A prop for Ferdzy at SeasonalOntarioFood

A bit of a departure here, but an important one. One of my favourite all time blogs that I keep an eye on is SeasonalOntarioFood, brought to us by Ferdzy. Ferdzy has been maintaining a gardening, seasonal eating, and fantastic recipe blog for many years. I have been following Ferdzy's recipes (particularly, but not exclusively, those related to canning) ever since I became a home owner and gardener (not all that long ago really)... and on the DL as I figured I was a learner and not a sharer or a teacher. However, because gardening, harvesting, canning and sharing are an important part of who I am these days - I want to share Ferdzy's talents with all of you. And I will post some photos of recipes of Ferdzy's I have successfully transferred to my canning cupboard (which, by the way, NAILS most of my gift giving needs for a calendar year, although I beef it up with shortbread and truffles...ok and homemade liqueur... during the December festivities). Ferdzy, thank you for all you've done for me over the past few years, and I apologize for being a silent follower. During my first few years of following, I was certain I'd embarrass you, which is why I kept my efforts to imitate you to myself. PLEASE don't stop sharing about what you grow, create, harvest and concoct. You are one of my constant inspirations.

Pictured here are my efforts on Ferdzy's recipes for salsa (I love it because it uses lime juice instead of vinegar), as well as my attempts at dilled carrots and cukes, and finally some jams including Ferdzy's Slightly Lemony Blueberry jam and Vanilla Peach (both of which have been favourably reviewed by my family and friends).

http://seasonalontariofood.blogspot.ca

Update: Literary

When I first started this blog several years ago, I planned it as a celebration of the written word and all things literary (my own efforts and those of others). I realize that I have cross-pollinated quite a bit with some of my other passions, namely music. However there are cables and threads that link artistic pursuits (which is why we have Broadway musicals, rock operas, and Raccoons on Ice) so I don't feel I'm being untrue to my chosen theme by sharing notes on my film and musical projects. That said, I am going to try to package the content a little more comprehensively. Today's update - long overdue - is myself as a book club of one, sharing what I took away from some of my most recent reading experiences.

I read books like sugar junkies binge on candy. Most of the time I have several books on the go at once, and I also frequently re-read my favourites. For many months over the past year, I was battling some anxiety and nerve issues which made it very difficult to concentrate properly, so I was doing more re-reading than new reads. Re-reading a familiar and well-loved work is soothing to me, and I don't feel like I'm missing much if I zone out for a few paragraphs or so. This summer's re-reading list included such behemoths as Gone With the Wind, Game of Thrones (I have the 5 novels on my Kindle and just keep going back to the beginning and reading them all again...endlessly entertaining), and It's So Easy (and Other Lies) by Duff McKagan, one of the founding members of Guns 'N' Roses.

I've read many rocker autobios over the years and this is one of the best. It's well-written (unlike many such books which literally come off as some attention-deficit prima donna ranting stream-of-consciousness blatherings into a tape recorder), it's amusing, and it's encouraging. We have a bass player in one of the top rock bands of its time, who partied and drank so much his pancreas exploded -- he bounces back to become a high performance athlete, has several successful musical off-shoots for which he writes and performs all the songs himself, and he becomes a successful business graduate on top of it all. Highly recommended by yours truly.

On my new-reads list, I have scored some wins and some misses. Let's start with the biggest miss of the season, Emily Giffin's The One and Only.

 I was drawn to this book because of Ms Giffin's prior reputation as a best-seller, although I personally haven't sampled her other work yet. This one, however, was a total let-down. I won't launch any spoilers here if I can help it, but I'll have to discuss the plot a bit in order to explain my low opinion of the story. Before I decided to let loose about this, I checked some of the other criticism for this book at various sites online. Clearly I'm not alone in disliking this book, but not for the same reason as many other readers were dissatisfied with it. Most readers dislike the relentless theme of college football that underpins the whole environment of the book. I'm not a sports fan particularly, but the football focus didn't put me off. Rather, I came to enjoy learning a bit more about the game - the author is a skillful storyteller who doesn't hammer the theme down your throat, she eases it down with tie-ins to why football is so important to the protagonist, and I didn't feel it interfered with the plot or character development. Where the story failed for me was in the other aspects of the characters' portrayals: I didn't believe in the characters, I didn't particularly care about them, and I didn't for one second believe that the two key relationships that were portrayed would ever play out like that in real life. The two main romantic entanglements that the protagonist becomes involved in - which, next to football, are the key ingredients of the plot - were both completely incredible to me; the author did not succeed in persuading me that they were plausible on any level. Suspension of disbelief = epic fail for this story.

While I tend to purchase more ebooks these days in order to conserve real estate on my bookshelves, I couldn't resist a foray into McKay's Used Books and CDs in Knoxville when I was there last month. It is an incredibly awesome store packed with used books, CDs and DVDs in excellent condition at affordable prices.  http://www.mckaybooks.com/  Go see them if you're in the area.
I scored several readables there (I would have bought more but I travel light and my one bag was already overtaxed), including Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. There is a movie out for this as well which has somewhat overshadowed the book; I haven't watched it yet, but I'm keen to see how it would come across on film. The novel is amazing and I urge you to read it even if you've seen the film. Too many plot twists to count, and the author is not afraid to dive into the most unpleasant places in the human mind, which I thought was quite brave and edgy. I'm looking forward to catching up with her other titles.

As the band has a show this weekend, the next post is likely to be more musical than literary. Have a great week!

Shameless Act of Cross-Promotion

On the musical side, I encourage you to check out my band's Web page and Facebook links. We are playing a pre-Hallowe'en show this Wednesday and are setting up more dates to come. Feel free to contact me if you know of anyone that wants to double-bill with a Southern Ontario shock/goth rock ensemble   >:-}

http://www.creepingbeautykills.com/Creeping_Beauty/CREEPING_BEAUTY.html

https://www.facebook.com/CreepingBeautyKills

First instalment: PI / Crime fiction

Meet my latest protagonist: a substance abusing female fledgling private investigator who drinks more than she breathes, lies to everyone except her cats, and has found that sleeping in a coffin is the best cure for insomnia. I promised this instalment awhile ago so I'm making it an extra long one to apologize for the delay. This story will hopefully be completed before December as I'm entering it in NaNoWriMo this November. Read on:

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I woke up alone, hungover, in Archer Portnoy’s coffin. Just a typical Saturday morning, another day in the life.

Archer Portnoy’s coffin is huge. If it were a car, it would be a Hummer; if it were a home in a trailer park, it would be a double-wide. And it is tricked out beyond all belief. If MTV decided to scrap Cribs and do a show about deluxe coffins, Archer Portnoy’s would be first on their list. If there were a TV show called Pimp My Casket, the producers would give Archer Portnoy’s coffin a two-hour special feature.

Archer Portnoy’s coffin is easily the most luxurious item in my otherwise low-key apartment. The exterior is made of burnished mahogany, with polished nickel fastenings (not silver – silver tarnishes way too quickly, especially six feet underground). Inside, it boasts a deluxe sound system built into the satin-tufted side panels with state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers delivering tuneage throughout the burgundy interior.  One of the long lateral panels conceals an insulated compartment just the right size for storing a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses; a shorter panel at the head of the coffin slides open to reveal a box of tissues, a bottle of water, and a small assortment of books. The lid of the coffin is usually open and there is a clamp-held lamp on an adjustable arm attached to the rim, permitting the occupant(s) to read in comfort if the mood strikes.

The coffin sits on a large, sturdy marble platform that rises to about waist-height on me (I’m five foot four). Like the coffin, it was custom built. To get in, simply snap open two strong nickel latches that hold the long edge of the coffin upright; it hinges downward and you can scootch your butt onto the satin and slide yourself in. Raise the panel, flip the latches closed and there you are.

Archer Portnoy thought of everything when he designed this baby (well, everything but the bar and the sound system: those modifications were dreamed up by yours truly); but the truth is, he kind of had to. The man weighed over 400 pounds and, at the age of thirty-four, he realized two things. One was, although he was by most standards still a young man, in his state of health a sudden death was not unlikely. The other was that given his incredible size, dispatching his remains with proper dignity and ceremony would present some challenges.  Fortunately, he had the money and the brains to navigate a solution.

In the mid-1990s, Archer Portnoy was a very rich young man who’d conceived and launched a graphic arts studio in Ottawa. He loved computer games and cartoons, and he built up an excellent stable of artists and computer whizzes at the peak of the high-tech craze. Unlike other companies, which became wedded to chip and wire technology, Archer Portnoy’s company managed to stay ahead of, and even forecast, many consumer trends and was constantly shifting its products to address the rapidly evolving business landscape. Archer expanded from supplying graphics and animation to external clients to designing his own programs, and launched some apps exclusively for hand-held devices which pretty much cemented him as a primary player on the scene. However, with success came pressure and apparently Archer’s favoured method of stress-busting involved cramming high calorie snacks down his neck practically non-stop. That, plus the tendency of people in his line of work to do nothing but sit around tapping computer keys all day, contributed to his becoming what society delicately likes to call “a lard-ass.”

The way I heard it, Archer Portnoy’s physician gave him a complete crapola score on a routine physical somewhere around 1999, and told him that there was so much fatty buildup in his arteries and around his heart that he could have a coronary if he so much as sneezed unexpectedly. Archer Portnoy may have been a fat guy, but he had a well-developed sense of what was and was not dignified, and he quickly decided that it would be most undignified for him to snuff it suddenly, leaving his heirs with the tiresome task of removing the roof of his house so a helicopter could airlift his dead bulk off the premises. Ergo, he commissioned this coffin, and the marble platform on which it rests, so that he could sleep in it every night and spare his loved ones the unpleasant necessity of having to find someone strong enough to heft him off the bed should he die in his sleep. The platform, when Archer owned it, had lockable wheels so his heirs could easily glide him from his house to the funeral parlour, much like a hospital stretcher; and as he spent most of his time in a scooter chair with a hydraulic seat, it wasn’t difficult for him to raise himself up to casket height and simply roll in each night.

A rational person would now ask me why Mr. Portnoy would have put his considerable intelligence and considerable money into this casket to house his considerable earthly remains, and then not be buried in it? I asked that question too, at Archer Portnoy’s estate sale. And nobody could tell me. “Mr. Portnoy’s final wishes made it very clear the casket was to be sold,” the estate agents said.

I didn’t give too much of a damn at that point, because I was in desperate straits and Archer Portnoy’s coffin looked like a darling solution to a dire problem.  I had the money (odd but true…and that is a story for another time). As soon as I looked at its beautifully tufted satin and its confining vastness, I saw both safety and luxury. Kind of like when you’re driving a Mercedes. In fact, aside from my last car (and I haven’t owned a car in nearly a decade), Archer Portnoy’s coffin is the only thing I’ve ever bothered purchasing insurance for. Money aside, I value it very highly: that box is the only place I can catch a decent night’s sleep—and by decent, I mean more than three hours at a stretch.

I wish I knew where Archer Portnoy was buried, because I’d like to take him some flowers. I want to thank him for saving my sanity by giving me the best nights of sleep I’ve ever had in my life.

On this particular day, having risen reluctantly from my coffin, I shlumped into the bathroom and spent a ridiculous amount of time urinating. It actually hurt my head to pee. It’s like my body was so dehydrated, it grudged even that waste water abandoning the desiccated wreck it had become. As soon as I’d flushed and rinsed my hands, I sloppily shook my toothbrush out of the mug by the sink and filled the mug with water from the faucet. It tasted like old mint and dust mites but I drank two mugs down anyway.

There are hangovers you have to sleep off, hangovers you have to walk off, hangovers you have to eat your way through, and hangovers where you wander aimlessly through the rooms of your small apartment, tearing at your hair and groaning periodically, because sitting down, lying down, or eating anything are all completely out of the question. This hangover was of that latter variety. As the apartment isn’t very big, I was soon travelling the same ground and groaning louder each time I looked out the window or (even worse) looked in the bathroom mirror at my own reflection, and realized that nothing felt any better. Or looked any better. I tripped on the cats every second or third circuit.

After an hour or so’s painful pacing, I felt steady enough to attempt some food. I got the coffeemaker going and once that toasty smell began to circulate, I immediately began feeling that there was a possibility I would live through this agony after all. Feeling adventurous, I poured myself some water (into a clean mug from the kitchen, this time) and swallowed two extra strength Tylenol. As soon as the coffeemaker quit burbling I fixed myself a giant mug of brew with some evaporated milk (so thick and rich and yummy) and threw in some brown sugar for good measure. The first sip was absolute manna, and holding the warm mug against my face made my headache feel better.

Two big cups of coffee made a massive improvement in my general health and well-being, and enabled me to tackle the delicate matter of introducing food to a stomach that still felt as though it was pickled in vodka. I started off nibbling some lightly buttered toast; this actually made me feel awesome. In fact, the few bites of toast awakened a raving hunger beast in my guts that suddenly began craving everything from BLTs to pizza and wings, but since all I had in the fridge was bread and eggs I had to make do with a couple of fried-egg sandwiches (toasted, with lots of ketchup on the side for dunking). Does that ever happen to you? Going from queasily hungover to ragingly ravenous like that? It happens to me all the time. One of the reasons the ass of my jeans is getting to be rather too well filled-out, I imagine, but fuck it: no food tastes better than the stuff you eat after a really good session of get-yer-drink-on. And a nice big pig-out can help a hangover in ways you wouldn’t believe…or maybe you would. In any case, on this particular day, it set me up just fine and helped beat back the headache pretty well too.

Now that I was fed, caffeinated, and reasonably sure I was going to make it through the day without projectile vomiting, I decided I should check on the gentleman I’d been out with the night before to see how he was holding up in the aftermath of our excesses. My phone’s a mobile one with one of those headset gadgets so I continued pacing while I waited for the speed dial to kick in. It was six or seven rings before a groggy voice answered the call.

“What do you want?”

“Really, Dale,” I said. “Where are your manners?”

“Fuck you, Cousin. I feel like whale shit today and it’s totally your fault.”

“How do you square that?”

“Because you took me away from a quiet, innocent evening at home and poured beer down my throat til I practically passed out. Then you brought me home – at least I think it was you who brought me home – and left me on the fucking floor. Which, now that I think of it, might have been an act of charity. It would have really sucked to regain consciousness at six this morning to find myself puking in my bed.”

“You puked on your floor?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Awwww.”

“Painfully.”

“Awwww.”

“Colourfully.”

“Gross. Okay, now you’re making me feel bad.”

“I hope so.”

“I don’t mean guilty, I mean physically bad. I’m barely getting over my own nausea, I don’t need a Dayglo description of yours.”

“I don’t care. I hope you feel bad. I hope you feel worse. I hope you puke in your stupid coffin and drown in it.”

“Ouch.”

“So what do you want?”

“Just seeing how you are. Say, what are you doing tonight? Feel like coming out with me?”

“Tonight I’m going to do what I was planning to do last night before you came over and nagged me into keeping you company.”

“You mean you’re going to sit on your gigantic ass and play Diablo online with nerds you’ve never met.”

“Exactly.”

“Dale, that’s pathetic. You spend way too much time alone. You need to get out more.”

“You say that, but your liver isn’t the size of a Crown Victoria this morning. Or maybe it is. It should be, that’s for sure. Either way, I’m not doing jack with you tonight, I’m staying in. I’m staying in all day. God, I feel awful.”

He really did sound terrible. I began to feel rather sorry for him.

“Listen,” I said, injecting a soothing and caring tone into my voice. “Stay in, you probably should if you’re feeling that rotten. But let me come by and take care of you. I’ll bring you some food and aspirin, and at least get you on your feet. And I’ll leave you alone after that to do your dumbass gaming or whatever it is shut-in sociopaths like you do when their cousins aren’t adequate company.”

“Nah,” he answered, sounding a little less grouchy than previously. “That’s cool of you and all, but I’ll get over it. Seriously, Tryx, I don’t want any company today. I’ve taken some Advil and I’m going to phone out for a shawarma or something once my gut settles down a little. I’ll be fine.”

My instinct was to bully him until he gave in. I could picture Dale, unshaven, slumped in his big recliner with his eyes half closed and one huge hand resting protectively on his wide, grumbling tummy. After all, it was partly my fault that he was ill and I realized that leaving him alone to barf on his floor the night before probably hadn’t been the smartest decision…my only real defence being that I had been too messed up myself to realize he was in worse shape than I was. It would soothe my guilt a little to go over to his small, cluttered apartment and nurse him back to a reasonable semblance of normality. However, I wanted him to keep liking me and perhaps a little absence from my company would make him appreciate me better next time I called. I decided to give in.

“Arright, have it your way. But listen, call me if you need me, okay? Anything you need, or just some company. Don’t suffer in silence.”

Dale yawned. “Fine,” he said. “I’m sure I won’t need to, but it’s a nice offer. I guess I’d have to call you at the office if I need you?”

I frowned. “The office? Dale, why would you call me at the office? It’s Saturday.”

There was a puzzled silence at Dale’s end for maybe five seconds. Five seconds, during which a cold dread began leaking into my guts as I glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. The hands stood at twenty minutes to eleven.

“Tryx,” Dale said patiently. “It’s Friday.”

Cursing wildly, I threw the phone at the charger and tore out the door.

More free fiction to come

It has been a long time since I posted anything story-related (my musical and film projects took front stage from mid-2012 til the end). As you know, I love posting story fragments here and I have a big one brewing. My favourite private investigator, "Tryx," will have an instalment on CawsICan shortly. I hope you will enjoy getting to know this dysfunctional PI as much as I've enjoyed writing about her. Stay tuned and thanks as always for reading.

V

Farewell, old friend

This week I retire my four-year-old Motorola cell phone. It has been my exclusive mobile device since August 2008. I kept it till it was literally on its last legs, as you can see from the photo. In addition to needing the rubber band to hold the flipcase shut, the membrane on the directional keys has completely flaked away and the exterior finish bears numerous battle scratches.

In my present state of mind, I can only recall that I was on this device when I received some of the worst news of my life. I know good calls must have taken place as well, but I really only remember the bad ones, and while it's not the phone's fault that the past four years have been rife with bad news, let's say I am not sorry to be taking this baby off its rubber-band life support system and giving it a proper funeral.

In fact, I thought it would be fun to have a nutty destruction ceremony (setting it on fire, dropping it onto the O-Train tracks or similar, and filming the results). However, there is evidently some sort of recycling program whereby I can send my phone to Fido Heaven and they turn it into food for the hungry or development programs for the disadvantaged. I'm all in favour of reversing the weird karma around this phone so off to Fido it will go.

Regardless of the nature of calls that took place on this phone, I would like to thank it for four years of tireless service. It has literally been everywhere and has served me well.

R.I.P.

New Month, New Projects

Hope everyone had an appropriately spooky Hallowe'en.

November has never been one of my favourite months, and this November is no exception. However, there is a lot to look forward to this year, with NaNoWriMo being one of the fun things on the horizon. For various reasons I've been unable to participate the last few years, but have made a commitment to go for it this year and use it as a platform to complete a long work that has been hanging over my head for a loooonnnggg time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the project, NaNoWriMo is an onlilne challenge to complete a novel in one calendar month (emphasis on word count rather than word quality...the idea is to write write write and get something finished -- you can always edit and tinker later). Many well-known authors will be sending you messages of support and encouragement on the way, and you can join a 'support group' in your hometown to aid you on the journey.

The official kickoff was yesterday but you can join at any time: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Best of luck to everyone!

Short Story: The Shepherd

Complete short story about a disturbed man who abducts some hostages in order to prove to his therapist that he is a good caregiver...read on...

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The Shepherd

By Veronika Corvine

Roland stood outside the door to the special room. He was naked, he was trembling, and he was scared. He knew his flock was behind the door, needing him to take care of them; but he was terrified that if he entered, he would do something horrible.

The old floorboards beneath his big feet creaked under his trembling weight. Nervously, he tried to still his shaking limbs, worried that the vulnerable little creatures behind the door would hear him and become disturbed. Roland calmed his own breathing and forced himself to remain very still, so he could hear what they were doing in there. Faintly, oh so faintly, he could hear the rustle of their gentle movements, and their soft whispering.

Clearly he recalled his therapist’s words: You have to be very careful, Roland. You have to watch your temper. Most people know the strength of their bodies and their emotions, but you often don’t realize until it’s too late. This is what has gotten you into trouble before, and it will again… if you don’t remember to be gentle and calm.

Roland met his therapist after an arrest for assaulting a co-worker, another maintenance person at the hotel.  That had been a terrible thing, and Roland had almost lost his job over it. He barely remembered hitting the man; all he could recall was what had led up to it. The younger man, perhaps twenty years of age, was lazy and careless, and preferred baiting Roland to doing any actual work. One day in the lunch room, the young man hid Roland’s lunch sack and laughingly told him he was doing it so Roland could “get rid of that big ole’ gut of yours.”  Roland patiently kept asking for it back, remembering to say “please” each time as his mother had taught him, but he could feel himself getting angry. It’s not fair, he thought to himself. I’m saying the magic word and he still won’t give it back. It’s mine, and I said “please.” It’s not fair.

Finally, the fellow grew bored and pulled Roland’s lunch sack from a locker against the wall. Tossing it carelessly in Roland’s direction, he muttered, “There ya go, ya stupid bastard.”  The last thing Roland recalled was the word stupid reverberating in his skull as a red film bled over his vision. He came to in the back of a large van, with handcuffs on his thick wrists and blood splattered across his knuckles and down his coveralls.

At the police station Roland was asked what had happened. He had to tell them that he didn’t know. (The other man had regained consciousness in hospital, but couldn’t speak because his jaw was broken.) In all likelihood, Roland would have had to stay in jail but his boss, Mr. Sandhu, came to the police station and spoke up for Roland. He related that Roland had been provoked, and that the injured man had been lazy and looking for trouble; he assured the police that Roland was a hard worker and a trustworthy person who just had trouble relating to people the way everyone else did. Thanks to Mr. Sandhu, Roland was assigned a probation officer and ordered to go to counseling; Mr. Sandhu signed some papers and offered Roland a ride home. On the drive to Roland’s small old-fashioned apartment, Mr. Sandhu said Roland would have to do everything the probation officer and the therapist said or he would not be able to keep him on at the hotel. Terrified, Roland promised to do everything he could.

The therapist was a sympathetic woman with large brown eyes. Her name was Louise, just like Roland’s mother. Instead of asking Roland what happened, she asked Roland to tell her how he felt the day he had the fight. Roland told her he had felt just like his awful days back in the schoolyard, when gangs of tough kids would corner him somewhere and taunt him for his slowness, his stupidity, his big bottom. Sometimes they would throw things. Roland’s mother always counseled him to ignore them and he tried hard to do as she said, but one day the bullies managed to pull Roland’s pants down in front of the girls. His vision went red. That day, the schoolyard bullies learned that behind Roland’s puppy fat and large rear end was a very strong, very angry boy. The resulting injuries to the bullies, in addition to Roland’s abysmal performance academically, resulted in Roland leaving school at age twelve and never returning.

Over the next few weeks, Louise attempted to give Roland some suggestions which she said would help him keep his temper. She constantly reminded him that because he was big, he had powers over others which could seriously hurt them, particularly because he could lose control of his emotions so easily. One day he had to shamefully admit to her that the red film had come over him just because he burnt his toast in the toaster. When he recovered, his toaster was in pieces all over the floor and the offending piece of toast was stuffed down the sink drain.

Louise got an idea. She told Roland that he needed to spend time with others who were so much smaller and weaker than he, that he could not fail to understand his power over them. She said that Roland would learn “by association” that he had to be gentle and caring. “You need something to take care of, and I know just the thing. I’ll have it all set up for you when you come for your appointment next week,” she said.

The idea excited Roland tremendously, and he was pleased Louise wanted him to do something with so much responsibility. But that night, he lay awake in agitation. What if the red film came over him, what if he disappointed Louise?  Since the death of his mother five years previously, he had only had Mr. Sandhu to please but Mr. Sandhu had Roland looking after a hotel. Roland knew about setting up tables and chairs at weddings, and hanging decorations at parties. He knew how to set up microphones and speakers for presentations. Sometimes he had to bring a mop and bucket if some child had too much cake at a party and threw up; sometimes he had to unclog toilets and mop floors. Mr. Sandhu’s hotel was made of bricks and steel, and Roland supposed he might do some damage looking after a hotel but nothing that would bruise his knuckles or bloody his coveralls. He was fearful that he would fail at Louise’s task.  Then he got a brilliant idea – an idea so brilliant he couldn’t quite believe he had thought it up out of his own dumb head. I will find my own special project, he thought delightedly. When I see her next week, I’ll have my own special task and I’ll be able to tell her I’ve started the project myself. And I’ll show her how well I’ve been taking care of it for a week already, and she’ll be so proud.

Ironically, it was at the hotel the next day that Roland saw his great opportunity. He was on top of a ladder, looking down at a big celebration underway. He didn’t know what it was; probably a birthday or an anniversary, because there were lots of signs up with a number printed on them and he knew birthdays and anniversaries always had numbers connected with them. Looking down, he saw a group of children playing with a bunch of helium balloons. Just off to the side of the big crowds, on their own in a corner, dancing about with no adults paying them any attention. Alone, delicate, and vulnerable.

Perfect!

He waited until the party was almost over before he made his move. He was a little nervous about luring them away, but none of the big people seemed to notice when Roland approached the gay little group with his hand outstretched.  Roland was concerned Mr. Sandhu wouldn’t approve though, so he made sure that he and his new friends exited by one of the service doors near the parking lot.

Back home, he let the little ones loose in his living room where they scattered about cheerfully while he prepared the extra room for their special use. He taped over the broken pane in the window so they wouldn’t cut themselves, and he took the cushions from his sofa and scattered them around the room so they would have soft places to rest. Gently, he led them each into the room and he closed the door on them and went to bed, feeling very responsible and good.  A half-remembered bible story drifted through his mind, and as he slipped into sleep, he thought I am the Good Shepherd. I tend my flock.

Over the next few days, Roland began to notice how frequently these poor things were left to their own devices at parties. Everyone seemed to want them there but the adults frequently looked right through them, or past them. It was very easy for Roland to take them away, and at the hotel there was no shortage of parties where he could harvest new members for his flock.

He was getting worried about them, though.

At home he rarely opened the door except to let the new ones in, because he was still worried that he might do something to hurt them, however accidentally. The first morning he had gone in to check on them, they crowded around him and one of them bumped hard against the screwdriver protruding from his utility belt. This had resulted in a very bad injury and a deafening noise from his flock. After this he would only enter the room when he was wearing his pajamas or nothing at all.

But he was worrying that perhaps he was not doing enough for them. Keeping them warm, and off the streets, and away from broken glass or sharp objects didn’t seem to be enough. They had companionship (one another) and his intense love from behind the safety of a strong door, yet when he peeked in on them he could tell they lacked the vibrant playfulness they had exhibited at the hotel. They moved around less, and their whispers and excited squeaks had died down to almost nothing. His flock was listless, and their lovely soft skin seemed duller and less smooth than before. Roland thought about feeding them, but had no clue what to provide for them… and, recalling his bad experiences in cleaning up vomit at parties, he worried he might feed them something that would do more harm than good. He had seen people hug their children, and wondered if he should try hugging but was too scared to touch them very often in case he bruised their delicate bodies; also, he had only one more day to go before his appointment with Louise and he figured that the less time he spent with them the less chance there was that he could hurt them before he took them to her.

Last night he had stood outside the door, as he was doing now, naked and scared. “Please, just one more day… just hang on, I need to show her I can take care of you.” The silence from behind the door was dreadful.  He had cracked the door open slightly, and in the faint moonlight from the window he saw they looked worse than ever, and that the hot room smelt musty and had a strange underscent that hinted of something foul.  Quietly he had shut the door and, lying on his bed that night, he had cried for the first time since his mother’s funeral five years ago.

Now, in front of the door, he had a choice to make. His flock had spoken to him in his sleep.  The largest member, the one that had always seemed the gayest, arrayed in bright blue, had talked with him in a dream. Set us free, Roland. You can’t look after us, you can’t help us. We are smothering in this hot room, we are going to shrivel up and die. Set us free.

Could that be the right thing to do? Roland ran a sweaty palm across his forehead, and tugged at his hair. A bead of sweat ran off his protruding belly and he felt it splash on his bare foot, startling him. Just then, his phone rang – shrill and unexpected. He cried out, and ran to pick it up lest the racket disturb his charges.

“Roland? Roland, it’s Louise. Just wanted to make sure you won’t forget our appointment this afternoon… today I have something special for you. Are you still coming?”  Louise, safe and ignorant in her expensive office, gently poked the end of her pen through the bars of the birdcage on her desk. The pretty little finch in the cage gave a soft chirp and tried to nibble the pen with its delicate beak. It jumped up and down on its perch, making the card tied to the cage handle (“To Roland, from your friend Louise”) flutter also.

Roland unstuck his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth. His eyes shot across the room to the closed door and, finally, he knew what he had to do.

“Yes,” he said defeatedly. “I’ll be there. Alone.” Before Louise could question this odd statement, Roland hung up.

With a heavy heart, he dressed in his coveralls but left the tool belt lying on his hall table. He gathered up his flock from the special room, and herded them quietly down the stairs. He wept, seeing how sick they looked, knowing it was his fault. They crowded quietly in the back of his big old panel van; three of them lolled listlessly on the old chunks of carpet that lined the floor. Roland dropped the van into gear and headed for Champlain Lookout.

He parked the van at the bottom of the hill and eased his flock one by one out into the brilliant sunshine. He guided them up the hill, taking care that none of them go astray.  They all paused at the edge of the Lookout, and stared at the sky above and the glistening blue river below.  Roland looked at his flock, and they stared silently back. He brought them to the very edge of the drop.

Set us free, Roland. So said the flock. And in his head he could hear his mother also. Yes, set them free, son. I’ll look after them for you.

Suddenly, a weight lifted from his heart. A brisk breeze lifted his hair, and, grinning madly, Roland tossed his flock one by one over the Lookout.

The shepherd laughed with delight as a dozen brightly coloured balloons left his hands and went up, up to the sky, light as feathers, free as birds.

Reading Material: Then and Now

Due to recent struggles it's been hard to concentrate on new reading matter, so I've been letting my tired mind roam around the old playgrounds of books I've read and enjoyed many times before.


A never-fail cure for the blues is to pick up Mordecai Richler's The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz and read the "Happy Barmitzvah, Bernie!" episode. It is one of the most playful and irreverent passages in modern literature. While other sections of the novel can certainly make a person laugh (or cry), the barmitzvah scene is an absolute howler.

I feel ready to try some new material now as well, so I plan to dive into James Ellroy's The Big Nowhere. I picked it up last winter with the best intentions, on which I shall now follow through. I do love Ellroy.

Death Penalty?

I don't know what it says about my mentality, but I can always remember quotes from fictional characters better than any public figure in real life. Probably they seem more real to me; there have certainly been times in my life where I have spent more time with books than I have with people, and fiction constitutes a large percentage of my reading matter. Powerful fictional characters take on a presence that is both palpable and credible, and I take my hat off to the writers who have parented them. 


In the aftermath and aftershocks of the Troy Davis execution, the words that come to my mind are those of one of the greatest wizards who ever lived:


"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement."
--Gandalf the Grey (Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Rings)


Imaginary or not, I'm sure there are worse role models out there than Gandalf the Grey, Albus Dumbledore, and Lassie.

Another instalment: Under

Another chapter (NOT sequential) for UNDER, the saga of young women in the dawning age of the X Files:

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Kara at Work (Night)

Humidity lies over the city like a damp woolen blanket, driven down upon man and beast by a heat of over thirty degrees Celsius. There are weather warnings in effect: people with respiratory disorders, or the very young or the very old, should stay inside and avoid the heat. All others are advised to take it easy.

The restaurants in the City do not care. Almost all of them thrive in this weather, when people are too hot to cook for themselves. The irony, reflects Kara, is that after deciding to abandon their hot homes and hot stoves for cool and effortless dining, they invariably decide to eat on an outdoor patio underneath the crushing anvil of humid heat. The only reason she can come up with is, that people in the City spend so much of the year battling blizzards and snow that they feel they simply have to dine outdoors whenever it’s warm enough – despite the fact that the current weather is just as uncomfortable, in its way, as the weather they suffer through during the colder months.

Kara likes to be busy, and she wants to make money. But she hates working the patio with a passion. It is at least an extra twenty yards farther to run with dishes and drinks, with the added inconvenience of a flight of stairs to climb. She finds herself embittered towards her clients and her employer at times like these; times where the City itself has issued a warning to all citizens – not just those who don’t work in restaurants, but indeed to all citizens – to avoid any unnecessary exposure to the outdoor elements. Not only is Kara exposed to these elements, she is in fact racing and hauling and lifting and stacking and exerting in these insane temperatures. The restaurant has a perfectly functional air conditioned dining room which every patron seems determined to ignore. With utter complacency, they expose themselves to the dangerous heat and humidity outdoors, while placidly requesting Kara make return trips with more ice, more water, more napkins to sponge the perspiration from their well-to-do brows.

The demands do not end there. Kara remembers the early summer, just as the punishing heat became a daily occurrence. There is a beautiful tree growing in the middle of the terrace, providing shade by day and ornamentation by night, strung with white electric fairy lights. In early summer, a species of lime-green insect bred in the tree, resulting in intermittent cascades of tiny pale-green bugs onto diners, onto their food and into their wine. Customers kept summoning Kara to their tables, snottily insinuating they’d like a fresh carafe of wine “because there are bugs in this one”. In vain Kara tried to point out that the tree was generating the insects, not the restaurant itself. Finally, when she began bringing wine by the glass to the offended diners, protected by a napkin over the mouth of the glass, and came back later to find the guests fishing the bugs out with their teaspoons and drinking the remainder, she realized the customers knew the restaurant was not battling an infestation. But people kept bitching about the green bugs anyway. Kara would say: “We have plenty of seating indoors. There are no green bugs and it’s air conditioned.” Some took her up on it, but most remained outside, ensuring Kara had to keep running the extra yards to bring them extra napkins and teaspoons to deal with the green bugs, and to bring them extra ice water to deal with the heat. She sucks it up and counts her money, but the heat is a crippling addition to the physical demands of the work.

“I don’t fucking get it,” she once vented to one of the cooks. “I rarely get to eat out and to be honest I rarely want to... I spend too much time working in restaurants to really enjoy eating in one. But I can guarantee you, if I’m going to set out forty or fifty dollars for a meal, I’d like to eat inside in an air conditioned, insect-free dining room, thank you very much.”

“Preaching to the choir, doll,” the cook had replied. They were propped against the side of the restaurant, in the brick recess created between two buildings, so the cook could have a cigarette and catch some fresh air between rushes.

Kara had immediately been contrite. “Sorry, Tim,” she said. “I know it must get a lot hotter back in the kitchen than it does outside.” Tim puffed a cloud of smoke towards the lamp over the side door and said nothing.

Tonight, though, with sweat pouring beneath her blouse and her short hair almost completely soaked with perspiration, Kara wishes she were working in the back with Tim. At least she’d be in one place, only having to take a step here and a step there. She wouldn’t be hauling ass up and down stairs, breezing through the air conditioned dining room for mere seconds before plunging into the heavy humidity of the outdoor terrace. She sets her empty tray down on the stand beside the computer, and uses her forearm to sluice moisture from her forehead as she slips behind the bar to mix a margarita. One of the dining room servers throws her a perky smile.

“Hot out there, eh?” she offers.

“Mmmm,” replies Kara, loading ice into the blender. As the newbie, she has to take whatever sections the other servers don’t want to work, and she has been a good sport about it so far. The job is profitable and she doesn’t want to lose it, but she can’t help wishing the others would offer to let her work indoors occasionally.

In this weather, iced cocktails sell very well and the restaurant’s owner has had margaritas on sale ever since the heat wave struck. Kara can put one together in less than six seconds, without even thinking about it. She rapidly measures mix and tequila into the blender and hits the go-button, watching the ice chunks blend into a velvety blizzard of pale green. Quickly she runs a lime wedge around the wide circumference of an oversized cocktail goblet, then inverts the glass and dips it into a saucerful of salt; the lime juice causes the salt to form a thick, frosty-looking rim around the glass. Kara stops the blender and lifts off the glass jug. The lime-green slush pours into the goblet, which she garnishes with more lime wedges and a couple of straws.

She runs water from the small bar sink into the blender jug to rinse it out. While the jug is filling she snags two bottles of Moretti beer from the cooler beneath the bar and uncaps them just as the jug begins to overflow. She takes the necks of the bottles in one hand and sets them on her tray beside the margarita as her right foot kicks the cooler door closed. Her other hand is turning off the water in the sink and dumping the water from the blender jug. She gives the jug a quick wipe with a towel and places it back on the blender unit, and deftly picks two beer glasses from the overhead rack and arranges them on her tray as she’s already exiting the bar. It is important to do all this before the booze in the ’rita has a chance to melt the ice too much and thereby water down the flavour.

A customer at a table facing the bar has been watching this little production, and offers Kara a smile as she passes him with her tray.

“That was poetry in motion, honey,” he grins.

“Thank you, but if you saw it at the end of my shift it might seem more like a dirty limerick,” Kara replies, hoping she sounds more cheery than she feels. Thankfully the man laughs, and Kara heads out to the terrace.

Through the dining room and down the terrace steps trots Kara, carefully watching the ground so she doesn’t trip. (She’s heard this can be sudden death when carrying a tray of drinks; other servers tell her that the way to carry a full tray confidently is to keep your eyes forward and your steps sure. However, after watching a fellow-server go ass over tip down those stairs a couple of weeks ago, Kara keeps her hands on her tray and her eyes firmly on her feet.)

Outside, a light blessing of a breeze has thankfully begun to blow. The moon is out and almost full, and the white fairy lights in the tree in the middle of the terrace make it seem like the stars and sky are very close. Kara delivers the margarita and the two beers, and picks up some empty plates and some orders for more drinks. The terrace seems to be emptying out rather early for a weekend night; apparently there is a big outdoor music festival at a park two blocks away, which is drawing a sizable post-dinner crowd.

Many people begin asking Kara to prepare their checks so they can leave for the concert. With a sense of relief, she heads inside to the computer, glad to know she might finish up a little early. She prints the checks off and returns the top of the terrace stairs, flipping through the guest checks and looking at all her tables to make sure she will give the right check to each customer.

The moon is low in the sky, and the dozen or so margaritas dotted at various tables around the terrace catch its illumination and glow a ghostly, alien green.

About Writing

A quote which speaks to the "write what you know" concept, not as a philosophy but as a necessity to the craft:

“To ask an author who hopes to be a serious writer if his work is autobiographical is like asking a spider where he buys his thread. The spider gets his thread right out of his own guts, and that is where the author gets his writing.” 
--Robertson Davies

Under: Chapter One

Here is the first slice of a large work in progress; Under is the working title at present.

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PART I: RESIDENTS

Kara at Home

Kara has a rule about the phone. For the first full hour following her return to the apartment after work she refuses to lift the phone to make a call or to answer it if it rings. And if the red “New Messages” indicator light is flashing, she won’t check her voicemails. Not for the first hour she’s home, and sometimes even longer than that.

She isn’t unfriendly or antisocial, but when she’s at work she talks to people all the time. Kara has two jobs, one in a video store and one in a restaurant, so she spends eight to fifteen hours each day talking to people because she has to. She has little time to sit and listen to herself think, to daydream, or to rinse out her mind and just think about nothing. That first hour at home, when she talks to no one except her two cats, is a necessary cleansing process.

She used to come home to a ringing phone and feel obligated to race for it, to pick it up in mid-ring while her umbrella dripped on the floor and the cats pirouetted plaintively at her ankles. She’d answer the phone with a snap or a bark, startling and offending whoever was on the other end of the line, whoever had had the effrontery to call at such an inopportune moment. “But you’re never there,” her friends would protest. “When are we supposed to call?” Kara finally realized how unreasonable her behaviour was, so now she doesn’t answer the phone until she’s ready to.

Today has been a long day. Saturdays nearly always are. It began at the video store at nine in the morning, and the store is always busy on Saturdays. Ditto for the little Italian restaurant where she works at night. She unloaded new stock at the store and did a weekly inventory and order sheet for the “oldies” section, and after lunch there was a lineup of customers at the cash register right until four-thirty, when she had to hurriedly change clothes and race to be at the restaurant for five o’clock. Since the June night was warm and balmy, both the dining room and the outdoor terrace were full until well past eleven o’clock. After the stragglers had finally left and the restaurant was cleaned and the patio furniture chained up and locked, it was half-past midnight. The other servers were going to a nearby pub for a couple of beers and invited Kara along, but she was too tired to go.

Home now, slumped on a small loveseat with her feet propped up on a low wooden table, she tips her head back and feels her body sink relentlessly into the cushions. Aside from her thirty-minute lunch and fifteen minute break at the music store, she has been on her feet for sixteen hours. Her feet, released from their shoes, throb gently and there is a heavy dull ache in her kidneys from standing so long.

The light on the phone is blinking. She closes her eyes and sees the flashstain the light has made on her retinas, imprinted against her lids. Both cats are swarming her, one laying claim to her lap and the other perching along the back of the loveseat, butting his head against her shoulder. Kara knows she will need to get up to feed them, to get herself some ibuprofen for her aching back. She knows she should open her mail from yesterday, make a sandwich, check her phone messages.

With a groan, she lowers her feet to the floor and makes her way toward the kitchen, the cats in eager attendance. She fills their food bowls and pours them cold water. Since the night is so hot she adds some ice cubes to the water bowl; they melt quickly but the cats enjoy licking at the ice as it clinks against the edge of the ceramic dish.

While the cats absorb themselves at the trough, Kara walks to the bathroom to change out of the blouse and skirt she wears at work. Moonlight streams through the skylight, turning the shower curtain into a phantom’s cape, and making her jump at her own reflection in the mirror. She flips on the light switch and the spectres retreat. The oversized, ripped black T-shirt she wore to bed last night is hanging on the hook on the back of the door. Kara undresses quickly, dropping her bra and panties into the sink and hanging her skirt and blouse on hangers swinging from the shower curtain rod. She stands at the sink nude, and quickly washes her underthings with a dash of laundry soap and hot water. Just as quickly she rinses them, and hangs them over the towel rod to dry. With her busy schedule, she often washes her small items at home to reduce laundromat trips. The big old-fashioned radiators in Kara’s apartment, and any other viable surfaces, are usualy festooned with drying bras, tights and T-shirts.

In lieu of a time-consuming shower – which she will have to repeat in the morning anyway because the night is so hot – Kara runs a sink full of almost-cold water and soaks a washcloth in it. Wringing it out, she washes her face with an acne-control cleanser. It is a source of irritation to her that, at age twenty-six, she is experiencing the skin disorders of an adolescent. After rinsing her face, she dampens the cloth again and passes it over her shoulders and across her chest, down her stomach and along her arms and legs. It feels deliciously cool.

She drops the large T-shirt over her head and worms her arms into the sleeves as she pads back to the kitchen. There she stands in a slight stupor, unable to recall what she’s come in there for. Then she remembers: food, some ibuprofen, something to drink. The ancient Imperial refrigerator (gently rounded corners, has to be defrosted every three months with pans of hot water and a hair dryer) holds half a tomato, a container of flavoured coffee whitener, a bottle of juice and a plastic bag with two slices of bread in it. Kara gnaws the side of her thumb, chastising herself for not having gone to the supermarket when she got off work early the day before. She could have the bread and tomato now, but she knows she will not have time to grab breakfast on the way to the music store tomorrow, and she finds it hard to work in the morning on an empty stomach.

Behind a weary looking jar of mayonnaise she can see two bottles of Heineken. Resignedly, she pushes the bread to the back of the fridge and pulls out a beer. As she uncaps it, she realizes she has left the bottle of ibuprofen in the bathroom. “Fuck it,” she says out loud, and takes a satisfying pull at the cold green bottle.

Kara returns to the living room, which is very small but looks larger than it is because of the twelve-foot-high ceilings and huge windows. She turns off the lights and turns on her TV, which is second-hand and very old. It only receives two channels, and those are fuzzy and static-ridden, but tonight the reception isn’t too bad and there’s an old Joan Crawford movie on. Kara sets her Heineken down on the little wooden table, making sure a coaster is underneath so the sweat from the bottle won’t make rings on the finish. She slumps sideways against the cushions stacked on the arm of the loveseat, tucking her legs up beside her. The oscillating fan on the shelf by the window swings gently back and forth, ruffling Kara’s hair every trip.

Through half-closed eyes Kara watches Joan Crawford march across the television screen, cutting the air with her shoulder pads and her sculpted hair. One cat curls against Kara’s stomach and the other keeps watch on the armrest by her head, and she falls asleep without finishing her beer, without brushing her teeth, without listening to her phone messages, without finding out who gets the worst of Joan Crawford in the film.

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