I am finding that this occurs more obviously and rapidly with piano than with cello. Repeating left hand phrases, for example ,within a week, leads to body memory. With cello, everything has come harder. But with piano, I’m noticing my body’s capacity to learn and remember more quickly. It’s nice because success makes you feel pretty good!

Counting

You think you know a piece, but until you understand the rhythm, and have spent the time counting, you don’t really. I was playing a lovely little piece “Two tender hearts,” and enjoying it heartily. The phrasing and melody are haunting and exquisite. I felt pretty sure that I’d figured out the mood of the piece and how to play it in a basic way. Well, when I went to my lesson, I discovered the fact that I hadn’t counted through the piece. I’d guessed my way through the rhythm, and I was wrong. So, humbly, I’m relearning it, and counting my way through it 1 and 2 and 3 and, counting all the “ands” in the quarter notes. It’s tricky, because after a week of playing the piece wrong, you have to work through the bad listening and playing habits, and start all over again. Tricky, but good for the brain.

New Endeavours

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 02:06:00 +0000

Last night I began something very new. I joined a local community band. I played the flute back in grades 6-9, then dropped the instrument. Why?

I wonder. At the time, I was focused on my “bad” band conductor. I remember that I didn’t enjoy taking band class with him. There’s not much more to remember. But that event was enough for me to drop an instrument that I once cared about.

In fact, one of my fondest memories was playing my flute in the front yard of our house. I sat on the grass, and played and played, thinking that I wanted to carry on in music. That was the summer before grade nine, and before the unfortunate incident of meeting the “bad” band conductor.

Years later, I ask myself, was he so bad that it was really worth dropping out of band. My adult self says no. My teenage self said yes. Some of my other singularly noteworthy decisions was to quit French and piano also. Hmmmmm.

WHAT WAS I THINKING!?

But it’s never too late. I’m taking French, piano and ..band - which has led to me a man who is interested in teaching me flute at a price I can now afford. Life is so weird. Sometimes I wonder if I’m traveling in circles.

The band, by the way, is a lot of fun, though the flute is darn hard. I don’t know if I used to have a decent embouchure, but I certainly haven’t retained it.

So, I’m a wee bit frustrated, but it will come.

Saturday Scribes: September 14, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 10:49:00 +0000

The Mood Ring

Enormous baskets of fresh blueberries. Smaller baskets of red and yellow peppers, bright red plum tomatoes, fresh green beans. We strolled by the abundant fruits and vegetables. It was a gorgeous summer day at the Byward Market in Ottawa. Soon we came to assorted vendors: I spotted a blue dress and felt tempted, but remembered that I only had a twenty dollar bill in my wallet - not enough for a dress plus lunch. We continued on, though my thoughts drifted back to the long, blue sleeveless tie-die dress. Other vendors appeared before us. Wood-carvings. Healing gems. I chuckled to myself. Buy healing amethyst, one sign suggested. Another read, try healing hematite. I looked at the vendor, cheerfully selling his healing product and smiled. He was enthusiastic and probably convincing. If I stayed long enough, I’d be taking home several of these healing gems, in hopes that my aching back would be healed. The magnets hadn’t worked.... but maybe.. .

My sister Jenna and I, my daughter Victoria, and her daughter, Christina, stopped at the next vendor, who was selling jewelry of all kinds. Victoria and Christina immediately spotted the rings, in particular the mood rings. They grabbed at the rings eagerly, trying them on, watching them change colour: Victoria’s moved quickly from cheerful, to relaxed, and then settled on peaceful.

“Try one, Mum,” Victoria called out, simultaneously grabbing several rings and my hand.

“Just wait a minute. I’ll do it myself.” I laid down a large basket of blueberries (not the super-large $50 basket, but the still large $30 basket).

I discovered quickly that none of the rings fit me properly. The small ones were too big for my pinky. The larger ones were tight on my index finger- my only available finger. So I nudged one ring just to my knuckle, and watched the mood ring change colour. Green. Anxious. Pink. Cheerful. Brown. Depressed.

Victoria yelled. “Look, Mum. I’m worried.”

Christina yelled. “I’m cheerful.”

Then there was the inevitable chorus. “Can I have one? How much are they? Can I have next week’s allowance right away?

Jenna and I exchanged the usual puzzled Mummy looks. Should we give in? How much were these things, anyway? Hadn’t they already borrowed on their allowance? How much was in my wallet? What would that cover?

I looked at my ring, and figured that it should be showing Green for Anxiety, but it was still on brown for depressed and was looking very murky indeed.

Luckily the question of giving in or not giving in, buying or not buying was solved by the serendipitous appearance of three acrobats, giving a show at the market. One was walking on a raised stick, two others were holding the stick, and one of these was providing commentary, while supporting his friend.

The girls ran over to watch the show, forgetful of the mood rings. Little did I know. That night, I had a child sobbing by my bedside.

“I wanted that mood ring, Mum, so badly.” Her little body was convulsing with sorrow. “I’ll never ever see one again. They’re not popular any more. Why didn’t you get one for me? Why?”

I held the little, tired exhausted body. Telling her that she was just overtired, that the mood ring was less a factor than the fatigue, would not help.

She was inconsolable until the next morning, the mood ring was forgotten - almost.

Saturday Scribes, September 6

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 09:43:00 +0000

Theme: Music

Words: Elbow, crows, merchant

Dear Sir Frederick,

I am writing to you now to implore you. Stop. Stop immediately. Your letters arrive daily and I can give you nothing but polite refusals. Your many schemes have put me in an embarrassed position. Have you given this any thought?

I do not wish you to play Romeo outside my house, or play Polonius, warning me in your letters about moral conduct. I assure you that I am the best conductress of my own affairs. You assume these roles unbidden, and purely against my wishes.

Your letters are an assault upon me. Yes, I love the merchant Antonio. I love him sincerely and there is nothing in your power to alter this. As you would do. I realize that you have powers. You can send Antonio across the seas, tear him from me, as you wish. But your power is worldly. You cannot touch my heart. You can take Antonio from me, but you can never divide us.

Have you no inkling that Antonio and I have a harmony of minds, a linking of spirits, a conjoining of minds. Our love rivals the music of the spheres. Intricate yet united. Balanced. Pure and holy. Of such beautiful joining you can little comprehend.

I can see you now, standing before me, posturing, hand on waist, elbow akimbo, smirk on your face. You are a skeptic. You cannot comprehend the musical blending of souls. You see my figure, my countenance, and you love in your way.

Your way. Yes. I know what your way of loving means. Ravishing. Taking. Forcing. Looting. Your eye, surveying me, dividing me into my various parts. To you, I am the lady of the sonnets. You eulogize on my parts, not understanding the meaning of the whole, uninterested in my soul.

You love is disharmonious. Unpleasant to listen to. Clashing rather than blending. The cawing of black crows as they descend on an untilled field.

Again, I plead with you. Desist. Leave me. If you love me in any way acceptable, then grant Antonio safe harbour and protect us.

In gratitude and hope,

Amelia

Saturday Scribes: August 29, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 10:05:00 +0000

Theme: Five Senses

Words: sympathy, error, fraction

No title

It’s a mistake to read some really good fiction before you write. So have some sympathy for me. I made a mistake. It was an unfortunate error. I just finished one of the best hard-boiled mystery novels ever written. I turned over the last page, felt the eeriness of an ending that inspired Camus into writing ‘L’Etranger’, and the sat down at my big almost-clunky old computer and expected to write something.

Hah!

It’s five o’clock in the morning, and my mind is filled with images of green water, a shark and two specters on board a ship. An Ancient Mariner illusion.

Where does this take me? If I could have a fraction of the morning back again, I might take it. I’d make my coffee all over again, avoid reading that ending, and let myself begin feeling. Tasting. Smelling. All those good ways of getting into a new story.

A story about...... where is my ‘l’etranger’?

I know that I’m not meant to write an existentialist novel. I can be moved by that tradition - Coleridge, Conrad, Camus ..... not the usual names yoked together - but I don’t have to write in it. I may live in a post-existentialist world, but most of the time I don’t feel irretrievably cut off or lost at sea. I feel loved, happy secure, which is not an ideal state of mind for writing.

Hand me a bottle - hand me over some new sorrows - perhaps that would help.

You can choose to live in your head. Perhaps this is one of the biggest dangers that humans face. Live in your mind and not in your body and you literally cut yourself off from experience.

If your hide from your pain, then it is easier to commit all kinds of scandalous crimes. But the pain comes back to you. You murder, drink and vomit. And the vomiting reminds you of your humanity. Your body rebels against the crimes you commit.

But if you allow yourself to taste the bitterness of coffee, feel the cool smoothness of the grey mouse under your right palm, experience the pain of a sore back, then you can’t feel entirely cut off from your own pain or that of others.

We take pain-killers to avoid the experience of something unpleasant, but perhaps that very experience is what can bring us back to ourselves and others.

Saturday Scribes August 23, 2008 - Fragility

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 11:19:00 +0000

Fragility

I hadn’t talked with him in a year or two. Ward and I were like that. He’d get busy. I’d get busy. Mandarin took most of my time - learning Mandarin. It wasn’t a task for the faint-hearted. I was always doing warm-ups, reviewing the basic characters, never seeming to get to the nitty-gritty conversational side of the language. If I continued to learn this slowly, then I wouldn’t be prepared for my upcoming trip to China.

Ward was busy also. He was a freelance writer and claimed that he could write a $40 article in an hour. Ward worked eight or more hours a day. He could make a living on it, he said. He was disciplined, hard-working and full of brilliant ideas.

We hadn’t seen each other in a long time, but the friendship was always there. I knew that I could always phone Ward up, mention that I was in town, and he and Stacey would whip up a great meal. Usually fish, rice, salad and white wine. Those visits were wonderful. Stacey would put the kids to bed, and we’d all relax. Stacey would bring out the desserts, a delicious home-made cake or some wonderfully decadent treat.

It was March. I needed a break from my Mandarin studies, and decided to phone Ward. I planned to be in town next week and felt that I could use the warm companionship, the evening chats, and the desserts. I phoned and got the answering machine. “Hi, Ward and Stacey, Dylan and John are out right now, but feel free to leave a message.” It was Stacey’s voice, welcoming, cheerful, and I did leave a message, explaining that I was coming to town and would love to see them.

Strangely, there was a delay. Ward usually got back to me right away. Within a day, I would receive a call back. But I wasn’t worried. It was only Monday, and I wasn’t planning to visit till Friday. I could wait. Likely Ward was working under a deadline. I understood what his life must be like. If he didn’t work his eight hours, he wouldn’t make any money. I wondered briefly what it must be like to work independently, like Ward. There would be a lot of pressure to discipline yourself, to force yourself to sit at your computer and work for so many hours a day. But Ward could handle anything. He had drive and could create within himself a sense of urgency for projects.

Another day passed, and still no word. This was strange. Maybe my message got lost. It was Tuesday now, and I wanted to know whether it was worth the trip to Phoenix. I didn’t have any other real reason for going. After some deliberation, I decided to wait till Wednesday. If there were still no word, then I would phone on Wednesday evening.

I spent Wednesday avoiding my Mandarin study. My teacher had given me hundreds of characters to memorize and I was tired of trying to think of memory tricks to keep them all in my head. Part of me began to worry if I was capable of learning this near-impossible language. Of course Chinese children learned to speak Mandarin. It was their mother tongue. But for a Western the process was like an arduous ordeal. I felt that the Herculean task was beyond me.

And Ward didn’t get back. It was 8.00 Wednesday night. I wanted to know, make my plans, enjoy the conversation and good friendship I could only get from Ward and Stacey. At 8.30 I phoned again. This time, Stacey picked up.

“Hi Stacey! How are you doing?”

Stacey recognized my voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry we didn’t get back.”

“That’s all right. I was just wondering about Friday. I was thinking about driving into Phoenix...”

“I know. We got your message.”

Stacey didn’t sound like herself. Her voice hesitated. I felt that something strange was going on.

“Is everything okay? Can I speak to Ward?”

“Ward’s not hear right now. I’ll get him to call you. Okay?”

“Fine.” I felt like asking her again. ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’. But I didn’t. I let her be. I liked Stacey too much to grill here when she was feeling uncomfortable. Ward would get back to me soon enough.

It turned out to be sooner rather than later. An hour later, Ward pulled up in his little blue Pontiac. I couldn’t be more surprised. Ward had never visited me before, never driven out of Phoenix without Stacey.

I ran out to the car to greet him and saw that Ward looked nothing like his usual self. Normally Ward, a bit of a control type, was clean as clean could be, in informal but immaculate clothing, scrubbed red face, neatly ironed shirt under a well-fitted sweater and well-fitting pants. But here he came out of the car looking positively scruffy. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. His glasses looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in days. His shirt was wrinkly and even dirty looking.

“Ward. What’s going on, man?” I grabbed him and gave him a big hug. He looked like he wanted only to climb into this shell, like a snail that was tired of viewing the world and only wanted to retreat and possibly die.

I made Ward some tea. Normally he drank hot coffee. It helped his writing. But today, he wanted tea, and I brewed up a strong pot. Waiting for the tea, Ward sat uncomfortably on my sofa, like he was afraid of dirtying it.

“You want to take a shower?” I asked. But Ward didn’t even take my words in. When I gave him the hot cup of tea, he just stared into the distance. The only time I remembered staring blanking out like that was when my mother died. I was so shaken up that I spent many, many lonely hours by the river of my old hometown, looking out at the river, mindlessly - unconsolable.

Finally Ward spit it out. “We’re finished.” He whispered it out as if the words were physically painful to say. “Stacey and I. It’s all over.”

I suddenly felt lost. I was reeling. Stacey and Ward. Wine and desserts. Put the kids to bed. What could possibly have happened? They were the perfect couple, the perfect family. They seemed so stable.

But looking at Ward, unhappy, broken, barely able to choke his tea down, I wondered what I meant when I said the word stable.

saturday scribes august 9, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 11:16:00 +0000

A meditation session

Tania’s mind was always full of thoughts. She realized this when she first started meditating. As she tried to focus on quiet breathing, thoughts came to her unwarranted, unwanted, unwelcome. Initially she tried to drive these thoughts from her mind. A thought would come. I’ve got to finish cutting the potatoes for potato salad. I still have to take the recycle out. I wonder when Dave is going to call. What is he doing right now?

But driving the thoughts away didn’t seem to help. She would drive one thought away, and another cluster of thoughts would arrive to replace it. Again, Tania brought her mind back to her ingoing and outgoing breaths. In....out....in.....out........ That interview didn’t go as well as I wanted. I messed up those spec. ed questions.. ........Tania noticed that her mind had wandered. Again. If only she could catch her mind at the precise moment that it wandered from conscious awareness into an all-consuming thought in which she lost her awareness.

The best meditation book she’d tried suggested that during meditation you identify thoughts rather than try to drive them away. The second you became aware of a thought, you identified it as “thought,” and then you moved back to the breath. This was easier said then done. Tania kept missing that crucial moment when she lost track of her breath and became immersed in a thought. It was a difficult moment to pin down .

Tania again focused herself. In....out....in....out......in.....out.......she was doing well now. Three breaths. Uh-oh. Conscious awareness gone again in a moment of self-encouragement. kay. It was time to focus. Tania felt a need to glance quickly at her watch. What time was it anyway? She’d given herself 20 minutes to mediate, and probably ten had already passed. She wasn’t feeling peaceful yet. But the peace would come if she continued for months. She’d being meditation a few weeks now, and she’d noticed subtle changes in her everyday life. Nothing she could pin down easily. But she felt calmer, more centered.

Strangely, this calmness didn’t translate into her actually meditation sessions, which were regular times of uncomfortable mental discipline. And here she was again, thinking instead of meditating. Tania opened her eyes briefly and saw that only seven minutes had passed. She could never even count the number of thoughts she had in those seven minutes. They flew in as fast as fighter jets. Nasty little things. Or rather harmless things. If Tania could mentally transform those fighter jets into slow, passenger planes with enormous fuselages, then she might ultimately eliminate them. It would be easier to eliminate large planes, she thought logically, then speedy, potentially violent ones. Or would it? Did this really make sense?

Tania again tried to calm down the noise in her head. Where the heck did all these thoughts come from? Why wasn’t she in control of her thoughts? Could she ever control them? Then she reminded herself to stay calm. She again found her breath. In...out...in...out. Tania felt her heart slow down gradually. This time she was doing better. When a thought came, she mentally identified it. Thought. Sensation. Noise. The fan next to her was loud. Too loud. She kept having to identify it. Fan. Noise. Cool Air. Sensation. Tania suddenly wished that she hadn’t put on any lipstick that morning. Her lips were already dry, and the lipstick seemed to dry them out further. Lipstick wasn’t supposed to be good for you. You could pick up more natural stuff at the health store, but it cost more, and Tania didn’t have extra money to fool around with. And beside, this lipstick was supposed to be moisturizing.

Tania heard the timer go off. Twenty minutes was over. She opened her eyes. Her eyes were wet, and she felt like yawning. The hoped-for peacefulness hadn’t come, but she did feel more relaxed. Damn it. Meditation was probably the hardest thing she’d ever tried to do! How did the Dalai Lama do it?

Tomorrow, she’d try again, and maybe one day she’d have an answer to that one.

Saturday Scribes: August 2, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 11:28:00 +0000

The words this week: lace, lattice, converter, and the theme is catalyst

Those Two Minutes

The lattice on the apple pie wasn’t working out. The delicate strips of pastry were falling apart. Megan worked patiently, repairing the soft dough. Pastry took a deft experienced hand, and hers was just learning. Making the lattice pastry reminded Megan of the first time she had tried to play guitar. Her fingers had felt awkward and clumsy against the narrow band of strings. Pressing the hard metal strings hurt. Curling her fingers was deeply uncomfortable. Finding the positions between frets stretched her brain to the max. Then, slowly, gradually, her hands became comfortable with the movements, her fingers became nicely callused. It took several years. Megan reminded herself of this. Two years minimum. So why did she expect to be able to make a perfect lattice crust on her second attempt? Because baking was easy, wasn’t it?

Not satisfied with her work, but willing to accept what was done, Megan carefully put the pie in the oven, and poured herself a cup of tea. Her mind returned to the reason she was busy making pies. To forget. To remember and to forget. It as if the forming and reforming of difficult pastry dough allowed her conscious mind to deal with last night. “Sorry,” The voice had called out from above the room. A voice from the dead. It had felt very, very unreal. Matthew had been foaming at the mouth. “Sorry.” the voice had called. Just those words. It was her uncle’s voice. What did he have to be sorry about? It had been years since Uncle Terry had died. Years. Megan had been 14 years old, maybe 15. She could barely remember him.

Yet Uncle Terry’s voice made her cry. Megan had been siting at that table, ready to laugh at the fakery, the hypocrisy, the comedy of these kind of pseudo-spiritual gatherings. Instead, she found herself crying, crying as if her heart would break. After the seance, they drank sherry. Megan stayed long enough to pull herself together. Matthew saw himself as a converter of souls.

“You will be coming back, Megan?” he touched her waist gently. Megan recoiled suddenly and violently.

“I’m not sure.” Megan made for the door. She drove home too fast. Upset. Angry. Why was she crying? She loved her Uncle Terry. He’d been so kind to her.

Megan finished her tea and took a quick peek at the pie. The initial fifteen minutes for baking the top at 425 degrees was almost over. In a couple of minutes, she could put the oven at 350 degrees so that the inside, all the apples she painstakingly cut, would bake through, and turn soft and delicious.

Those two minutes needed to pass, and Megan looked out the little kitchen window near her stove. They had pretty little lace curtains on each side, and, as Megan looked at those lace curtains, she suddenly recalled another pretty lace border. Megan’s bed sheets. The pretty white sheets.

Uncle Terry.

Megan felt like a metal guitar string was breaking inside of her.

Then the buzzer rang.

Satruday Scribes - July 26, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 10:42:00 +0000

Bob’s Midnight Vigil

Bob sat cross legged and uncomfortable on the pesticide-free lawn, feeling bits of soft clover brushing against his bare legs. It was midnight, and SHE was in there, somewhere. Playing the piano? No, he couldn’t hear the tinkling sounds of her beautiful fingers, making chords on the ivory keys. Was she baking cookies? Bob imagined the wonderful smell of cookies wafting through the house, welcoming visitors in. But that was a remote possibility. Who baked cookies at midnight? Bob couldn’t see enough light in the house to suggest that she was that busy in tasks of lovely feminine domestication. Bob loved the idea of HER baking cookies. But that wasn’t the reality, and Bob knew how important it was to stick with reality. Dreaming up falsehoods was the quick route to madness, and Bob fought the terror of this unreality with all his might. So what was SHE doing? Bob’s mentally skimmed through a list of possibilities: reading a romantic nineteenth-century novel? Puzzling through a difficult crossword under the light beams of a 100 watt bulb? Maybe she owned a slim laptop and hovered under its luminescent glow. Bob suddenly wished that he was own of those bright people, those intuitive types who only had to close their eyes, and give mental focus to gain knowledge. Bob had read about these types with second sight. If only..... Seconds and then hours slowly ticked by. All the houselights were now out and SHE had gone to bed. There had been no sweet glimpse of HER from outside, and there wouldn’t be tonight. He had to give up the good fight until tomorrow, when he might have better luck. Tomorrow, he’d come more prepared. Yes, he’d write a poem, and whisper it gently to her like a devoted Romeo. Bob comforted himself with this thought as he sat up and left his lonely midnight vigil. Yes. He would write a poem.

Saturday Scribes - July 19, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 13:18:00 +0000

It was becoming increasingly obvious that luck was not on my side. I sat watching my DVD set of “The Partridge Family: Seasons 1 and 2,” wondering how I was to convince Lady Luck to join forces with me. What would my plan be? A simple, straight-forward, direct on the mark plan that I could walk towards with clear goals and strategies? Or some intricate Byzantine plan that eluded others and possibly myself?

I watched episode after episode. Danny has to get his tonsils out. Shirley goes back to school. Keith has a crush on a woman’s libber. Lori gets braces and can’t sing. I notice that Shirley assumes greater importance as the seasons progress. She’s the star, not teen-idol Keith, not cute and pretty Lori, and not even red-haired, freckle-face Danny. Shirley Partridge, stunning in appearance and pivotal to each and every plot-line in the tale (You notice that I do not even mention “the other two.” Yes, there are two other children in the Partridge family, but I can’t recall their names and they play such a limited role in the family that it’s easy to forget them altogether)

I decided to probe a little further into Shirley’s character. It likely would not help my own situation, but it would be a worthwhile distraction- perhaps. What was my problem? Trying to find work in an increasingly dog-eat-dog job climate. Yes, teachers can be nasty if their livelihood is at stake. They’re not nasty to the kids(hopefully) but there’s some pretty serious competition happening in the teaching profession. And I’m not that competitive or mean-spirited. Honestly, however, it’s pretty irrelevant what attitude I take. The “I give up” is comparable to the “I’ll fight em in the trenches” which is equivalent to the “slow and steady wins the race.” It doesn’t matter which approach I take. Seniority, trustee-friends, superintendent friends, etc. the usual nepotism seen in the corporate world is in full swing. So, I need luck - serendipity appearing in my life suddenly and happily.

How does Shirley Partridge relate to my dilemma? Is she an emblem of Lady Luck? Let’s have a good close look at her. First of all, she’s got a great voice. I remember my mother telling me once that Shirley Jones is a serious singer. You wouldn’t know this fact if you listened to the canned pop music she normally sings on the show. But yesterday, (or the episode I watched yesterday) she sang a song of the Whale, taking her place in the 1970's environmental moment, which was then called the “ecology movement.” Here, Shirley Partridge sings her heart out, gives a lot of vocal support - nice breathing, Shirley - and let’s it all out. It’s a good episode, full of corniness and fakery, with one beautiful shining moment of sincerity when Shirley sings for the whale. If only she wouldn’t wear the family velvety outfit (it’s the red outfits this time). It doesn’t fit in with the whale theme, somehow.

Have we found, then, an image of Lady Luck? Unfortunately not yet. We have some sincerity. We have a speaker for the whales - an apologist for ecology, at least for the 23 minutes of camera-time she has. This is admirable enough, though it is not clear if Shirley Partridge really cares (I’m sure that Shirley Jones does).
Let’s move on. Let’s look at Shirley’s progress from season 1 into season 2. At first, Keith seems to be the star. Cute little David Cassidy. He’s the obvious shining star of the velvet-suited band singing their heart away as they ride about in the family bus. The question we might ask ourselves - is he really cute? - remains unanswered. I keep looking at him, trying to decide, but cannot disassociate him from 1970' iconography. His bell-bottoms and tapered hair are emblematic of the decade and there seems little reality to the actor or the character. As the season progresses, I lose interest in Keith. It’s the same with Lori. She’s undoubtedly cute, extremely thin, good-looking, sweet and she plays her part of romantic, idealist - and looking for a boyfriend girl-next-door, darned well. But again, she is overshadowed by two other characters. Danny and Shirley. Red-haired Danny. Danny is a star, no questions asked. He’s a strong actor - charismatic, appealing, a bit of Michael J. Fox type in Family Ties. His character is similarly materialistic, prudent and cunning. But he’s cute. Still, he’s overshadowed by the main star, Shirley Jones/Shirley Partridge.

Is she somehow emblematic for me, a candle in the wind? And here I see, not Shirley Jones, but a plaintive Elton John, sitting with his grand piano (are there candles atop his piano?) calling out for us all. Okay, who’s upstaging who now?
I’m rambling on now, like a lost zeppelin, floating in the sky. I’ve given up on Lady Lucky. After all, you make your own luck, don’t you? And who is in charge of luck - divine providence? electro-magnetic forces? I’m sure that Deepak has the answer for us all in one of his volumes that relates Vedic philosophy and contemporary physics - yes, that works.....

But back to Shirley. Forget Elton (though I think he has been known to wear velvety outfits also). As I watch Shirley through seasons one and two, I notice that she gradually blooms for us. In the opening episodes, we notice Keith, Lori and Danny. Then gradually it becomes clear the Shirley is the most interesting one, the flower that gradually blooms for us (yes, I pulled out that very, very old metaphor). Shirley moves ever so gradually to the foreground of the show that you barely notice the change. Until you realize that you are watching the show to see her. She’s the mother, and the star.

So how does this help me and my JOB search? Yes, I’m willing to work towards some awkward, uncomfortable analogy! Like Shirley, I will ever-so-gradually move from the background (jobless) into the foreground (have-a-job). It may take a while, and I may be initially overshadowed by various superstars in velvet outfits. But ultimately, I’ll bloom, I’ll shine, I’ll be able to take center stage and sing for the whale.

Saturday Scribes July 12

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 12:12:00 +0000

Communication

I heard Sabrina knocking at the front door. I was expecting her to come around ten. We hadn’t talked in a while, and I suggested she drop by for a tea and a chat. When I opened the door, I noticed it right away. She was looking sad. You see, I’m intuitive by nature. I get hunches about people. So I knew that something was seriously wrong with Sabrina.

“Come on in.” I grabbed Sabrina’s coat, and hung it up right away. “Thanks for coming.” I hoped she wouldn’t notice what a mess the house was. I got her a tea right away. I know what type she likes. Green tea. Always green tea. It was already sitting on the stove for her. I liked being prepared.

“How’s work?” I drank a sip of the green tea. It was perfectly brewed. My cupboard was full of green tea, so it was lucky that it was Sabrina’s favourite.

“Work’s fine. I’m heading up a new project.”

“I can sympathize. I’ve been in charge of a few projects. Not heavy ones, mind you. Not too much responsibility. Lots of work though, these projects are. I remember working on one project. Boy, that was hard. I think I worked 24/7 for weeks. No breaks. It was crazy. But things get crazy like that sometimes.”

“I’m enjoying the project.”

“You say that now. But just wait! There was another project I worked on. My team was so bad. They wouldn’t work together. They were terrible listeners. Every time I had an idea, they didn’t care. They wouldn’t listen to me. Doesn’t that drive you crazy when people don’t listen to you?”

“Yes....”

“Oh God. It was so crazy. There was one guy on my team, Graham. Can you believe this. He always showed up in his denim jeans. We’re at an important business meeting, mind you, and we’re trying to impress the clients, and he shows up in blue jeans. God. What an idiot. And he talked all the time. Wouldn’t stop. Our clients went nuts. You know how I use my intuition. Well, I could tell they were pissed off about Graham. I’m a good negotiator. So I did my best. But we lost the contract. I had to have a good talk with Graham after that.”

“What were his blueprints like?”

“They were fine. Those impressed the client. He did some amazing designs. But that’s not the point. He lacked style. He lacked finesse. You know, in business, it’s people that matter. You have to learn how to deal with people. You follow the rules, you talk the talk, and you dress the part.”

“But his designs were good?” Sabrina hadn’t touched her tea. I wondered why. Maybe it was too hot. She’d drink some when it cooled off a bit.

“I told you they were fine. But that’s not the point. It’s the universal laws of business. You look after the people. The product has to be good, of course, but there are other things that are just as important.” I took a few more sips of tea. I don’t know what it is about green tea, but it always tastes great.

“And how’s Jupiter doing?” I always remember to ask about Sabrina’s dog. You see. I know how to handle people. Asking about their dog. It will put the smile on anyone’s face.

But apparently I asked the wrong question. Sabrina stood up. I could tell there were tears in her eyes (I’m extremely perceptive. I can see these things way ahead of time).

“Are you okay.”

But Sabrina was not okay. “What’s up?” I was following her out of the room. Strangely, she’d left the tea totally untouched.

“I have to go.” Sabrina grabbed her jacket and practically fled out of the house. God, what was her problem.

Of course, a few days later I found out what was wrong. Jupiter had died. Her dog was gone. Sabrina was fixated on that dog. I can imagine the heartbreak she must have been going through. Poor thing. No wonder she didn’t drink her tea. I knew the dog was sick a few weeks ago, but nobody told me that the thing was dead!

Saturday Scribes, July 5

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 11:43:00 +0000

Driving down Warden

There’s landscape anywhere
Isn’t there?
Maybe not beautiful impressionist landscapes
Haystacks and peasants
Fields of mustard and golden sunsets

Driving down Warden
What do I see?
A landscape?
A skyscape?
Something?
Why can’t I
Remember?

Glimpses, memories come back to me...
The Shoe Company
No banks
Winners
The Salvation Army.

I’ve driven this route 3 times
This week
And I can remember
Almost nothing.

I’ll try again.

I’ll imagine I’m Picasso,
experiencing my blue period.
A BLUE Tim Horton’s complete with
BLUE drive-through
A BLUE path to a CV HIGHSCHOOL with
huge BLUE roadbumps

Sorry. It doesn’t work.
Tim Horton’s signage
(what an ugly new word)
cannot be imagined as BLUE
What colour is it, red? white?
I thought the sign was indelibly
imprinted on my brain,
But I suppose it is as impermanent as
The rest of existence.
As impermanent as a strawberry ice cream cone
Lying out on the concrete
On Warden Avenue.

I remember something now
A feeling of familiarity
Driving down Warden
Driving down certain streets in Ajax
Wide streets
Apartment buildings on the left
Arenas on the right

Hard to imagine actually trying to
Walk down these long streets
They’re not meant for walking
These long streets are not
Particularly Car friendly, either.
Too busy. Too hot.
Shoes and Tires
Rubbing Concrete

The thought makes me tired out.

Is development the culprit?
Excess development?
Should we blow the whistle?
Stop it all right now?

Driving down Warden Avenue
I finally reach my destination
Or do I?
Which is more important -
Arrival or the journey?
The glimpses of insight
We gain as we drive
Past mega store after mega store?

Maybe I need to go shopping?
I think I could use a few things......

Saturday Scribes, Saturday June 28

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 12:14:00 +0000

The prompt for this week was: theme- water. Words: paperclip, doorway, cinnamon. I had fun with it, and decided to go with some fictional prose.

The day was a rainy one, and so I decided to pursue my investigation indoors at the public library. There wasn’t much I could do anyway at the scene of the crime. The lakefront was blocked off by OPP with all their traffic gadgets - pylons, yellow strips with all that bold black lettering on it. People were milling around outside, waiting for something to happen, anything. A murder in Port Perry? Not the usual type of news that hit the Port Perry Star or The Port Perry Standard. Not the usual fare - Strawberry Suppers, Beef Dinners, Church Yard Sales, Dragon Boating Week-end. These brought some interested or conscientious types, depending on the event. But a murder? The only murders Port Perry had seen in recent years were tragic domestic ones that were whispered about at the corners of subdivisions. Did you know so-and-so who killed his wife? I never saw him come out of the house! I guess he was nuts.

Those murders, though not typical of Port Perry news, happened once in a while. But a body found in the lake? Drowned in Lake Scugog? Now, if any of you don’t know Lake Scugog, I can tell you that a body in the lake is also not too big a surprise. How many hundreds of people go out on the lake these days, breeze around without life jackets and no swimming skills and end up big D drowned out there before the usual helpful fireman, ready in all emergencies, can get to them. Those tourist deaths, usually at least one a summer, add to all those winter deaths of snowmobilers who decide to take their snow machines in thin ice areas.

But today something else has happened. The Body in the Lake. A great title for a mystery novel, though probably used by now. What has happened? An unidentified body has risen up and floated along to the marina, getting stuck against the big tourist Ferry Boat that costs $26.50 for a 20 minute tour of Lake Scugog. This is exciting because a) the body is dead and b) the body is unidentified. Everyone loves the mystery of not knowing who that unlucky bugger was who ended up floating around that shallow lake amongst the weeds. Maybe it was the Lake Scugog Sea Monster on the attack. Not many had claimed to see this monster, but perhaps this unlucky person?

So, why was I getting involved? Who am I? Your basic unemployed teacher. And what can you do in the in-between times? You’ve dropped off 10 resumes yesterday, and you’re darned if you’re going to drive around today with another ten. So, you decide that you’re going to investigate this murder. How? Get away from the crowds and head straight to the nearest public library, whose doorway welcomes you to unending bliss amongst thousands of titles.

Of course, you’re kidding yourself if you think you’ll really be researching this mystery. The Body in the Lake? Who’s kidding who? But it’s fun to pretend for a moment that you’re involved in something important like that. Going to the library had another added benefit. I’d get out of the rain, which was now pouring more heavily, filling Lake Scugog up.

Entering Scugog Memorial Public Library was always a pleasant experience. I could browse first at all the “let’s get rid of these old hardbacks pile, laid out on a table.” Then I could smile at and perhaps chat with one of the friendly librarians. I knew them all and they knew me, a frequent visitor for many years. Then I could begin a search at the computer, of wander around till something struck my interest.

With careful discretion and tact, I sneaked right by the tall bookshelf full of HOW TO GET A JOB books. No more of that today. I didn’t want to think about interview skills and how to develop them. I needed a break from the dark reality of job-hunting and who-knows-who, and don’t you know anybody, cause it’s all about who-you-know, don’t you know?

I scoot right over to the fiction shelves. If anything could give me a hook on that murder outside, it would be some good old mystery writer. I looked first, forlornly, at the library’s sad holdings of Agatha Christie novels, and think to myself that the time will come when I will order the full collection in paperback. I imagine bringing a large box into the house with every last novel, and then going on a week-long Agatha Christie celebration, reading and snoozing endlessly for days, drinking tea, eating cookies, and being decadent in all ways. Light fiction. Lots of Earl Grey. Hm...

But the pickings on good old Agatha are slim as usual. I’ve read all three choices they have here. I walk past the Ruth Rendall. Not up to that today. And Elizabeth George. Too repetitive. Then I see a yellow paperclip sitting in front of a Sue Grafton novel. F is for Fugitive. And is the paperclip a divine instrument, an oracle? Will it ultimately lead me to the knowledge of who that criminal is out there who killed that dead body in the lake.

Very unlikely, of course, but today I have all the time in the world, and I thought I would let providence, fate, God, lead me. And the paper clip could be sent directly from a re-incarnation of a yogi who has chosen me to pass on messages from the mysterious East.

Hardy har har, as my sister used to say, laughing. I grab “F is for Fugitive,” quickly check it out, and pass out that double-doorway, passing by a couple of kids having great fun with the disability doors. If I were a kid, I’d be playing with those doors too, and driving the librarians crazy.

It was still pouring rain outside, so I decided to run across to the Pantry Shop. The place was busy, full of people taking refuge from the rain and catching up on the gossip about the dead body. I may not get much reading done here, but I just might hear something important and pertinent. I was on the case, or so I told myself. It was better than job hunting, and at least I didn’t have to pretend to myself that there was any importance in my activities.

I stood at the counter, smelling the cinnamon buns - hey, when did the Pantry Shop start having cinnamon buns? That was the baking territory of Hank’s, down on Queen street.

“We started baking cinnamon buns last week,” the counter lady told me. She was dressed in The Pantry Shop’s usual clean white aprons over t-shirt. “I’ll take one,” I said, and found a loonie, hoping that it would be enough, but suspecting I’d have to scrounge for some quarters any minute.

Transitions

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 10:09:00 +0000

Transitions

No more pencils, no more books
No more teachers’ dirty looks

Eternal student, close your books,
dog-eared, written in,
You forget it all, anyway
Don’t you?

Changes.
Money
Monday
Make change

Resume after resume
fractured lives, fractured soul
divided into neat, meaningless categories
Professional Experience
Education
Professional Activities
Show them who you are
Or who you pretend to be
Or who you think they’ll want you to be

Pretend smiles, resolution,
Jargon, interviews, sucking up.

Rejection
No answer
No response
Too many candidates
Who are you?
We don’t know you, do we?
We do know so-and-so
That’s the person who will get the job.
But nice of you to drop by

That’s what the secretary says
Or doesn’t say, but understands.
She smiles
Looks behind you

There’s another one
Clean white shirt
Blond hair
Young face
I’ve brought my resume, she says.

Walk back to your car

Gas wasted
Time wasted

You needs a strategy
Times are tough
Too much supply
Not enough demand

Can’t give up
Must play the game
Nasty game,
Mean old game
Winners and losers
Winner takes all

Solace
Wearing your husband’s sweater
A few minutes of
Comfort and Warmth

Find a new strategy
Write out your thoughts
Write out your plans

Try again

almost at the finish line

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 01:47:00 +0000

Hard to believe, but I'm almost done my B.Ed. Two years have somehow gone by, and with the new spring winds of April, I'm realizing that the end is nigh ... or rather the beginning.

We went out for beers and food last night. Hurray! A well-deserved bit of decadence.

Perhaps more important than this is my yoga news. Almost one full year of yoga practice is over. I started in May of last year, and I've done 289 yoga practices. Hope to get it well over the 300 mark by April 30th.

Maybe I'll write a wee poem to celebrate all.

Gratitude

warm socks

fingers and toes

fresh spring pajamas

mascara running

tears

blue eyes

celebration

children harmonizing

lump sticks in my throat

as I drive away

my wee daughter says...

"you're car's goofy and silly like you, mom"

gratitude

Long time no blog

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 18:39:00 +0000

September 27th. Wow. That's a long time since I posted! Too long. New resolution, though not New Years yet - walk everyday - yoga everyday. I'm getting pretty darned good about a regular yoga practice, but I want to work on the walking angle. I read an interesting (pass on message) today, one of those "you've got to pass this on." I almost did because I liked what the author of this message had to say. But I have a rule of never passing on material to innocent e-mail addresses! So, delete. Still, it is worth a comment. Why are people who believe in God so afraid of speaking up about it? The author was a Jew who spoke recently on CBS and asked a lot of important questions on the topic of a nation that now is overtly atheistic. I auote a small bit of it as food for thought.

My confession:
I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are: Christmas trees.It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, "Merry Christmas" to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. It doesn't bother me at all that there is a manger scene on display at a key intersection near my beach house in Malibu. If people want a crèche, it's just as fine with me as is the Menorah a few hundred yards away. I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew, and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians.

Author: Ben Stein.

Writing update and other stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Carol Anne) — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 16:16:00 +0000

Well, this morning I polished off Chapter 38. Yes, I'm over 300 pages now, and have starting fitting my pages into a new binder. Hurray. Chapter 36-38, admittedly, have been much easier going because I already wrote the material in them a long time ago. So I was editing, and moving material around. Still, it's chapter 38 and that's nothing to sniff at.

Attempt #1 at eating locally. Well, I took a quick look at the food that happened to be lying on my counter. ummm. My dried apricots come from turkey (don't we grow apricots in Ontario?). My prunes are made in Canada - somewhere - pretty large space that is. And my big bag of dates come from Pakistan. It's truly a shocker when you realize how far much of your food has travelled. But noticing this is the first step to changing it.

On a completely different note, what a great thing it is to ride silently in the car. I'm sick of all the AUDIO books, and decided to try silence. It's relaxing and quiet, and defintitely worth trying. By the time I reach my destination, I feel as though I've actually had some peaceful time with myself. It's a bit of a revelation for an AUDIO BOOK a phile like me.