word after word after word

on the move

2011-11-23T14:55:00.000-08:00

I've moved my writing home; you can find me at shirleyrudolph.ca.

not such a grind

2011-09-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have been trying to 'do' the Grouse Grind twice a week, which is somewhat ironic, because while my behaviour seems kind of driven, when I get in among the trees (Douglas Fir and Western Cedar, most common on the North Shore mountains) it becomes very meditative, in a physical, sweaty sort of way. I do feel tremendously alive on the trail.

Step after step, my awareness of what keeps my body moving becomes very clear. My heart starts to pound (when I feel my pulse move up into my neck, I take a break) my breathing comes harder, I feel the muscles in my legs start to work. My head gets hot, sweat drips down my face. I finally got some spray for my glasses, so they don't fog up anymore. (This wasn't a problem when I was still wearing contact lenses, though dust was.) I do find that seeing where my feet are stepping is helpful, as there are a lot of stretches of the trail where the steps are made up of rocks and tree roots. (I sometimes thank the trees, when their exposed, bark-protected roots snake over the trail; I know, getting weird.)

chipmunk

Very rarely, I see wild creatures. Squirrels, smaller than the fat sassy ones in the city. Chipmunks. Only twice, deer stepping softly by. The odd raven calling out (ravens are odd by nature). There are occasionally signs posted that bears have been seen in the area, and once or twice, cougar warnings. I've never seen any, though they saunter the streets around North and West Vancouver often enough. I expect both the bears and the cougars have the sense to stay away from this particularly trail, as there are times when it is a constant parade of gasping, panting people, slogging up the slope, not exactly quiet, and not always pretty. I would never go alone on any other trail. On this one I am almost never alone. At the most, maybe five minutes, before I either catch up, or more likely, get overtaken by some speed demon, trying to best their time. It's a rare treat, silence.

my niece saw this one
watching her, far from
the Grind, but a bit close
for comfort

There is constant maintenance on the trail, because of the constant erosion, caused by rain, snow, and us hordes of hikers. In recent years there have been a surprising number of staircases added into the mix. Some are built with wooden beams, which make nice easy steps, and some with huge boulders dug into the trail. The stretches where the steps are made up of the network of tree roots are somehow more satisfying. I haven't seen the guys working so much this year, but last year it was common to come upon them. They had dogs with them (normally not allowed on the trail), a couple of big shepherdy beasts that lounged around while their owner worked. They likely kept down the likelihood of the appearance of those bears and cougars we keep hearing about.

It's a weird kind of trail. I think any other of the North Shore trails, you'll find people actually out hiking, dressed appropriately for the outdoors, carrying packs. The Grind is a workout trail, an extension of the gym for many. People fly past me, dressed quite minimally (sometimes that's good, sometimes not) carrying only a plastic water bottle, wired up with music pumping in their ears. I see plenty of goose flesh on the ride down. (On the cusp of the seasons, spring and fall, there will be overlap of hikers and skiers/snowboarders. An only-in-Vancouver sight, gym gear rubbing up against snow.) Then there are the people who have read about it, but didn't read far enough, and start out in street shoes, or flip-flops, dressed nicely for a saunter around the resort. They tend to turn back early on, though I've seen bare feet on the trail, and near the top too.

hanging out in my brother's
backyard

I'm old enough to ignore fashion (somewhat) so am allowed to carry a (small) pack, and thus have a fleece to put on when I get on top. But I wear my own older-person version of workout gear: shorts, t-shirt, that's it. Soon I may have to put on gloves as the air chills, and I may have to give up the shorts, and put on light pants, or at least take them with me as a change, but my body pumps out so much heat that anything more is torture (it's funny to be sweating and hot and have your fingers freezing, but it happens; it was balmy yesterday). Once I come out on top and stop moving though, brrr. All that sweat gets cold pretty fast.

I don't carry a player of any sort; I turn off my phone (though I bring it, just in case I need to call for help from some gully). I like to hear the ravens laughing at me. I like to hear the wind in the trees (though not too much; once I got stuck on top, waiting for the gondolas to be safe once the wind died down. Brrr, indeed.) I will turn back for hail, I'm not crazy. But if the gate is open, I'm in.

quite the slope

And I do try to shorten my time, I admit it, challenge myself. I'm at about an hour and a quarter now, which isn't at all brag-worthy (brag, brag) but getting there.Yesterday I passed a (young) guy in the last quarter, who had answered his phone. "I'm on..gasp..a hike that is...pant, gasp...brutal," he said. I saw him a few more times, but he didn't finish last, he ended just ahead of me. Gotta maintain some pride, eh? I credit myself with motivating a fair number of grinders, who see me coming, and stop resting. Not that I'm that old, but old enough to make them think of their mother (or grandmother) leaving them in the dust.

I succumb to the same thing, I blush to admit. I passed a guy the other day, who I'm sure was at least ten years older than me, and felt very smug. Later, he caught up and passed me. Lesson learned. Set your own pace well, and you'll get there. What other people are doing doesn't really matter. I'm thinking it's an idea that's applicable to life in general.

drifting on summer time

2011-09-13T11:13:00.000-07:00

It often feels that time is slipping away, but maybe that's because I'm not always clear on where I'm going. I do have a general plan, butcurrents get me. I sometimes wash up in unexpected places, but with a little thought and introspection, perhaps a slight change of perspective, I work these digressions into my own plot. We all get there, in time. Where there is, well that's up to us.

Canada geese, also headed somewhere.

Time got away from me this summer. I try to fit myself into a timetable (I do have a bit of an addiction to spreadsheets) with very little success. Maybe I should learn something from this. Flux is not necessarily bad.

My writing slipped away this summer, causing me angst, until I thought that maybe writing, like any occupation, needs an occasional holiday. It gave way to visitors and holidays and bits of travel. In actual distance traveled, not much, but then when you move the scale down to the ground (or sea) and move slowly enough to see the ocean drift by, or the road spin under your tires, it gives you a different perspective. (And it doesn't rattle your brain quite the way levitating through the air does.)

swallowed into the woods

Although the summer seems to have flown by, when I think about it, time was leisurely. Part of the time anyway. The week I spent on Galiano Island at the end of July slipped by, but in that week, I remembered I could live without electronic communications. No phone, no computer, no cell reception. (No running water either, though the rain barrels pumped out enough to keep the dishes clean.) No sounds except the wind in the trees, ravens laughing in the distance.

Coon Bay, Galiano Island

August though. August flew by. And now it's half-way through September. I worry this is a phenomenon of getting older; you blink, and the season has changed.

On the weekend my love and I took his kayak out for an all too infrequent paddle. We launched into False Creek, and paddled along the shoreline, marvelling at the contrasts, glittering glass towers, a seal poking his nose out of the water.

We had such a peaceful time there within the hum of the city, that we took it out again on Sunday. This time out to Deep Cove, and paddled up Indian Arm. It was an interesting contrast to our city paddle. Instead of tall buildings, steep hillsides, sometimes cliff drop down into the water. Scattered in the trees, clinging to what there is of shoreline, lush and exhorbitant houses sit basking in the semi solitude. Saw several seals. We paddled for almost three hours, away then back again.

summer colour, alas

The whole time, there was the roar of motorboats, echoing off the sides of this little fjord. It was a constant and relentless sound, never stopping for the whole three hours. Sunday on the water. Choppy water too, all those people stirring it up with their outboards. It made me yearn for the peace of False Creek, which in truth was quieter, even in the middle of the city. Galiano, a distant dream.

Today there are clouds everywhere, back to the usual colour of Vancouver's sky. There's a definite feel of fall out there. So I'm going hiking. Quick, before the snow falls on Grouse mountain, the one I can't see anymore, hidden in the fog. It'll be peaceful on the trail.

not so lazy, a bit hazy

2011-08-14T13:53:00.000-07:00


Being a tourist in my own town: Visiting the orphan grizzlies on Grouse Mountain.

So where have I been? Or what have I been doing? Looking back through my calendar, I see that I've been busy with relationships. Friends, family, life sliding by.

Since the hockey riot, which was back in June, I've had an influx of visitors. It started with an old friend, here because her mother needed help. Her visit extended when her mother died, initiating a whole bunch of stuff that just has to be dealt with. My awareness of mortality looms every time someone's mother goes and dies. When my mother died, 23 years ago, it felt like the protective ceiling just disappeared. I'm not sure that's any different no matter what your age. (Forgive me for extrapolating a generality from my own experience. It occurs to me that some people heave a great sigh of relief when their mom checks out.)

I spent a week hanging out, and briefly housing, several of my American cousins, which caused a reunion of Canadian cousins too. During that week my firstborn rolled over to 31, which illustrates the passage of time better than perhaps anything, no matter how much my hair manages to resist grey.

Spent a week in a language class, trying to re-establish some of my brain's memory of the French it was supposed to have learned, almost half a century ago, yikes, time again. I had a great deal of fun, but was so overlapped with summertime visits that I couldn't give it the time it deserved. C'est la vie, mais c'etait amusement (and I intend to find time to continue).

Spent a weekend back-and-forthing to Saltspring Island, for a gathering of my bf's cousins, whose company I like. This is hardly work, but came at the beginning of my away daughter's visit, so I had to stomp out guilt. Leaving town when the away-child is in town! I've never done that before. To do something I might enjoy. Such selfishness. I had to flog myself into it.

I saw two plays at Bard on the Beach with my eldest, a pleasure we've shared since I first took her to see Midsummer Night's Dream when she was 11, an appropriately magical production, as I remember it.

I finally got some time with my visiting daughter, who was in town for a friend's wedding, and stretched out her visit so she could see all her Vancouver connections. She brought the news that I'm going to be a grandmother next year. Er, I mean, that she is going to be a mother. I remind myself, this is all about her. But people will congratulate me, though I've not done anything to make this happen.

There's lots of emotion in this kind of news, mixed in with that awareness of time passing, evidence that I'm well into the senior generation (I'm that ceiling!). I'm probably a bit jealous too; I did love having babies (excepting the pain part). So this is very exciting. A big change, don't I know it, and I feel this trepidation for her, until I knock myself on the head and remember how capable a person she is. And then I think how profoundly better my life is that I know these three children of mine, and I'm glad indeed for one of them to enter the club (not that it's a requirement.). It is something she's wanted for some time, so grand news. Grand.

Among the mundane things of the last weeks, a strata meeting at my complex, lots of little details. (I'm the President, so seem to be the recipient of a lot of emails.) Progress on some repairs, hurray.

Got vaccinated against shingles (at my own cost, saving the medical system potential future costs. Aren't I a good citizen?).

This takes me up to mid-July, when my bf's vacation began, and after a mad scramble to pack for some camping, and some cabining, and some posh housing, we were off to the ferry, again leaving while my daughter was in town, which took another effort of will, believe me. It's not that I see her much when she is here, as I'm not the only person wanting her time, but it's my inclination to be available. Ah well, sometimes schedules don't match. I console my (unreasonable) guilt with the thought that she/they hardly need a (s)mother hovering over them at this age, if she/they ever did.

(to be continued...)

on taxing matters

2011-06-23T15:35:00.000-07:00

When the mail starts to move again, we'll get to vote on whether to keep the HST here in BC, or go back to the old convoluted system of GST & PST. Yes, that's a biased statement. I don't like paying taxes any more than anyone else (I'm as selfish as anyone else) but I do like being able to go to the hospital, to drive on the roads, to hop on a bus, so I expect to pay them. I think it's simpler and there's less waste in paying one set of civil servants instead of two. I don't believe in job creation when it just involves job duplication, which is what I think going back would be.

Saw law student Chris Thompson
on Global News the other night.
His is an independent view:
FightFightHST.com (And yes, I suffer
from confirmation bias, too.)

The argument against the HST vs the old GST & PST is an emotional one. And I'll be the first to admit that my initial response to the Stop HST folks was a very strong feeling that something was fishy, because Bill Vander Zalm was involved. I remember when he was Premier of this province and I remember how he left office. (I didn't vote for him then, and no, I won't vote for him now.)

The main gist of the Fight HST folks, or so it seems to me, is class war, which is funny coming from a not-unwealthy capitalist like Vander Zalm, but explains why the left has jumped on his bandwagon. Poor people against the rich. Who is poor and who is rich is of course very subjective, and it shifts depending on the topic. Labour, for instance, is downtrodden normally, but when demanding higher wages, it slips over to fat cat side. Especially if it's tax money that pays.

Anarchist or opportunist?
Definitely not a tax payer.

Last week's looters were initially pegged as anarchists, which would explain why they thought it was okay to help themselves after the glass was smashed. Someone else can pay! Then it turns out they may be the coddled youngsters of the middle class, therefore just opportunists, with a confused sense of entitlement. Someone else will pay! The anti-HST discussion seems kind of similar to me. Don't expect me to pay! (Fight the Man! Burn the police car!)

It's this self-interest, every person for themselves, that the anti-HST folks are pandering to. Every time people clamour against taxes, they are saying someone else should pay. The success in this kind of thinking is evident in the not-so-admirable side of us that lets us walk away from our garbage after any public event, leaving city workers to sweep up the rubble. (And listen to us squawk when they want an increase themselves. It'll raise our taxes! Who do these fat cats think they are!)

And speaking of fat cats: While there is always nonsense about 'big business' as somehow inherently evil, and not the source of most people's paycheques, google Jimmy Pattison donations, and then say thank you to his public spirit. I did when I visited my father during his stay on the 14th floor of the tower at VGH.

Personally, I think there is no economy without big (and small) business ( small business, good; big business bad: when does one morph into the other? I digress.) I think going backwards to the old tax regime is potentially destructive to that economy. In fact, it's cost us a bundle already, with the time given over to dealing with the anti-HST fight. It's not like we're going to stop paying taxes, after the dust settles. Likely we'll pay more, to clean up the damage, whatever result we get from the referendum.

Here's a different idea. Paying taxes is actually a socialist act. An act for the greater good. There are things we all need, and taxes pay for them collectively. If you are poor, you are better looked after in such a system.

Here's another idea. If you think that 'rich' people are feeling the HST less than the poor, remember that they pay a lot more HST on their Mercedes or BMW than you do on your Kia or Hyundai. And if you can't afford a car, guess what? You don't pay any. Yet you still get to buy bus tickets (which are subsidized one way or another through taxes, though we complain bitterly).

We all pay income tax if we have an income. It doesn't matter whether we have lots left over after paying our mortgage in Prince George, or none because we pay our mortgage in Vancouver. Income tax doesn't care. But if we live here in Vancouver, then we make the choice to do without some things in order to afford to live here. And we don't pay any HST on those things we don't buy.

Our system is based on a lot of trust. Trust that there are more good people out there than bad. That the good people will come out the morning after and sweep up the broken glass. And they do.

The fight against HST is based on distrust. The belief that no matter what someone says, once they are in government they are lying and tricking us. So we shoot ourselves, to spite them. That's what I think.

party crashers

2011-06-17T13:32:00.000-07:00

They rise up out of their parents' basements, tank up on booze, and look for a fight. The word goes out that some hapless kid is having a party because the folks are out, and they swarm the place, destroy and steal things, and fight. The police are called. People end up traumatized, people end up in hospital. It happens all the time. It's a micro example of the macro event that happened to Vancouver the night that Boston won the Stanley Cup.

The scene outside my window.

It was not about the hockey. Hockey's a game. It was not about the Canucks losing. Every team lost, except Boston. The Canucks just got to play longer. They were fabulous this season, and gave the city a tremendous lift in spirit, and it was great, but it wasn't the end of the world that they lost to a better team. They'll be playing again next year, working hard to be the best team. And we'll all be cheering them on next year. But get real; the team may play in Vancouver, but the players are hired to do a job. That's why the only 'real' Vancouver player, Killarney boy Lucic, was playing for Boston. We can cheer that. The Stanley Cup will come to Vancouver! Brought by an actual Vancouverite! But it's fun to pretend, and it's fun to cheer for 'our team' to win. Face it. You win some, you lose some, but it doesn't necessarily make you losers.

No, the losers are the poor saps who decided, in a strangely twisted way of (not) thinking, that they would crash the party.

In behind those building? The scenes of the crimes.
Hard to believe.

They rode into town on ferries, skytrains, buses (no concept that a lot of hard work and expense went into those systems, whatever, who cares). Maybe they even drove, parking well away from the 'fan zone.' They were excited to use the excuse of a hockey game to attack the city that somehow offends them. A lot of guys brought tools for the job. They certainly weren't coming for the hockey game. Lots of them, I'm sure, will be 'known to police.' More troubling are the huge numbers swept up in the excitement, part of a hyena pack, clueless to the harm they were causing, or worse, not caring, just glad to be able to join in smashing and stealing things. Empathy sadly lacking. It's almost like the mob (non)brain is a force of nature; there's no stopping the flood. It's mindless and it's extremely dangerous.

I felt the same despair watching as one young woman I saw on the news. She was trying to stop people from destroying a car on Seymour Street. "What's wrong with you people?" There is no answer to that. Nothing. Everything.

It's a common story in Wild West stories, the thin veneer of civilization on the frontier. The mild-mannered townspeople are always totally gobsmacked by the gang of thugs riding into town to destroy things, and there are never enough sheriffs or enough citizens brave enough to get in the way, though there are always some, as there were here. What we did see here was young people behaving incredibly badly, with some kind of utterly lame-brained sense of entitlement to just help themselves to other peoples' things. And the taunting/hatred of the police as if they are the enemy? Earth to the rioters: you are the enemy. You are why we have a police force.

The route out of Dodge. The
game has just ended, and smart
fans are crossing the bridge.

This is an expensive city. I don't think we actually have enough young people living here to get that many drunken louts downtown. No, we invited the neighbours to a party, and the word got out. Then the crashers assaulted us. The fault doesn't lie with the people who held the party, it lies with those who wrecked it. Unfortunately though, even if we manage to toss them all into jail, it's us that gets to pay to keep them there.

I've heard them called idiots, bullies, hooligans, yahoos, fools, scum, psychopaths, thugs, and it's hard to disagree. A lot of the faces I've seen in images are very young. Some of them might even be bright, who knows? But they seem to have missed that we're all in this together, that their stupid and completely criminal actions will cost our city an unimaginable amount of money, in repairs, in tourism, in insurance, in court costs, in the inevitable studies and reports. I hope they will be ashamed of themselves. I also hope they enjoy the crowded remand centres when they get arrested, as the money is now a bit more stretched.

I came upon a "pity party"
(their phrase), laughing on
the street.

I could hear the helicopters buzzing over downtown, never a good sign. So I thought I'd go for a walk, and see how my part of the city felt, while the mob slouched through our downtown. There was a sense of letdown out here in normal-land, but it was in perspective; we lost the game, oh well, isn't it a beautiful night?

So yeah, the trash trashed us, and we're all feeling the bafflement and pain, and yes, wariness, after falling victim to an utterly senseless assault. It'll take some time to get over, but it won't keep us out of the downtown, and we may still have parties. Carefully.

Just please don't tell me I'm responsible for my black eye. I didn't punch myself in the face.

False Creek, looking northwest, as the sun goes down.

traffic mayhem

2011-06-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

city skyline: ain't it pretty?

I was going to talk about the Canucks, but on Friday before the game, I went on a day-long journey that took my mind off hockey for awhile. I had offered to make a few deliveries for the Writers' Festival. I've done this before, taken stuff out to the various school boards in the Fraser Valley, as enticement for their teachers to plan field trips come the next October. I had five packages to deliver, and I entertained myself mapping out a route. I like road trips, and think of this one as a simulated road trip, that ends up at home.

I like to find new roads, rubberneck routes I haven't been on, not just follow major highways. I might call them the routes less traveled, but that's not precisely correct. They are the routes less traveled by me. And may stay that way now.

When I read Neuromancer, by William Gibson, many years back now, one of the things that struck me (out of many) was his term for the place his character lived: the Sprawl. The name conjured up an image of endless city, lots of smoke, dust and mayhem. I never pictured it as being anything like our lovely city by the sea.

I started out aiming for New Westminster, headed out along Marine Way, actually knowing the route I was following. It changes though, every time I go. Originally kind of a bypass to the city it's grown into a major route, full of traffic and trucks, with all kinds of construction and a massive mall along the way. This used to be a nice drive through the country, past myriad market gardens. You can read about it in the Swamp Angel by Ethel Wilson, as Marine Drive is the route the main character takes to get out of town, on her escape from her marriage. Out of the soulless city, into a lush, green verdant landscape stretching south to the river.

not this bad...yet

Well, part of Marine Drive still exists, and still has a few farms on it. But just south of it is the roar of Marine Way blocking that stretch to the river. Now most of this fantastic delta land, rich river deposit, is covering over with development, hidden under the cacophony of truck engines.

Coming into New Westminster this way it gets particularly hectic, as the sedate route that was (oh, my, I'm getting old) has given over to impressive interchanges and caravans of rumbling trucks and cars, a major route to Surrey. There are so many people constantly on the move, it boggles.

I know New Westminster well enough that I picked the fewer-trucks route to get past the Trans Canada and through to Coquitlam to find that school board office. It wasn't that bad a journey; there are long stretches of pleasant-valley kind of suburban housing, and still, lots of trees. From Coquitlam's school board I figured out how to cross over to the Barnett Highway and out to Maple Ridge. The route my mind keeps remembering as farmland stretching from Coquitlam/Port Moody all the way to Haney, where my mother grew up. Alas, no one even knows where Haney is anymore, as it's been long absorbed into Maple Ridge. Maybe they notice the Haney bypass, that doesn't bypass much, anymore.

seen from Mission, Abbotsford
is hidden behind the greenery

My memories proved trustworthy though as I took the further drive out to Mission, a drive that I absolutely love, the valley is so lush this time of year. I took the bridge across to Abbotsford, one more delivery to make. The route into Abbotsford is still farmland, a peaceful reminder of the Fraser Valley that was. Then I thought I would swoop through to Langley, make my last drop-off, and head home, following the old highway one, Fraser Highway, which to my mind should meander through farmland before it ran into the suburban sprawl of Surrey.

What was I thinking? First of all, there is no longer a country break on that drive from Abbotsford to Langley. There are a gazillion people have moved out into the valley, to get away from the city, ironic as that is, or quite likely because they can't afford the absurd price of living in Vancouver. But what a penalty they are charged! There are still plenty of trees out there, but it's hard to spot them through the dust of road construction, and the glaze your eyes take on, as you inch forward in first gear. The Fraser Highway is being widened, because it is a constant bottleneck. The Trans Canada is also being widened through Langley and Surrey, to connect with the new larger bridge crossing the river. The old one is hopeless, there is so much traffic.

going west towards the city
the Fraser highway actually
narrows into one lane

I lost my desire for the scenic route and headed for that major highway, but found that it too requires first gear, occasionally second. Once in a while I put the car in neutral and just rolled. It took me about an hour and a half longer than I figured it would, delayed as I was, and now sucked into traveling in "rush" hour. And I was traveling into the city, the direction that is supposed to be against the traffic. Hah. What's it like for the majority heading out?

I just kept wondering, how do people do this every day? I was a wreck when I finally got out of my car. And how can our government think that after all the years of subjecting all these people who live east of the "most liveable city," that the bridge that is supposed to alleviate some of this nonsense, should be a toll bridge? And don't suggest people use transit. There is no transit worth mentioning out there; Sky Train barely makes it across the river, and there's certainly no overabundance of buses either. I did see some kids in Canucks jerseys hitch-hiking at a bus stop on the Fraser Highway, with some feeble hope of getting somewhere before the game started. Lots of people waiting. But the buses can't get out of first gear either, so it hardly helps to get on one. Anyway, I saw maybe two buses in the couple hours it took me to get back onto Vancouver city streets.

Ah well, at the end of the day, I got to watch the Canucks redeem themselves, and win one more hockey game, which went to easing the pain a bit. It at least gives people something to cheer about, as they are stuck in their cars, trying to get somewhere to watch the game, at a time of day that is set for the convenience of other places. But I guess people get used to that.

infrastructure

2011-05-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

click on any of the pictures
for a better view

We all take a lot for granted. Turn on the taps, flick on the lights, turn up the heat, toss food in the fridge. I certainly don't often think much about the 'magic' that goes into supporting the rather easy life I live. It hasn't escaped my notice though, that getting anywhere is made a lot easier by the fact that there are a lot of people involved in creating all this magic (applied science). It's kind of funny really, because I'm one of those Arts grads (from long ago) who was dismissive of anything outside my tiny world view. I will only say, that in my older age, I've grown up a bit, and appreciate it greatly when I step out to walk across a bridge, or get on a bus, or turn on my car, that there are Science grads too.

some of the tools

This past week it's become a little bit more visible how that magic is created. My little neighbourhood has been turned temporarily upside down by an extremely complicated hydro project, one that is intended to increase capacity for power in nearby areas. It's not surprising, when you stop to think about it, which we don't often, that there would have to be some new wiring put in here and there to support the myriad new buildings that keep appearing on our landscape. Each time a new tower goes up, it's like a new village is added, sometimes a small town, except it goes up, rather than out. It has to plug in somewhere.

strange beast

Project management is visible everywhere, made concrete by the appearance of bulldozers, flag-people, hardhats, heavy equipment operators (lots of 12 hour shifts) email updates, traffic diversions, shuttle buses, and the inevitable delays of any renovation project. It's also made visible by the appearance of seven 850 metre long pipes stretched in a bundle along West 8th Avenue, looking for all the world like some exo skeleton, or a sea serpent (on a solid sea), stretching some five or six blocks. It was dragged up here during the night, after being assembled alongside the oh-so-briefly-used streetcar tracks stretching between Granville Island and the Olympic Village station.

The pipe bundle was pulled along West 6th Avenue (blocking traffic completely, and snarling up Broadway for miles) up Willow Street, and then laid out along West 8th, where I found it when I was trying to walk up to Broadway a few days ago.


the pipe bundle was capped, to pull it to the holding area

It made for a much longer walk than I'd planned (I didn't bother hopping on the shuttle) but also a lot more interesting one than I usually find around here.

the bundle diving into
the ground

Yesterday the bundle started to move. It makes a turn now down Laurel Street, and then at West 7th slides into a bore hole. It is being pulled through (not pushed) across False Creek into David Lam Park. Lots of machinery and hardhats over there too. It might be finished today. Maybe tomorrow. I've had renovations done, so I know it'll be done when it's done.

the crane, just visible at the
centre of this photo, is where the
pipe bundle is diving underground

The pipe bundle will be encased with concrete, which will insulate and protect it. The drilling mud gets sucked out the other end by vacuum trucks. Eventually the pipes will house cable, connected to a new substation to keep our city chugging along, while we inevitably complain about rising rates.

The tranquil view to the right doesn't show it, but the pipe bundle is there, inching it's way under False Creek. The crane where the pipe bundle goes underground is just visible right in the centre of the picture.

oasis

2011-05-17T15:39:00.000-07:00

the view from the balcony
blissful in any weather

We spent the weekend in Osoyoos, BC. It likes to call itself desert country, but I find that Wikipedia says it's actually shrub-steppe. That seems like quibbling though, because it's usually dry and this time of year, hot, which is what draws us escapees from the rain. It's a beautiful drive from Vancouver, if the weather behaves, which it did on our trip out. We followed the road less travelled, Highway 3 from Hope, following the Similkameen River through Manning Park to Princeton, then on to Keremeos and Osoyoos. (I love even the names.)

The first time my sweetheart and I stopped in Osoyoos was at the start of a road trip that had no plan. We meant to spend just the one night there, but realized we'd found a treasure; off season rates for a motel room with the balcony hanging over a sandy beach. So we stayed all weekend, straying out of our room to walk along the beach, and then to take drives around to some of the wineries that absolutely litter the Okanagan Valley.

We've been back several times. One year we took the kayak, but it stayed out of the water, because even though it was hot and sunny, the wind was fierce, and the waves crashed all weekend. Last year I got a sunburn the day we took the kayak out on a beautiful calm day, I was so unprepared for the leap into summer.

This year, we listened to the waves, and we saw some rain. Rain! And it wasn't warm! Well, it wasn't warm in Osoyoos terms, but still, my Vancouver self was happy to wear flip flops all weekend. And the rain was pretty inconsequential. Not what we call rain. Still, wet enough to keep us in, and I did sit outside with a blanket, even though it was warmer than Vancouver; both places are suffering unseasonably cold temperatures. People did tell us that it was hot last week. Ah well, it'll be hot next week too, but we'll be back in Vancouver. Timing is everything I guess.

So what did we do? Read. Slept. Listened to the quiet lapping of the lake outside our window which was fairly constant except for that period in the evening when lakes fall still. Sat on the balcony, drank tea and gazed at the view.


there are marmots lined up on the doorstep; you can see them, if you click on the pic

We went to the pub to watch the Canucks win the first game in the latest round on their road to the Stanley Cup (whoo hoo!). Listened to the place erupt with joy (shouted along) each time a Canuck scored. Had breakfast a couple times at a local cafe, and talked with the owner about her sleepy town. Watched a colony of yellow-bellied (I looked them up, to see what kind) marmots hanging out in an empty lot. Walked along the lakeside. It was hardly hardship.

Driving home, we retraced our path through different climate zones, as the trees gradually grow thicker as you head west. We spotted lots of deer, missed hitting another little marmot. We stopped in Keremeos to visit an elderly cousin, then carried on through Hedley, where we have yet to stop to visit the now tourist site of an old gold mine. We did stop there one year to wander through a fantastic jumble of stuff in a second hand store. Hedley has about 350 people, so it's not exactly a large town. There are a lot of places it's size, too, scattered throughout the province. Osoyoos itself is hardly a metropolis, with a population apparently around 5000, though I'm not convinced of that. For the months of July and August it of course swells.

Driving outside of Vancouver always reminds me how few we are in this part of the world. It feels so crowded and busy here (it is crowded and busy here) that your perspective gets a bit warped. But outside the city, people are spread out, life is slower, and different things matter. I was thinking about this, as we wound our way home. That the recent election saw, as usual, a clean sweep of Conservatives in the interior of BC. Traveling through you realize that people have very different things on their minds, scraping a living out of rural landscapes. The concerns of city folk are different.

In Manning Park, we pulled over to admire a black bear, who considered us, and then faded back into the trees, perhaps recognizing our city dweller-ness, basically irrelevant to the bear's existence. Through the park the rain came down, drifting toward sleet as the temperature also came down, but in the end it only hinted at winter, likely just a last gasp.

The last stretch of road, before you get back to Hope, is truly awe inspiring, the tree clad mountains rising up almost vertically from the river, with the road snaking along beside it. The clouds clung in wisps adding a sense of mystery and remoteness. And the downpour reminded me that sometimes these mountains are not as permanent as they look. We drove past the Hope slide, disinclined to get out of the car in all the rain, but one year we stopped to marvel at the sight of rubble stretched through the valley, where the side of a mountain slid down in 1965.

This year we beat it out of the mountains, and raced our car down the lush green Fraser Valley where, oddly enough, the sky looked brighter out west, over Vancouver.

And there you have it. The sun is shining here, today, and it's supposed to last all week. Last week's hailstorm, history.

moms the word for this epoch

2011-05-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

my grandmother with my mother

I stumbled over the word epochal yesterday and thought that's the word to use for the arrival of myself into motherhood. I used to say it was an apocalypse in my life when I became a mother, apocalyptic in the sense that my old life was absolutely, completely, over. The word has too many religious senses to it, however, and anyway, people always seem to think I mean something bad.

What I really mean is that the person I was, before my first child was born, had no idea what she was stepping into. I found that the change from not-mother to mother was profound, and I couldn't go back. And I was not prepared. There I was, an innocent walking down the street, and then blam, I was blown into this other existence, a different dimension, where what I did mattered. I think that's the key. What I did before didn't matter, and then it did. It wasn't all about me anymore. New epoch.

my mother with me

And I don't want to go back. That's the astonishing thing, but much as I might whine about how hard it was, learning how to care for infants, then children, then adolescents, now young adults, learning how to back off and respect their ability to get it right, while I was still doubting my own ability to manoeuvre through my life. Endless peanut butter sandwiches, constantly looking for the (sticky) floor under all the rubble. No, I don't mind that the sticky floor days are gone, but I wouldn't go back to pre-motherhood. Nope. It defies logic, because of course it's about heart. And anyway, they've made me a better person.

Of course it's different now. It's still not all about me, but in a different sense. They're launched into their lives, and now when I hear from them, I feel simply and truly glad that I'm some kind of touchstone (and not an albatross). And I think that's fair enough for me to say.

and then it was my turn

And that doesn't take anything away from me as individual, still working at stuff, still engaged, working on this epoch, the so-called empty nest time. I'm still alive, and intend to be for a very long time. There's lots I still want to do. It's just that now I do things with always the knowledge that I'm somebody's mom. It's never not there. It's not that I'm living through them. It's just that they are alive. It's a gift I didn't realize I was getting, when I thought "I want to have a baby", which was an all-about-me thought. It gets hazier with the next two "I want another" times. I knew what I was doing. Sort of.

So that's one of the marvelous things, is that they taught me about myself (and continue to do so!). I apologize for the slow learning, and any damage I may (probably) have inflicted along the way, but my world is vastly improved by the existence of my children.

So yes, epochal, that's a much better word. No connotations hanging from it, but it certainly carries all the import of becoming mother. It's not a switching over to the dark side (though they will treat you as though that's where you're coming from, for some really brief teen years) but it certainly switches you over to another side. Even more astonishing, you find yourself feeling some sympathy for your own mother, and what she was up against.

To borrow, and repurpose, some words from Elton John, a little message to my kids:

I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're [all] in the world

And even though she's gone from the world, thanks to my own mother for bringing me into the mix. I miss her.

what do I know

2011-05-06T11:03:00.000-07:00

I went to listen to Elizabeth Hay and Miriam Toews at a Writers Fest event last night. They make a good team on stage. They told stories about how their current novels came into being. They each read from the beginnings of their novels, and then answered questions. Oh, and they made us laugh, which I'd been forgetting to do lately.

At these sorts of events, the questions often range around How do you do it? and Where do you get your ideas? How autobiographical is it? (I guess when people write memoir, we should start asking how fictional is it?)

Apparently it's not easy to drag a completed novel out of yourself. Both women are funny, which makes for an entertaining evening. They also seem remarkably human, which is encouraging for an aspiring, currently blocked, novelist.

I've had one of those periods where I doubt myself constantly. Can't make decisions (well, I did when I voted, but I'm still questioning my decision). Start things but don't finish them. I've gotten caught up in worry about my future (delayed birthday effect?). I'm certain I've sorely offended several people. I remember a whole bunch of incidents where I've been very much a not-nice girl. These stretch back over years, and my memories are probably fiction.

Anxiety is a condition that soaks my family, so I'm not alone in the circular thoughts and self doubts.

The odd thing is that, even when I'm in the midst of it, I know that it's not reality based. I mean, there's something going on that's triggered it, and I might indeed have said the wrong thing here and there, but my reaction is always way over and beyond. I'm not really that significant. Basically, I recognize that I'm a bit of a nutcase.

Alcohol used to defuse the feeling, temporarily, but I've stopped using the stuff except for extremely rare occasions. Because of course alcohol opens up it's own can of worms, if you're susceptible, which I think I am. Come to think of it, alcohol was always only temporary, because I'd wake up next day remembering whatever I'd done, and then add in embarrassment and repentance. Circular thoughts and self doubt can easily pick up steam in a hangover.

It's kind of like the gallbladder attacks I used to get (that was reality, so I got to cut it out). They would, interestingly, start in about the same location as my anxiety does, and pretty much take over for a period of time. Sometime rolling on the floor helped, sometimes pacing. Long walks were actually helpful. That works with anxiety too, rolling on the floor less so. But after a time the attack would pass. But I can't surgically cut out the anxiety, because, though it feels like its situated in my stomach, it's actually emanating from my brain. On other days I feel like a very worthwhile person, and I never make mistakes. Always right. Peaks and valleys.

I'm somewhere in between today, which is the best place. Normal, eh? I'll be able to get some things done. I started reading a book called The War of Art: break through the blocks and win your inner creative battles. Creative battles aren't just the big projects, but all the little ones, so that at the end of each day, you go to bed thinking/feeling you are on the right path. I managed that yesterday, oddly enough, even though the day began with the roiling in my gut. Laughing before bed, maybe that's the trick.

on not choosing

2011-05-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

That was an interesting election night. I can't say I'm happy with the results, but certainly intrigued. We have a majority Conservative government, which I'm not happy about, but I accept the result. That's how the system works.

I'm glad to see Elizabeth May got elected. I'm glad to see we now have a nationalist party representing Quebec, that they voted for working withing the system (for now). I'm happy to see the NDP as the official Opposition. I hope they are effective. I thought Harper gave a nice speech.

But we can only guess at the message sent by those who didn't vote. My first impulse on watching the returns was to think, oh, no, the centre/left vote is being split by the anti-conservatives!

The country went Conservative, and the vote split suggests most Canadians will be a bit disgruntled this morning, as many more of them voted against the Conservatives than for.

Across the country, just under 40% of the population didn't vote, which might mean that whatever happens is just fine with them. That puts the popular (?) vote for the blue party a lot higher, if indifference can be said to be a vote. (The Elections Canada site has the turnout at 61.4%, the last time I checked, but not all the numbers are up.)

We know the Conservative party doesn't like census data that gives accurate results, so this amorphous reasoning may be as good as any for them.

Now you might say that people didn't vote because our system allows people with a minority of the popular vote to win a majority. The deck is stacked, you can't win. Which is how it feels when there is a three-way split, and the two losers have policies that are pretty darn close, but neither wins.

But when you don't vote, it's only guesswork what your reasons were. If the non-voters actually have a preference, it's as clear as smoke. Which means the new government can assume everything is fine with those non-voters, and so their majority has added meaning.

If everyone voted (what a fantasy, eh?) then the Conservatives, even with a win based on all the vote-splitting, would at least know there was a large base of people out there unhappy with them. Or they'd have a clear majority, which would it easier for me, for one, to accept our fate. As it stands, they can take whatever meaning they like from the poll of non-voters.

My point is, apathy hands over power. Whether it's the actual choice of the non-voting public, is anyone's guess.

Whatever.

What a week, eh? Wedding of the Century, Obama takes out Osama, Harpo gets his majority, and now, we can get back to what Vancouver really cares about. The Canucks. Third game of the series, in Nashville tonight, and how that ends is very important. Anyway, at least with a two party event like this, there'll be no confusion about how the goals are ranked.

If you are Canadian, and aren't voting, what's stopping you?

2011-05-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

easy enough

Seriously, what's your problem? Vote today because you can. This is a point that has meaning. It's pretty simple to do, but it wasn't simple getting to this point. Some history (remember it or repeat it!):

The British North America Act, uniting New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and the Province of Canada in a single political entity, was given royal assent on March 31, 1867, and came into force the following July 1.

but!

only a small fraction of the voters in the founding colonies had been given an opportunity to decide their political future; the others were presented deliberately with a fait accompli. Since then, as subsequent events have shown, the relative influence of voters in Canadian parliamentary institutions has grown appreciably – to the point where today, politicians would not likely venture to act as the Fathers of Confederation did without consulting the electorate.

---(From the section, Voters and Confederation, in "A History of the Vote in Canada" on Elections Canada's site.)

Did you notice the use of the term "not likely"? Nothing is set in stone. (Can you spell prorogue?)

Federally, the 'privilege' to vote varied depending on tinkering from the provinces. The "ethnic factor" in different regions was a factor, as was gender, property and income. Class, in other words.

Canada's first federal election was in 1867. Some people had the privilege to decide on their electoral fate. There was no UN overseeing the validity of any votes. Still, we were on the way. It's a complicated story, but the slow trickle from a privilege to a right had begun.

Then, imagine:

in 1918 'all' women can vote federally (1919: women can run for federal office)
1947: Chinese and Indo-Canadians including even the female ones
1948: Japanese Canadians, male, female, what's the dif
1960: Aboriginals (they could vote earlier if they gave up their status! What a choice!)
1982: Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms enshrines the right to vote for all Canadians.

Turnout for the 2008 election was an abysmal 58.8%. Are we back to leaving it to our betters to decide?

I don't understand why people voluntarily give this up. It seems to be worth dying for in some countries.

The polls close on the west coast at 7 pm. Not much time left.

cell phone rant

2011-04-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

If Canadians are having trouble with debt, perhaps our politicians should look at the way the wireless world gouges its customers, because I'll bet there are an awful lot of people out there who weep when they get their phone bill.

Cell phones are an addiction that is almost impossible to recover from. I speak as someone who hasn't recovered, but is working on keeping it to a manageable evil. Whenever I think of tossing my phone (against a wall) I remember dark nights with flat tires, and am grateful for the convenience. That's how they get you; they're so bloody convenient. But it's not easy. The dealers know how to hook you, and they don't want you to be sensible.

In case you haven't already guessed it: I absolutely hate cell phone plans. I detest cell phone plans. I abhor the devious way that the phone companies work to obscure and confuse (bait and switch?) so that no matter how you try to set up your usage, they will get your money. I say this, even though I have just switched to a new company, and think I've set it up to work (better) for me this time. But I'm sure the new guys will get extra dollars out of me even though I'm wary now. And I might have tried to work out a new arrangement with my last dealer, but you can only be abused so many times, and then you have to break up. You just have to.

It is incredibly difficult to figure out any kind of phone 'plan' that will actually provide what you need in a way that doesn't cost you more money than it should. In other words, the wireless companies, all of them, work really hard to make up these 'plans' so that you'll trip. And the plans change constantly, and what you might be quoted in a store won't be the same as what you find online, and the next store will have different 'deals' too. And when you think you've thought of everything the extras will hamstring you. Though my experience until just now has been with Rogers, when I read through the choices on other company's websites, I can see that they all play the same games.

Watch out for activation fees. This is a fee for the privilege of setting up to pay them monthly for years.
Watch out for roaming charges and long distance. Either pay for a plan (insurance) for something you don't need, or pay for it at five times the price when you occasionally do. Pick the cheek you want them to hit.
Expect incoming wrong numbers to use up your time.
Make sure you have texting included. It costs them nothing, but they want you to pay for it.

I have no idea how people survive with 'smart' phones, and the added complexity of 'data' plans; it makes me shudder. Oh, they're smart, the telecoms. Get people hooked on instant email and Internet as well, and all this nonsense about the Internet being free will be forgotten. Who wants to access a free web site when you can pay for it on your phone? (I know, the free web site isn't free either, because you pay for Internet access too. Just like the "free" channels on your cable come at a price. You'll notice the telecoms and cable companies are mining the same soil.)

My addiction to cell phones began around fifteen years ago when, in an unwary moment, I signed on. I was instantly addicted. As an overwhelmed single mother, I found I could check that my adolescent children were still alive whenever they failed to return home by three or four in the morning. (I could count on them not turning off the phones, because that would cut them off instant access to their friends.) It seemed reasonable at the time, but my oh my did Rogers punish me for assuaging my anxiety.

And so, for all these years I have paid and paid, for god-knows-how-much airtime I haven't actually needed or used. None of the companies have any memory, so unused minutes do not carry over to the next month. But run over your time in any one month, nevermind that you've not used hours and hours of minutes since you began, and whammo, extra, generally brutal, charges pile up.

As my children became adults I transferred their numbers over to their own control, feeling both relief and guilt, as I fear the expense may cripple each of them.

You've heard that your number is portable now, right? Well, as soon as that law came into being, the companies all changed their contract wording so that they could gouge you extra if you cancelled a contract. When I migrated the last extra number I was maintaining, into the control of my youngest, I thought I was safely into the month-to-month zone. Rogers charged me the $400 anyway. On my protest they reduced it to $200, because my contract was from before the time of the new extortionate fee. But I couldn't get the other $200 out of them. Apparently I'd reset the contract's end date by changing the plan. My attempts to pay for what I use at a reasonable level backfired on me.

The moral is, anyway you arrange it, they will squeeze extra money out of you. Customer service my eye.

So I realized I was stuck. I had one more phone, my own, with a three-year contract at a price level that I could not adjust without resetting my contract. (I still regularly got dinged with extra fees even though my usage was way down). I should have just handed them the $400 for my own plan, but it was a close call which way was going to be the worse penalty, so I just coughed up monthly until the time ran out. Then I thought I could escape. Because I do not want to give any more money to Rogers. They have burned me too many times.

I bailed out to a no-contract plan with another company, at less than half of what I was paying to Rogers. It more closely resembles what I actually use my phone for, which is almost not at all. If they annoy me, I can quit, though their hook is that then I'll have to pay for the phone, but that seems fair enough. It's a pay-over-time deal, so the phone will get paid off if I stay with them. Do you suppose there's a one-month clause in their contract? I'll check if I decide to move on.

I keep the phone for insurance, I tell myself, taking the next hit. But I also still have my land line, as it doesn't have a meter, and I'm not bankrupted there when I make long distance calls.

Rogers still got one extra kick in, one last stab at my unsuspecting self, by charging me for one more month, in lieu of proper notice. Another $65 for nothing! Just like old times!

It will be somewhere on their website in very small print. I used the phone therefore I agreed to the penalty. You know how that works. It's the same as agreeing to use software. Say no, and you can't use it. Some choice.

But be warned: When a new company tells you, no problem, we can migrate your number, you don't need to even talk to your current dealer, er, I mean provider, er I mean telecom, remember that the old company still has its hand in your pocket.

I could have sent another child to university on the money I've poured into Rogers coffers, and it makes me mad at myself, that I've taken so long to sort this out, to get the habit under control, to cut off the waste.

The telecoms (and cable companies) are great as investments though. They're rolling in cash, and pay nice dividends. Think about it.

weathered

2011-04-14T18:00:00.000-07:00

shoulders to the rain

Last night a thunderstorm rolled over my home. A flash of light came through my curtains, and a rousing rumble and bang followed. I could hear the rain start up after that. I like the way we do thunderstorms here, the way there's a silence, a hush, before the rain comes. I sat out a thunderstorm on a camping trip at Nicola Lake once, and it was completely different. The same spectacular light show, and all the crashing and banging you could ask for, but instead of the dousing, there was a hot wind that threatened to lift up our tent, and then a slight spattering of fat drops of rain, and that was it. Very different.

But it's still raining almost 24 hours later, and it's cold too, around 3°C. I think I could go for a hot wind about now. It's raining big fat drops that occasionally look whitish, like sleet. I don't know where our spring went. My sister phoned me a half-hour ago to ask if it was snowing where I am. She's in a neighbourhood at a slightly higher elevation, and was looking out at big fat flakes, which I'm glad to say she reports have reverted to rain. Rain! What a surprise here on the soggy west coast.

their day will come again

It's amazing, really, how much the weather affects my moods, and how little I've managed to get used to it, after all my years knowing that this is what it does in Vancouver. Rain. I'm right back to my February-mood, gazing out at solidly grey and gloomy skies, dreaming about blue skies. But it's true, the dafs give me hope, even though some are sagging under the downpour. It will happen, I will get to toss my socks, and wear flipflops again. I know I will. Just not this week.

the alma mater

2011-04-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

I spent a lot of my years at UBC, both working on staff, and picking up a BA. It's a lovely place.

My brother (also an alum) sent me the link to this video.

I think it's very clever, but them I'm biased about the place.

the filing life

2011-04-06T22:49:00.000-07:00

not much fun for the uninitiated

I spent the last couple of days with files and paperwork and tax forms, figuring out my income from last year. The deadline is not until the end of the month, so I'm feeling very virtuous, as I mailed off my completed form yesterday, the earliest I think I've ever pulled it together.

I've never been late filing, but I remember one year dropping my stamped envelope off at the Post Office at 10:30 pm on the last day. I was intending to drop it in the drive-by slot that (I think) falls straight through to the sorting area but instead there was a fellow sitting with a mail truck accepting forms. Apparently it's not at all unusual to leave things to the very last minute, as he was sitting there receiving, and date stamping, each not-quite-late envelope. There was a long line of cars, but I got my envelope delivered before the glass slipper fell.

This image will slowly drift into the realm of fairy tales, as more and more people file online, but I'm old school in this. I do my taxes myself, and I do them on paper. I do just about everything else online, but this is one of those things that somehow feels better with my hands in the process (go figure).

One of the things I do when I fill out my forms is re-sort my files (yes, I keep files, on paper!). This makes the whole tax chore longer, but it also leaves me feeling as if I actually know where I stand, when I'm done. (This behaviour is maybe an admirable trait, or a sign of mental illness, but I actually enjoy this process.) I heap up mountains of paper, wondering why I saved it so long, and create new folders to make my situation clearer to me.

I'm a little disturbed when I realize how much of what I have filed away has now moved into the ephemeral arena, my computer. So much harder to keep tidy, though you wouldn't know it from the outside. It's even more insidious, the confusion you can create on your hard drive. It's far too easy to hit the save button, and if you haven't given some thought to it, it's much like tossing paper into a big room (as opposed to a shoebox) and then expecting to be able to find that important piece of information that you need, right now. And far too easy to keep stuff you absolutely don't need. At least in the physical realm you occasionally have to deal with the stuff, at the very least so that you can get in your door.

And there's little satisfaction when you look up from your computer, having worked all day cleaning and tidying, and completing tasks, and there is absolutely nothing physical to show for it. Unless you've printed a few things out.

I won't tell you how long I looked for just the right one, but I have a lovely filing cabinet and it's stuffed with paper. I'm looking forward to spending another quiet day soon, sifting out more paper, the non-financial stuff. It's very odd the stuff that can get in there, and even I will admit there can be too much of a good thing.

what this day began

2011-03-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

Time passes so quickly, and nothing marks it like birthdays, especially those of one's own children. Today is a double one; two of my kids share this date, though not the same birth year. It wasn't from any planning on my(our) part. It was more of a remove-the-barriers-and-wait kind of thing, and each time, along came another child. It's just that the third one decided to pop out on his sister's second birthday.

I did go shopping in the morning of my last labour (the things you do). My son wasn't born till evening, so there was time to get quite a bit in. I remember making a stop at a toy store, lots of pauses to breathe through contractions, to get things for the second one's birthday party, which was of course postponed. I must already have got her birthday present, that I don't remember. But I do remember the urgency (oh yeah) to make sure I was ready for her day, too, before I was swamped by the new member of our family. I was going to get to spend a couple days with him all to myself, but I knew full well, I wouldn't be straight back to normal when I got home. Fortunately, she didn't know the significance, so having her birthday party a week late was perfectly fine with her. Last time we fooled her about anything, too.

as they once were

There were a few years there when I think the two of them were really quite irritated by the coincidence of their birthdays being the same (and their older sister worked hard to tolerate all the attention they got on this date too) but they all mellowed out about it and celebrate the day quite well now. (It's not like they're a bunch of kids anymore.) I know the two b-dayers have a contest to see who gets in the first happy birthday call. In recent years my daughter wins, but she has time zones working for her. It's not a fair contest.

My middle child is in another city, so a card in the mail and a phone call have to do for now, though I'm going to go visit (pester?) her soon. We had the official family dinner with the youngest several days ago (I was supposed to be away this weekend, but hey, got a cold instead). It seemed right to me, to leave him room to celebrate with friends on the weekend. Because this day isn't about me, not anymore anyway, not since those first ones, but I sure do remember when we met. Eventful days, I must say. And I am so glad they are here (this is what is known as understatement).

I joke about it sometimes, about the decisions that led to having three children, that it wasn't rational, that I didn't know what I was doing. And actually that's true, I didn't. But for some reason my whole being wanted them, completely. Biology? Soul? Does it matter? Once here, what could I do but love them. I've never wanted to give them back. The cat maybe. Not the kids.

So, nothing rational about it, and isn't that just fine? I love my children to pieces, and now sit admiringly at their sidelines seeing what they'll do next.

just rubber-necking

2011-03-07T20:31:00.000-08:00

At first we started out to go for a walk, a time-honoured kind of activity for a Saturday. I think we both wanted to go somewhere different; the paths around here are too familiar. It isn't easy to do that, when you've lived in a city forever, to find somewhere different to go walking, without actually leaving town, which is what we did. The terrain is limited here this time of year, as there's still an awful lot of winter sitting close by, in the mountains, so flat land is the choice we made.

it's always about stuff

When I was a kid my father used to bundle all of us kids into the car on Sundays, and take us wandering. He would let the car "follow it's nose." We wound up in all kinds of interesting spots, although most every road ends either in the mountains or up against the US border. We crossed over often enough, and so also explored Pt. Roberts, and northern Washington.

I used to do this with my own kids once in a while, but they're of a different era, and were somehow less interested when we stumbled on surprises in the woods (you can find yourself in the woods pretty quickly, even though we're quite the metropolis now). They mock me for a fish ladder we ended up at once, though the place filled me with wonder (we did have a good trip once to an outlet mall across the border -- no, no, I jest; they all like hiking, don't just sit around texting). But I blame the Simpson's actually, for making them all too cynical too early. Or just the fact that TV and internet had already opened the world up too wide. Not much is left to surprise anyone now.

Except us, because we're old school (or old). We ruled out a trip to Bellingham, not carrying passports. Some things about the 'old days' can stay in the past, but I miss the days when our border was friendly and welcoming, both ways. These days it's not so much fun to head south across the border, because you have to give up so many hours to sitting in a lineup waiting. It's boring, annoying, and unnerving at the same time. Such a shame too, because there's a great bookstore in Fairhaven, in Bellingham. If you chance to be flying by on the I5 one day, or better, have the sense to take the Chuckanut Drive into Bellingham, do stop in there. I'll go there again one day, but on a longer trip; it's no longer worth the aggravation just for a day trip. Too bad.

aliens have landed...

My partner and I settled on going out to Ladner, which isn't quite as exciting as crossing borders, but it's a pretty much unexplored part of the Fraser River delta (for us) so fit the bill. We pulled into a park in Ladner Harbour, but it was a very small park. Short walk. We also instantly got cold. (I know, not very hardy for Canadians, but this is the west coast after all. We expect warmth, if not sunshine, sigh; it's got to be the reason why it's so ridiculously expensive to live here, the climate.)

So we hopped back in the car and it became a driving day instead of a walking day. I was rooting for letting the car take us across to Boundary Bay (though again careful not to get into the lineup at Pt. Roberts). When I was young, you hardly needed to slow your car down to cross the border there; just a friendly wave after you declared your citizenship. No proof required. Not any more. Result? I haven't bothered to go there in years and years. Borderland Security has been effective in keeping my dangerous self out. It's one of the myriad little cuts to "our way of life" that the bad guys weren't supposed to be able to affect. Hope y'all are feeling safer.

Cutting through soggy fields, we got stuck at a crossing waiting for a train that had stopped moving, and so decided to take the road into Roberts Bank (coal terminal and container dock) instead of just sitting watching a stationary train. I could see from my map (haven't gone GPS yet) that there was an overpass which would put us on the other side of the train. But then we just kept driving in, to see what we could see, which is proper behaviour for rubber-necking.

...out at Robert's Bank

I've looked across at Roberts Bank, where it sticks out into the Strait of Georgia (the Salish Sea!) parallel to the ferry terminal many times. It's one of those sights visible to everyone racing for the ferry. No one goes there, except the worker bees. It's another world, a little microcosm of what keeps our world ticking. There's a lot of stuff. Literally, though hidden in multi-coloured containers, being moved around by all kinds of interesting machinery. It's not the only container dock in the area: there's of course the huge one in Vancouver, and more of those great cranes up the river in Surrey. But I know, most of us never think about them.

We drove in between two lines of railroad tracks. One brings in/takes out containers and the other brings in coal and chugs back empty. The coal train is completely dark and dusty, except for the brilliantly polished silver shine just where the wheels meet the track.

It's a strange juxtaposition, illustrative of the whole structure of our human world I guess. A grand expanse of agricultural land, the river and the sea, beautiful landscape, and then an eruption of industry. Looking the other way, there's the fine stretch of mountains forming a backdrop to the north, and an eruption of tall buildings (as shows in the picture in my masthead). Definitely separate worlds.

I'm not sure that any of this is particularly profound. It's just that on Saturday, I noticed.

on the way home - I love the Alex Fraser Bridge

the thin veneer

2011-02-22T15:06:00.000-08:00

I'm a bit of a news junkie. I regularly read my local rag, The Vancouver Sun, as well as Toronto's national paper, The Globe and Mail. I flip through the headlines on the Sunday New York Times. I watch the news (I'm fond of the National). I like to know what's going on in the world. Most of the time I manage to stay numb to what I'm reading. But every now and then, the horrors pile up and get to me. This past weekend was one of those times.

If you pay attention to the news, you will have heard that some Western journalists were attacked while covering the protests in Egypt, and that while Egyptians were celebrating the exit of Egyptian President Mubarak, a few took time out to beat and sexually assault a female CBS reporter. This is worth reporting about because she was a Westerner, blonde. It's not an uncommon occurrence, apparently, for women to be harassed and assaulted in Egypt. That would be more of a dog-bites-man story, common, ho-hum. No, we can smugly say they're barbaric 'over there,' right? Western women should stay away, right?

Women should restrict their lives if they want freedom.

Of course if women stop reporting in countries where women are kept invisible...well, then we'd never know anything about what those women's lives are like, would we?

In the technologically advanced, but not yet enlightened world, the internet mob also savaged the CBS reporter. Apparently women are still guilty of 'asking for it' when they are attacked (being blonde and pretty are particularly heinous traits). The message I am getting is that if you walk outside your house, you are somehow culpable in any crimes committed against you. At home we are safe. (Except when we aren't, which is why we have refugee centres, called safe houses, for women escaping abusive relationships.)

And so while yes, I believe that the way a society treats women is a measure of that society's, well, worth, I don't think we should be too smug here. Because I'm as horrified as any woman who expects to be able to walk down the street unmolested, but knows that it's a fallacy. I choose my streets with care.

Other things I've gleaned from the news? Here in BC more women have been murdered, their bodies dumped in ditches, fields, beaches. Often this seems somehow involved with them "belonging" to someone. Woman-as-property is an idea that is still in fashion.

Don't misunderstand me. These stories all land on the news because the vast majority of people are as horrified as I am. It is still news when women are murdered. But we've got residual morality at play, which makes us value some of those murdered women more than others. We are more appalled when the woman is a 'good' woman.

Still, another fellow has been convicted in the murders of two sex-trade workers (he was accused of the murder of three).

And in a story that gives me a particularly bad taste in my mouth, even though no women were physically harmed in the making of it, we have the wiretaps from the BC Rail corruption investigation revealing a government official was working as a pimp in order to extract his own set of favours from a lobbyist: “She’ll be putting out like you wouldn’t believe, pal” he is quoted as saying about a woman procured for the purposes.

This story doesn't disturb me because of the prostitution angle, because I actually think that if a woman wants to contract out her body it's nobody's business but hers. What bothers me is the attitude that a woman is a lesser being because she has sex outside any tiny moral straitjacket that other people want to put her in.

No, it is the sleaze of the attitude that get's me, the underlying dismissal of another human being's worth, the bagging of prey. The fact that he was working in our government, alongside lots of women. The government is also for women.

No, it's that I don't think his attitude is that unusual.

I'm disturbed because his attitude reminds me that there is only a thin veneer that protects us women from the mob, no matter where we are, and that appalls and frightens me. It ain't safe anywhere.

Because there are not many women walking about who haven't been assaulted in some way, at some time, in their lives. It's about power, and it keeps us in line. When there's a predator out there, we are the ones told to stay indoors. It's certainly more subtle here than in places where women can't stir in public without hiding their entire body, but it's real.

Women should restrict their lives if they want to be safe.

I hesitated to post this, because I have learned in my life to keep my head down, to avoid attention, to keep safe. Except that there are no guarantees that it will work, and maybe telling will help.

So here goes, here are some of my memories of unasked-for attention:

At the age of eleven, I was woken by the sensation of a hand feeling me up. I scrambled away. I think the man was drunk; he took his time leaving my room. I didn't know him. I was very frightened, disturbed. He was still in the house in the morning; a friend (?) of my mother's. I think I told my brother.
I was backed into a corner in my bedroom by another "boyfriend" of my mother's. He frightened me maybe more than the first guy, though he didn't touch me. But another time the same guy ran his hand under my shirt when my mother wasn't looking. I was maybe twelve then. Must have been my fault, right? I didn't tell.
I had to remove a cold hand from my thigh several times at the movies, while watching Cat Ballou. I have no idea who he was. I didn't tell.
Walking home from a party, in a party dress, I was offered fifty bucks (I was fifteen) by a guy who drove his car slowly, tracking me as I walked toward my house. I didn't want him to know where I lived. I remember he had a very soft voice. A neighbour saw me, called out and scared him off, which I was very grateful for. But my fault, right? I should have been at home. Or it was what I was wearing. Maybe that was my crime.
Around that time too, I was set up to be someone's date, obviously expected to "put out." I didn't. Apparently that's a crime, too, because the friend stopped talking to me.
When I was about sixteen, seventeen, I would often get off the bus at Broadway and walk three blocks up Kingsway. The record for cars pulling over to offer me a ride was three. There was always at least one. Always.
I had a man knock me down in the middle of Connaught Park (it was 6 pm, and I was walking home from the bus, after classes at university) and tell me to f**k him or he'd kill me. He didn't do either but settled for taking my wallet. (I think I was saved by the volume of winter-time clothing I was wearing.) I've been afraid walking in the dark, ever since. I was eighteen. That's forty years of fearing walking at night.
I had a man run up beside me and grab my breast then run away. That was when I was nineteen. Weirdo, I thought.
I had a man reach inside my tent (in Brussels). My shriek alerted friends, scared him off.
A man walked into my apartment once; it was a cheap rental with a flimsy lock. I'd seen him down on the street, must have made eye contact. (That's something else we women learn not to do.) He said he was looking for the manager. Wrong apartment I said. He stood there a while longer looking at me, and then he went back down the stairs. I felt very lucky, but not safe.
Several times I've seen men whip open their coats to expose themselves. This really happens.
I've received obscene phone calls, heavy breathing. Some out of the blue, but once one who said he knew me, knew where I went with friends. Someone who heard the alarm in my voice, and called again. And again. He stopped after my (then) husband answered. Property rights established, I guess.

I've left out the whistles, catcalls, jeers, leers and bumps in crowds that help to control the behaviour of women so well, that serve to keep us quiet and in our place and in some societies, almost invisible.

The funny thing is, I don't think all men are bad. I'm completely hetero, love men actually, have had at different times loving, consensual relations with good men; there's one in particular right now. I have a good life. I'm definitely one of the lucky ones. I've never been raped.

But the conditioning has worked. There are things I don't do, places I won't go, because of the realities of life-as-female.

making those connections

2011-02-07T18:25:00.000-08:00

Life is sometimes serendipitous in its convoluted way. I came home from my retreat week in Victoria feeling that I'd made progress in my writing, but fell back into my life at home in a strange funk that unfortunately collided with some relationship problems (mostly of my own making) with a friend.

Then one of my holds at the library came up, and so I watched a film this week, one from last year's crop: A Single Man (from a novel I haven't read, blush). It's set in the sixties, about a gay man who is grieving the death of his partner. He is almost completely alone, except for one old friendship with a woman. Her loneliness was also acute, but not so coerced; she didn't need to hide who she was. So it's set at a time where there was little understanding, pretty much still the dark ages. Persecution would have been the norm and being open, 'out of the closet', could lose you your job. (And get you beaten to a pulp, but that still happens, doesn't it?)

It's sure not a happy story, with just a glimmer of hope about the resilience of people. A disturbing and thought-provoking tale. (Can't always be laughing, can we?) But the most salient points from this movie (beyond how difficult life can be) may be that we need relationships with other people as much as we need water and air. And that secrets are deadly. And in an odd way, the movie helped clear my thinking about my own, not-so-profound-but-still-difficult problem.

Anyway, I felt I'd sorted things out by the weekend so that I could think straight and then was lucky enough to see a play (my brother, sweetheart, gave me tickets he couldn't use). August: Osage County is on at the Stanley on Granville, and if you can, go see it. It's a great big production, a throwback to the days when theatre groups could afford to hire a big cast and build a big set. Three acts, two intermissions, remember those?

The play uses (black) comedy to make its points, and it did it really well. It's a funny but tragic (or tragic but funny?) story about convoluted and fractured family dynamics made worse with pills and alcohol. Yes, I said funny, but achingly sad, too. And oddly, though it's wildly different from A Single Man, the same kind of ideas creep out. How important to us relationships are, and how poisonous they can be, especially when secrets are kept. How easy it is to hurt each other. Lots of laughter in the telling, but a very sad story.

Funny how strongly we relate to fictional characters and made-up stories. They're all illusion, this film and this play, and yet I find myself still thinking about them days later. When stories are effective it's because they resonate, you can feel them humming inside. The truth is there, even though it's just a made up story, a pack of lies really (which is, after all, what fiction is).

Our individual stories are all unique, yet there are certainly common themes we can relate to. In these two cases, it's loneliness (in or outside of big families) and rejecting families (that still often demand our allegiance!). And secrets. Just about everyone has some experience of these, in some way or another. And even if someone comes from a 'normal' family (I think they're out there) then maybe it's just a pleasure to see how different life can be, like visiting another country, and be thankful to be born where you were.

There's no way you can 'help' the characters in these fictions, but maybe they help us by making us think about them; this works when they aren't formula anyway. I mean there are plenty of examples out there of predictably yawnable stories, but not these two.

Anyway, what I'm trying to get to is, relationship, be it friend or family or lover, is the important thing, and how we understand it, make sense of it, is through story.

And so for me, now (because it's always about me, you may have noticed) after my week away to work on my novel, and after my week of emotional something-or-other (mayhem?) I'm reminded that I want to write down this story, some parts of which are down on paper, and some still roiling around in my head. It seems possible that if I actually attend to it, to my novel-to-be, I might get it right, even 'true'. That's what I'll be shooting for, anyway. I guess I'm blessed (?) with just enough narcissism to think I can do that.

finding the plot

2011-01-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

outside my window, signs of growth

It's winter, which in this part of the world generally means it's grey outside. But it's not cold, there are buds everywhere. (My pot of snowdrops is blooming at home.) I just went for a long walk to explore the neighbourhood here (I'm in Victoria for a week) and left my winter coat in the closet. It'll be flip-flop weather in no time, hooray.

But I'm not here sight-seeing, honestly. I went for the walk so I could get back to the task I've set myself, doing some writing work free of the usual-life distractions of home. I am the queen of procrastinators, a veritable wizard at creating distractions, so I decided to load up my car with files and folders and binders, and go on retreat. I could have picked a cabin somewhere, but I love Victoria, and it's not so much that I want to be isolated, as I want to leave behind all the stuff that I am so good at distracting myself with. It's a little tricky, as I brought my laptop along, and there is wireless here—but I've been pretty good about keeping on task. What I'm trying to do is find all the bits and pieces of writing that have been started (I'm really good at starting) and then got lost in the general confusion, and never finished.

some serious sorting happening here

I've taken quite a few writing workshops over the years, and in those folders are snippets and scenes and bright ideas, but they're hard to access, as they get buried in the flotsam. If I could just find them, then maybe I could actually finish some stories. There are also a lot of snippets of what is turning out to be a novel lost among those same folders as well as in binders from writing with the Plums (my writing group). So too, in my journals, every now and then a scene presents itself and gets written down. Lately I've had the sense to intentionally use one notebook to write scenes, which makes them easier to find, but they still fall out of my pen in no particular order, and sometimes I don't have that book with me...

My intention is to find these bits, and type them up, and print them out too (and yes, I even brought my printer). Then the idea is to sort the pile of scenes into some kind of timeline, so I can fill in the gaps. In due course, if I keep this up, I can gloat over the existence of a first draft, and then really get down to work. And, while I'm at it, also work on what seem to be some essays, short stories, and poems too (not many, but they seem to be in there). I'm happiest when things are sorted and have a place, and this definitely holds true for my writing. And I haven't managed to get it into an order until now. Always the last thing I get to. (I should remember the danger of saving things too long in anticipation of a treat. I did this once with the mandarin orange out of my xmas stocking. When I finally went to eat it, it had shrivelled and dried out. You'd think I'd learn.)

It's a constant struggle, taking myself seriously as a writer. I hold to the idea that if you write you are a writer, and certainly the record online suggests I'm a blogger, but honestly, it would be a lot easier to declare that I'm a writer, if I had a pile of work to show for it. (I'm kind of contradicting myself aren't I? I consider other bloggers to be writers) I guess if I'm honest, I'll admit what I've been meandering towards for a long time; what I really want is to be a novelist, and till I actually finish writing a novel, I won't be able to claim that, will I? (I'll worry later about whether it's a good novel.) But for some reason I seem to be finding my way to a clearer path these days; I am at least growing confident at saying I'm working on a novel, how's that?

I wonder too whether there's a metaphor in my switching cities. Vancouver is a grid, and Victoria winds all over the place. It's easy to get lost here, but I also find stuff I don't expect. In Vancouver, I always know where I am, and I'm tired of it. Maybe I've just lived there too long. It's true I'm mulling moving here, so it seemed reasonable to see whether I could write here (and why not, eh? just write, for pete's sake). There's something to be said for freshness, though.

Winding roads help in other ways. When I used to be a runner (before knees and joints suggested doing something else) I liked to run in the woods of Pacific Spirit Park (near where I lived) rather than down by the beach at Spanish Banks (also near). At the beach I could see too far ahead, and it discouraged me. So far! In the woods the path was there, but the end wasn't predictable. It might be around the next bend, it might be a long way off. I could run farther that way. It is true, though, that I had a map in my head of where I was going. And that helped.

So I guess that's what I'm up to now, indulging my clearly ocd impulses in sorting and filing all this paper so I can get to where I'm going with my writing. Just around the bend I'll figure out the plot of this novel. You'll see. Or I will, more to the point.

missed calculations

2011-01-17T18:32:00.000-08:00

Interesting article this weekend in the Globe and Mail about scientists studying dyscalculia, a disorder or disability that affects some children's comprehension of arithmetic, the way dyslexia affects some in their ability to read. Fascinating stuff, and it makes you hopeful that educators will figure out a way to deal with innumeracy before the kids grow up and try to fill out their tax form.

I did not ever suffer from dyscalculia, but I got sidetracked all the same on my way to "realizing my potential" in numberland, many successful Sudokus later notwithstanding. When I was young, though I didn't have miles of snow to walk through, I did subscribe to the idea that girls don't like math. This had nothing to do with the evidence in front of me, it was just typical 50s/60s nonsense. (It's changed now, and the popular culture has the boys striving to be the slackers, but back in the 50s and 60s it was the girls and women who were the comic relief.)

At the time, I was hazy on what my ideas about feminism (or women's lib, a nice, dismissive term) actually were. It's a long process, figuring out your own life, and the society you've landed in. I certainly didn't put it together (add it up) that I was born with an aptitude for numbers as well as words, and should (could!) use both. I think there was also an element of rebellious rejection of my father, the math teacher. He was not an easy man, close up. Or across town, either. He left our mother, and consequently us (except for weekends and holidays) very early on; quite the trendsetter back then. Irony of course: I can't tell you how many of his former students I've run into who tell me what a fantastic math teacher he was, and more irony; I never had a decent one myself.

It's too bad, because a teacher even remotely as good as the one my father's students described, would have made a big difference to me. While I remember complete joy in puzzling stuff out when I was young, I don't remember it having much to do with school. I've one crystal memory of a teacher pouring water on me though, in quite the wet-blanket moment. I was excited, energized by some number factoid my mother had explained to me, and couldn't wait to tell my teacher this revelation. She dismissed it; I can still feel the letdown as my shoulders sagged. Maybe because she hadn't thought of it first, or maybe because it wasn't in her lesson plan; I have no idea. (My mother could have taught me too, if she hadn't been slogging off to work every day, Head Teller in a bank where she got to train her managers, speaking of feminism. She used to enjoy getting Scientific American for the math puzzles. I thought that was pretty cool. Still, I thought girls didn't like math. Figure that puzzle out.)

High school is supposed to be the greatest time, blah, blah, blah. As my son said to me, when his time came: They lied. I remember my first math teacher in Grade 8. She was a kindly old woman (old to my eyes). Each class she'd half-heartedly cover a bit of something or other, and then she'd read to us; I think it was Journey to the Center of the Earth (which I'd already read). It was excruciatingly tedious. I don't remember the Grade 9 teacher at all, but I remember the Algebra textbook. I'd work out each homework problem as the teacher worked his way around the class the day we were supposed to have it done, just in case he (I think it was a he) called on me. I never actually did the work at home.

In Grade 10 it was Geometry and the teacher was hopeless. (I know that current curriculum is completely different; I'd be clueless now, sigh. At first :) Yet I must have understood him, because everyone around me kept asking me to explain what he'd just said. Then Grade 11, oh man, I better not say too much, as it might be libelous. I remember feeling such contempt for the guy, it was hard to sit through a class. I got As that year, along with lousy marks for work habits. Which is fair enough. I didn't have an industrious bone in my body, or maybe I should say I didn't have an inspired bone in my body.

In spite of all this, I still meant to take Math 12, along with Physics 12, because that's what my brother had taken, but my "guidance" counselor suggested that sounded like a lot of work. (She was no feminist, was she? Oh the sixties, don't you miss them?) Well, as it happens I was a lazy and miserable teenager, and I thought, yikes, work! so of course I took Graphic Arts and Sewing instead. Which is not to slag the usefulness of either of those courses either, but I already knew how to sew (and anyway, I had two, not one, but two, sewing classes, so could have spared the block). Graphic Arts was great though, because the teacher turned us on to Pink Floyd.

I wanted to go to university (did go) but in that single, thoughtless moment, the counselor steered me away from half my options. It's that easy to accomplish with the young and directionless, and I don't thank her.

Where were my parents? you ask. Ah, we weren't one of those kinds of families. Mom was at work, and Dad didn't live with us (and also had a misogynistic bias to match that counselor's myopia, I'm afraid. He said to me once about a former student of his whom I'd met: "She wasn't a bad math student, for a girl." Don't tell his former students.).

No, I was pretty much on my own figuring out the path to here. Had to finally do some homework and make some corrections, but things are adding up pretty well. (Are you groaning yet?)

Remember slide rule's? Math 12 would have unlocked this one's mysteries for me.

the way I see things

2011-01-10T13:45:00.000-08:00

I stopped wearing contact lenses last year. This was a big decision. I suppose I was an early adopter; I got my first pair of hard lenses when I was 18, back in 1970. That's a while ago. (I got green ones, because I thought it'd be cool to have green eyes. Then I was embarrassed by people commenting on my eye-colour. I never fake any other colours. No make-up, no hair colour. Long ago I reverted to my own colour, which is called hazel, a term for indeterminate, and in my case, the hazel isn't the same in both eyes.)

Once I was up and running with contacts, which took perseverance, believe me, I set aside my coke-bottle glasses, and pretended to be among the able-sighted. That was a little difficult with those early hard lenses, because they would occasionally pop out, or sometimes slide off my iris, and float up the white of my eyeball. While this was more stomach-churning, at first, and apparently always to onlookers, it was easier to find the lens. But most of the time, I just presented my face to the world, uncluttered by glasses.

I like to swim, and one day discovered goggles, which meant I could now see when in the pool, too. I became a good swimmer after this. It's funny, but I don't think anyone (including myself) ever figured out that some of my physical and social ineptitude in the world, had to do with not seeing things very clearly. Social, as in "ignoring" people in the swimming pool, which was really a case of me not recognizing anyone who was farther away than about three feet. Physical, as in I remember absolute terror dealing with surf in California, and hey, it was because I couldn't judge the waves at all before they were on me. It's made me a bit 'chicken' not being able to see. It's a problem people can't see, that you can't see, causing more social problems.

Hard lenses became intolerable several years ago, because of my eyes being dryer, imagine (just another of the interesting side-effects of aging, to go along with strange spots and bumps on your skin). By now my brain was well used to seeing clearly, and switching back into glasses was hard. Among other things, peripheral vision isn't addressed by glasses. So I tried soft lenses. This was a good transition, as now I could walk through most dust storms without falling to my knees weeping.

But I couldn't see so well anymore, as soft lenses don't correct accurately. They're guesstimates, which is fine if you're one of those irritating people who can walk around for awhile without your glasses before you miss them, but for me, it meant that anytime I was driving somewhere unfamiliar, I had to make a lot of u-turns or similar contortions, because street signs were useless until I was under them.

Then the soft lenses started to bug me too (time marches on, eh?) and then, miracle of miracles, an optometrist actually produced a pair of glasses that I could see through. Unfortunately, switching between glasses and contacts is very disorienting; I swear it makes my brain hurt. It has something to do with the contact of those contacts—pressing the correction right against your eye mean's there's no distortion. That little bit of distance from your eye to your nose? It makes a difference.

I had considered laser surgery, but found I wasn't as eager anymore to be an early adopter of anything involving my eyes. And then as the contacts bugged me more, and I began to think, well maybe, surgery, I was told I was a bit too old. Too old! Unless I had the kind of surgery that's done for cataracts, where they implant a lens. But that's for Old People, I thought. I'm not ready for that!

I occasionally had nightmares about not being able to see, recurring ones, all anxiety dreams involving my contacts. Either my eyes wouldn't open, or they were gummed up, or the contacts broke—which has happened—or the contacts were so large I couldn't get them back in my head. It's interesting I've never had a dream where I just thought oh, well, I'll just wear my glasses.

Which is what I finally decided, in my awake life. To wear glasses, exclusively. They're not as good as the old hard contacts—still no peripheral vision—but I make far fewer u-turns now, which is so much less stressful, and I don't seem to have those recurring dreams anymore, either. There is also much less of the coke-bottle about glasses nowadays (which helps the vanity I find I still have) if you can suck up the cost of the high-tech lenses (which I did, because seeing well is so critical). My lenses came from Germany, if you can imagine.

I've tossed the contacts completely; they're so last year. I figured my brain needed to readjust itself to glasses, and just forget those years of simulated okayness, which is taking awhile, but I'm starting to not always notice the glasses sitting on my face. Except when I look in the mirror, I'm always slightly startled then. Who is that?

It turns out though, that glasses cause little stress. I find I haven't had to work out their issues in my dreams. It's been a real treat, after forty years of sticking a piece of plastic in each eye each morning, and then having to go through the production of getting them back out each evening, that I can even have naps now, without worrying about my eyes drying out and the plastic getting gummy against my cornea (it happens). There is a real simplicity about the technology that I didn't appreciate when I was 18. Back then, I just thought glasses were ugly. That's a benefit of aging, I suppose, getting over that. Mind you when I first got glasses (I think I was 8) I only remember utter wonder, at being able to see leaves on the trees, and texture to the concrete sidewalk I was walking on.

But the other day I went swimming at a local pool, the new one, built for the Olympics (I know, they were Winter Olympics, but still somehow a new pool got built. We got a subway too, which is cool.). And I was back to the old problem. I know I could tie these (extraordinarily expensive) glasses to my head, but that's really uncomfortable. Or I could do what I used to do, which is set my towel and glasses down on a bench, and swim without them.

I realized that I am in fact quite disabled. The thin veneer of plastic I had on my eyes all these years obscured that fact. I was careful getting to the edge of the pool, and then hopped in. I've forgotten the feel of water against my eyes, though I used to always open my eyes underwater. But that's 40 years ago! Ah, you don't forget how, and the chlorine in the pool still does not feel great.

But what's the greatest challenge is the business of discerning the end of the pool before you bash your head on it. And dodging fast-moving swimmers. It wasn't that relaxing, I have to tell you. But I still got in a half-kilometre. I like to swim longer, but it's the first swim in months, and the first one blind, in decades, so I won't beat myself up about it. And I will go again, on a less crowded day, and take my time, as behooves someone getting on in years.

Then I stumbled out to my towel, and put back on those precious marvels of human ingenuity, eyeglasses, and I thought about how nice it was that I have the beginnings of a cataract in one eye.

how the years add up

2010-12-30T16:39:00.000-08:00

I remember my Dad's aphorism (as probably do most of his former students) that "Math is Beautiful." (Just looked up aphorism, to check that I wasn't choosing the wrong word, this being a diatribe about accuracy and all. It might be that his wasn't an original thought, but he certainly owned the statement.) Anyway, he loved math because there were always correct solutions to problems (unlike life's problems, but that hints at a different story). I think though, that over the years he probably found a lot of students who couldn't find their way to those correct solutions. This is likely why he never stated "Math is Simple."

I'm thinking about math today (which I am no longer very good at, lack of practice) because I'm thinking about counting (which I can still do). Hmm, perhaps more accurately, I'm thinking about arithmetic, because I'm thinking about counting decades as we're coming up to a new one.

inside my head, ouch

It's true! (Yeah, yeah, I hear you: What's truth?) But really, by our calendar, it's a new decade starting on Saturday. I know, I know, most people will disagree, and say that the decade began with 2010. I remember arguing with people about this when we rolled over into the year 2000, and yes, it's generally accepted as the beginning of the new millennium. It seemed the whole world felt that way, because 2000 is such a nice round number. So that became the consensus, and the fact the numbers didn't add up didn't seem to matter. It felt good to have 2000 as the starting point; I try to accept this, but it hurts my head.

(Interesting that the whole world fell into financial difficulties together too, isn't it? Mixing up numbers with emotions seems somehow a miscalculation, something to remember the next time—tomorrow?—the stock market slides.)

So why does this make my head hurt? I mean, it's kind of ad nauseam for members of my family, and I hate being a pain to them; but while they can count, they have succeeded in letting this idea go, if they ever held it. I fear I have more of my curmudgeon father in me than I like to admit... Do I always have to be right? My goodness, this really isn't simple.

But to go on (yes, I do) I think where the confusion comes in, is that calendar years and age years are different. The point is, there is no year zero in our calendar, we went straight to one. I've read that zero wasn't always an accepted concept; perhaps it has something to do with that, the same way that perspective wasn't always understood in art. So do people have a better understanding of art than of numbers? Maybe.

But this beginning with zero means you have to get to the end of 2000 years (that would be to the beginning of 2001) before you slip into the next millennium. The same (and less!) counting applies to decades: starting with the first decade AD—remember, no zero—you start with the year 1, and have to get to the end of the year 10, before you get into the beginning of the next decade at year 11. Therefore, you have to get to the end of 2010 to get to the start of a new decade, 2011, this coming Saturday. Whew, glad I cleared that up.

When we are counting the years in our ages, there is a zero year. We don't 'turn' one until we've completed a whole year. That means that while I am said to be 58-years-old, I am well into my 59th year. On my 59th birthday I will be starting into my 60th year. When I get to be 60, I will be entering my 7th decade. (Geez, that's depressing.)

This way of counting our age is cultural, if I understand it correctly. The Chinese, for one, begin counting their age with one (no zero year) and therefore the significant ages end in 1s. Sixty is no big deal, but 61 is. But China joined in on the celebration over the year 2000, too. I suspect that was just a concession to their customers in the western world (the customer is always right) because their calendar is entirely different; it of course doesn't count from the (guesstimated) before/after of JC at all. As you might have noticed, given they also celebrate another New Year (and we wonder why China is such a rising power).

But numbers are apparently quite a puzzle to most of us. This would explain why the media are so full of stories about personal and public debt loads. Too many of us don't know how to count, how to add and subtract, and that less than zero, in monetary terms, is a problem.

I happen to think that precision matters, and getting your numbers straight can be as important as getting your words straight. Otherwise we're all speaking different languages, and that tends to add up to nothing (nada, zilch) but a lot of confusion, and plenty of misunderstandings.

But so what, eh? Maybe it just makes things more interesting. I don't have to be precisely correct all the time. Really. After all, when I get a Sudoku puzzle wrong, I just toss it. (Of course I notice I'm wrong...) No, no, I mean it. It's almost New Year's, countdown starts soon, and then we'll all be in the same decade no matter how you count it.

So here's wishing you a grand and wonderful New Year, with innumerable decades to come.

this magical night

2010-12-24T23:20:00.000-08:00

While time moves swiftly for most of us, I suspect that Santa must be able to slow it down somehow, to pull off the task he has tonight.

I just checked on NORAD's Santa Tracker, and he's getting pretty close to my location. I think I better get to bed soon.

But I didn't want to tuck in before I got a chance to wish everyone a magical, peaceful, and happy holiday.

trying for a zen attitude

2010-12-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

I find my thinking somewhat scattered these days. It's partially the typically Vancouver weather (sweet rain, not snow) but mostly it's this business of renovating that I've subjected myself too; it is very wearing on the spirit. Here I am, nine days before Christmas, and still waiting for the guys to be finished in my apartment. They were supposed to be done at the end of November, before my surgery, so it's been a challenge to turn around, every day, and see someone's still here.


Xmas bonsai-d.

Now that I'm pretty much healed up from the galling bit of surgery at the beginning of the month, I've been getting through my days, stepping over the rubble in my house, and getting my Xmas shopping done. I bought my Christmas tree last week in a burst of optimism, and it's sitting, rather forlornly, out on my patio, waiting to come in the door. There's no room for it yet, as my handy-man has his tools in heaps in my living room. I did manage to clean up outside (there was quite a bit of spillover) and put up lights, and a few bobbles in the rhododendrons and the baby bonsai tree. A bit of cheer in the grey gloom outside.

I've been trying to be zen about the whole thing, not letting it get to me as I go through my days. I mean, they might even finish today, except for the little bits that aren't done. I've been doing as much Xmas prep as I can without actually being able to start anything. (Shortbread is on hold till next week, probably just as well.) And I'm frustrated, because writing has been hard, because what I really need, is quiet, and it's not been quiet, to put it mildly. So I'm ready for these fellows, much as they appreciate the work, to be done.

This stress is all self-induced (well, if these guys were a bit more efficient it would help...) and, I have to admit it, petty. Because in the grand scheme of problems, it's not much. I mean really, what a whiner I am.

I fret about not getting my tree into the house before Santa shows up, and fuss that I can't clean my house. But I can afford to renovate a bathroom to make it even nicer than it was before. And I'm perfectly aware there are a lot of people out there who can't even find a bathroom at all, let alone a warm and dry place to sleep.

As I make my way around in this seasonal buying spree, I have to step over and around all the street people. They've become a different kind of rubble piled up on our streets, and it's appalling, both that they are there, and that I can step around them. I feel both churlish and overwhelmed, when I pass by the figures huddled in doorways, or standing, hat held out, in front of all the over-stuffed stores. It's all so Dickensian. (Are there no workhouses? Well, I think actually, it's that there are no mental health services, but that's a whole other rant.)

None of these thoughts mean I don't think I'm perfectly entitled to make my home as cosy as I can. I can do the calculations, and know that I'd be joining them on the street, if I were to give a handout to everyone who asked for one. Even if I'd kept my bathroom the way it was, the money would just get sucked away. And I know that just giving things to people keeps them dependent, or at least that's what all the parenting manuals say.

And I do donate. I make monthly donations, and I responded to the earthquake in Haiti, and the flooding in Pakistan, because, well, I'm so lucky. (And I usually cough up when North Shore Rescue calls, too, but that's more selfishly motivated. I want them operating if I ever stumble when I'm mid-Grouse Grind.) But still I feel guilty as I shake my head at the hand's held out.

So. Repeat after me. This is the season to be jolly. Ommm.

stone by stone

2010-12-03T20:09:00.000-08:00

I've had very little to do with surgery in my life: tonsils out when I was seven, wisdom teeth when I was about 19, and then my tubes tied, when I realized I had all the children I could possibly take care of. Each of those times was a general anesthetic. When I was seven, they held a cloth over my nose, which stopped my crying, and an instant later I was awake with a very sore throat. With my wisdom teeth, I remember closing my eyes, and opening them, to find myself with, again, a sore mouth. Each of these was a day surgery situation, as was the tubal ligation (cauterizing my tubes, so that all the leftover eggs, from then on, just fell away to oblivion).

On Wednesday this week I had day surgery to have my gall bladder removed. It's quite the process. The hospital has you show up hours early, six in the morning in my case. My sweetheart came with me to hold my hand, and though I thought this wasn't necessary, I was very glad to have him along. He can have quite the calming effect on me, a nice quality. A parade of people came to see me, checking that I still had the same name, address, and birthday. They told me what they were going to do, some of which sounded quite dire. They made me feel coddled and cared for. And then we had to wait, because the doctor was late, until the word went out that he had arrived, and I was led into the operating room, trailing my IV pole. There was a crowd of people in there, some of whom I'd met while waiting, pre-op (and "Elvis is in the building," I said, imagining myself quite the original comedian, and they were kind enough to laugh.)

We were all dressed in hospital chic, but my hair wasn't done up yet, so they stuffed it into a net, which was a good idea; it gets into everything, and I didn't want any strays to drift into my belly. Then I was invited to hop onto the table in the middle of the room. The doctor said hello. At least I think it was him. They had my glasses, so he could have been anyone.

The table, though narrow, had a nice heated pad underneath me, so I felt quite cozy. Then someone swung out an arm on the table, and asked whether the doctor wanted my arm placed... and he interrupted and said, I want her asleep, so bingo I was asleep. I can see that whatever the crowd in the room was up to, it was better they do it without telling me too much.

And then I was waking up. This was different than other times I've had anesthetic, because I was dreaming. It made me quite confused at first, there was such a crowd in my head, but then as I realized where I was, and what I was up to, the crowd drifted out of my head. I was left with a solid sense of deep sadness and worry over two of the people in my life. Typical, I did think, that at a time like this I'd be worrying about someone else.

I also was shivering, my teeth chattering like crazy. This seemed connected to the grief I was feeling, though the nurse attending me said sometimes the anesthetic had this effect. I felt like my body was having an earthquake, my teeth banging together, my arms and legs jumping, and my body shaking. But I didn't feel cold. Also, I was thirstier than I remember ever being. My mouth was stuck together, which made talking hard, even without all the teeth chattering.

After a flurry of activity during which my nurse morphed into someone else, and then back into herself (took a break I came to understand) piling warm blankets on me and slipping some more drugs into me, I gradually got over the feeling of earthquake and the grief slid away from me, and I was just there, awakish. Woozy, though. After a bit, the nurse deemed I was more functional, and I was rolled into another recovery room, where a more harassed nurse was working solo, in charge of getting people on their feet and out the door.

By this time I wanted badly to see my boyfriend, and then there he was. Apparently I'd been out for quite a while, and he was having anxiety attacks himself, something he's not normally prone to. I heard the nurse call my sister, who was to come and drive me home, and I thought what's the rush? I wanted to have a nap. A cup of tea would have been nice too, though not to be. I did get some apple juice out of the nurse, but it seemed kind of grudging. Afraid I'd throw up. Well, wouldn't they rather I tested that out in their presence? Guess not.

So that's where the process kind of breaks down. I felt warmly wrapped up in their cocoon of care until they had what they wanted, that useless gall bladder, and then the care kind of fell off. I could hear the nurse complaining that she was on her own in this part of recovery, which suggested that someone else was supposed to be there. I didn't feel it was really fair to communicate this anxiety to me, but there you go. It's not often, but sometimes, I'd like to be looked after.

Anyway, my sweet fellow went off in search of my sister, because it was obvious I wasn't on my feet yet, and the nurse took the opportunity to hand me my clothes and suggest I put them on. I thought, well, I can probably get my shirt on without falling over, so I took off the gown, and got a look at myself. My chest was painted red, a nice straight line across my breasts, cutting through my nipples, and then down the sides to under my belly button. Four patches indicated where they had been poking instruments inside me. Strangest feeling to think of that room full of people drawing on my body, and then picking things out of me.

I waited for company to come back before I stood up to put my pants on. Definitely felt woozy. Definitely impaired. But the nurse wanted me off that bed and into a recliner, so that's where I was, faster than I wanted. Then I got to wait anyway, because the doctor likes to see his patients before they get tossed out of the hospital, and I get the feeling that the doctors are definitely the ones the place caters too. Like royalty.

So let me think about that. When I came in, everything clicked along like clockwork so the doctor's time wouldn't be wasted, and then stalled while we waited on the doctor. Then when they were done with me, the system was in a hurry to send me away, but stalled while we waited on the doctor (who was not unreasonably, busy). So who's it all set up for?

Ah, but he finally took a break from the operating room to talk to me and another guy who was also waiting for him. That guy didn't look to be in a hurry either. The doctor told me he'd taken out about thirty stones, I imagine one by one before they pulled out the little sack I kept them in. Otherwise the holes in my belly would be bigger. As it is, I don't even have any stitches.

But the doctor said my gall bladder had been packed tight, and that it had likely not been doing anything for me for years. So good riddance, I guess. Stupid gall bladder.

Anyway, then I was dusted off, and handed over to a fellow who wheeled me out to the front door, where I then hobbled into my sister's car, and off we went. We did make a stop on the way home to fill a prescription (I insisted, not wanting to get home without clutching painkillers in my hand). I found a place to sit and wait while my trusty attendants wandered off to buy some other supplies, and then, with the prescription in hand we went home, where I finally got my cup of tea. Ah, tea.

I didn't sleep well Wednesday night, and yesterday was not a great day, but better than I expected. Last night I slept better, and today I feel better still (though still pretty crappy, but hey, I'm impatient). So I see that each day brings me back a bit, and soon I'll be as good as new, minus one apparently disposable body part.

So that's the story. Out they went, stone by stone, and now I heal, ache by ache.

countdown

2010-11-29T13:01:00.000-08:00

One of the things that people do when they get older, is hang out together at each others' medical appointments. Today I went along with my boyfriend/partner to see how well his broken ankle is healing. (He sure looks a lot healthier than most of the people hobbling around the hospital.) Progress is good, though that's another thing about aging. It takes longer to heal, so he's a while to go yet before he's back to hale and hearty. But he gets to start physio, which means one of these days he'll get to stop using crutches.

Anyway, while he was in with the doctor, I was regaled with gruesome tales by a retired fireman. He told me of his radiation treatments, which followed his throat cancer operations, but assured me he'd never smoked. His speech was a bit challenged, because part of his tongue was gone. He showed me the scars from his skin grafts. He also filled me in that his two sisters have battled cancer too. I heard a lot about polyps and ostomy bags. He'd had a colonoscopy as well, which is recommended for people with a family history like his. I declined to tell him I've had one too (interesting procedure) though I did contribute that colon cancer is what got my mother.

For a while he stopped, because someone sat between us, but when they left, we talked about how many firemen have throat cancer (this is anecdotal, I have no idea whether it's true, though all that smoke can't be good...). I wondered whether they mentioned this possibility when he was recruited into the job, and he had words to say about compensation. Anyway, if you're young, and attracted to those buff young firemen who show up in calendars, remember this as a cautionary tale.

On Wednesday my sweetie gets to return the favour. He's going to come with me when I go to get my gall bladder removed, though my sister will be the one who drives us home. (It's hard to shift gears with a crutch.) My gall bladder's been malfunctioning for years as it's packed full with pebbles, but the attacks never lasted more than a half hour, so I would forget about it between times. After all, what's a few bouts in a year?

But this spring it gave me serious grief, lasted the whole damn day, and I spiked a fever, and that sure got me to the doctor, which got me into the specialist chute, and soon I saw the surgeon (he had a cancellation, so I slipped in early). He suggested that my gall bladder wasn't contributing anything it was supposed to contribute, because it was so full. I know when I had an ultrasound some years ago, I felt like a fraud. But the evidence is there, lots of stones.

Aand so I agreed it should go. That got me on the wait list for surgery. (I imagine a lot of people have emergency gall bladder surgery while they're on the wait list, because it's about six months.) I've been very careful about what I eat since then, because I know what usually sets it off, so it's been an all right wait, though it certainly interferes with forward thinking. I've felt it a few times though, just a hint, a reminder, which keeps me on my toes, metaphorically speaking. Most unpleasant. Nice by-product though: watching what I eat caused me to lose some weight, which has to help as there's less for the doc to dig through. And I like the view in the mirror better.

My body will have some adjusting to do after I subject it to this trauma, but I think it's probably smarter than waiting for when I'm even older, and it does become an emergency surgery, as that can be much more major. Right now it's a day-surgery, a procedure, in the pamphlet.

I'm grateful that I feel so healthy heading into this though. (Thanks to all that Grouse Grind hiking. It was so nice to have the trail stay open late this year.) Fingers crossed I bounce back fairly quickly. My crippled boyfriend is going to stay with me for a few days. We'll be quite the pair.

a change in the weather

2010-11-26T00:28:00.000-08:00

Bonsai fir, caught out in the snow.

It happens occasionally. Vancouver has winter. It's not why we pay the big bucks to live here, and fortunately it doesn't happen often. But this past week has been winter, even though it's still officially fall, and for some reason it's been wintery in my spirits too.

It certainly hasn't helped that we've recently gone back to Daylight Savings time. (Or is that Daylight Losing time? I can never remember.) The essential thing is, it's dark around here most of the day. This will go on for almost another month until things turn around and the days start to grow longer again, though that seems always to need a lot of encouragement. You know, lots of gaudy decorations and frivolous shopping seems to do the trick. The gods are fickle and need cajoling, though why this works is beyond me.

Usually I'm quite entertained by snowfalls in the city, happy to bundle up and go see things looking pretty. I didn't get farther than outside my patio today though, to snap a picture of the little bonsai tree. Somehow this bit of snow coincided with one of those times, when things just seem, well, bleak. I didn't even cheer up when I was outside shoveling the stuff. Imagine. All I could think was bah, humbug, and bring on the rain.

But it happens, this kind of weather change (and it has changed again; the snow is melting now, hurray) and so I know, my mood will also change, already is. Last night I sat and stared at my computer screen, and not a coherent sentence would fall from my fingers. (Now don't tell me none of these are coherent either...) I deleted what I'd typed and went to bed early.

Sadie has the winter blahs too.

Can't say I felt much better today, certainly not an hour ago, when I started to try and make some sense of my funk. So it's one of those mysteries, no answers here. I don't know what my story is, or where it's actually going. I just know I need to live it and somehow it involves writing.

There is one silver lining to all this winter stuff I suppose. Having a week of actual below-freezing weather and a couple of snowfalls makes us Vancouverites (this Vancouverite) remember that we like rain. Warm, balmy rain. I think even my cat would agree.

Perspective

2010-11-18T15:06:00.000-08:00

Often I hike the Grouse Grind trail alone, which on any other trail is probably foolhardy, but on the Grind is fine, given it's occasional resemblance to a traffic jam. But this time of year, if the trail is still open, I hike with someone, because the numbers of hikers is definitely way down. My hiking companion lately is my fortunately-also-obsessed younger brother. When we can, we go together. We have a semi-ritual of talking for maybe the first quarter, and then falling into our own rhythms. Usually he leaves me behind. Once or twice I've managed to reverse that, but usually because he was out cycling 20 kilometres up some hill the day before, or something like that. I console myself that I am much older. (Well, two years.)

We went again this week in what looks to be my last of the year. Coming up the mountain you travel through several climate zones. Winter is on at the top of the mountain. The trail was still clear, if wet, but coming out on top, there was snow lying in patches. Some had melted away from last weeks snowfall, but not all. There were skaters on the ice rink. And I rather suspect that it's snowing up there right now, because outside my window it's raining and it's cold, and across where I should be able to see the mountain, there is only grey cloud, and I know it will be colder under that canopy.

I think I slipped under the last wire for this season, and I'm very glad. The sun kept trying to cut through the clouds, and finally, as we sat on top and had our visit and his tea and my non-fat latte, the clouds parted enough to see across to Point Grey and on to Vancouver Island. It was brief, because soon we were back in fog, but it reminded me of one of the reasons for doing this hike, and it's one I often forget to indulge in.

I mean, the benefits of this activity are tremendous. It's a tremendous aerobic workout, and there's no getting out of it, once you're started. I mean, you can stop hiking to rest, but you're going to have to go again if you ever want to go home. Sometimes you see deer, which is pretty fine for a city kid like me, though usually it's only squirrels or chipmunks. Or ravens; really cool birds. Often though, and especially if I'm alone, I'll come out on top, and just head straight for the gondola and the ride down. I forget to look.

We sat and drank our drinks and looked out at the view, and I thought, perspective. That's why I come. There are a million people down there, give or take a few, and they're all busy in one way or another. Everyone has problems, worries, stress. If not today, then tomorrow, because that's how life is. But they're all so small. I'm so small. Look how big the world is. Just look.

So what am I worried about today? I'm trying to sort the bureaucracy in my office, the piles of paper. Isn't that funny? I mean it is necessary stuff I'm digging through, and getting clarity in my office will give clarity to my days. I know that. But I think I'll go for a walk in the rain just now anyway. It'll make the paper easier to deal with when I get back, and heck, it could be snowing tomorrow, and then where would I be? (Yes, yes, back here finishing up this task. Don't worry.)

But while I look forward to the new season on the Grind, months away, still, I can take myself down to the path by the sea, and do it regularly. Because that's just over there, five minutes from my apartment, and that could keep me exercised till the mountain is a walk-in-the-park again. And isn't it true that the view over water gives that same perspective of distance, space, possibility? I think so, as long as I don't forget to look.

rules, consequences, concrete and zen

2010-11-09T21:40:00.000-08:00

My brother talks about a rule of threes. Usually he's talking about things like renovations, where whatever you are doing will take three times as long, or cost three times as much, or both. This is a good rule to keep in mind.

I think maybe the rule of threes is working in my own life. I had an uproar around here when I decided to sell my apartment. Then when sales suddenly fell off, I took it off the market, and took a good look at my own personal life, to see why I wanted to move so much. Then I initiated a second uproar, by asking my partner to move out. This of course solved one problem I was having but opened up several others. (This isn't an indicator of the rule of threes, but of the law of unintended consequences. In this case, some emotional fallout, among other things.)

It may be true that this wasn't the best time to decide, given my state of mind, but what the heck. Now that I was staying put in my recently more spacious apartment, I decided it was time to change the bathtub. It may just be that I have some kind of mental illness that shows itself in renovation-type behaviours. I'm not sure. But the bathtub in this place was okay, if I moved. But staying, it finally wore me down. It is (or was) 30 years old, and a jacuzzi at that. Whenever I ran the jets, to clean them out, strange black things floated out. I wasted a phenomenal amount of water refilling the tub, and running it again, to get the pipes clean. Alas, it seemed futile. I did still use the tub, but couldn't help thinking about the used bathwater always sitting in those pipes. Yuk.

Anyway, this week my friendly renovator came to take out the old tub. It turns out that, while the uproars came in threes, there is also the rule of three within each event. When this building was built, for some reason, the builders decided to pour their leftover concrete around my tub, after it was installed. This meant that the old tub had to be chopped up to get it out. Then the concrete had to be broken up in order to haul it out, so that some kind of level floor can be created in the space where the new bathtub will go. What a production, you say. Noisy too. (This is only two things, so there's got to be one more glitch coming, but maybe the fact that the 'trim' (what we laypeople call taps) won't arrive until about a month after the tub is installed will suffice.

Anyway, yesterday I was kicked out of the house so as to not breathe in fibreglass as the old tub was ceremoniously dismembered. Today, for the concrete, I kicked myself out. I went for a hike up the Grind with the aforementioned brother. I know, it was raining, but sometimes you just have to go. We had a perfectly fine hike, talking all the way.

In the last quarter the rain turned to snow. We both kept very careful attention on the moment, indeed on where our feet were at each moment (what he calls zen-grinding) but every now and then I stopped so I could look around. I did not have my camera, so I can't show you, but it was profoundly beautiful up there. Believe me. Fresh snow in the forest. And so quiet. Not a single sound of pulverizing concrete. And then my brother spotted two deer stepping through the trees. A doe and half-grown fawn. Their colouring was perfect. They were the same colour as the trees, and their white bellies matched the snow. Light and dark, shadow and snow. This, I guess, was a rule of two. Definitely some kind of zen.

space and time

2010-11-03T22:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I was a very little girl living in Vancouver. Time stretched out in front of me in a manner that was, well, timeless. I remember waiting, for instance, for Christmas to roll around. Remember that? It took forever. The end of the school year and the start of summer holidays? Eons.

Today I sat down to write in a café, and asked my companion, what date is it? November 3 she said. And I thought, how can this be? A blink ago it was Hallowe'en, just before that, Thanksgiving. I'd swear that Labour Day was just last week.

It's a cliché, or a tautology: Time flies. (Wait, I'll get my dictionary, yes, tautology 2. a statement that is necessarily true.) It used to crawl, time, but the older I get, the faster it flaps by. When my children were babies and toddlers (delectable and delightful, mostly) time crawled with them. They were infants for the longest time. Then they were teenagers, and though it was intense, what with all the hair-pulling and teeth gnashing (by me) it was also very brief. Decades have gone by.

This awareness is what drives me today, this week. Time flies, and I've still got lots to do. I could be 80 tomorrow. So, this week, I am working on setting up my office to function better. Stuff is going to be tossed. There are oodles of scraps of stories flying around in my office, unfinished, and I want to finish them, or delete.

Last year I was digging through my father's scraps and detritus and saying "oh, dad, what were you thinking." Twenty odd years ago I did the same thing with my mother's stuff. Now I can imagine my own children sifting through the debris, saying things like, "this paragraph's not too bad. Hey, if she'd finished that sentence, this might have been a story. Oh, here's part of her novel. I wonder how it was supposed to end?" And probably, "why's she still got this junk?" That'll be the baby clothes...

It's not fame or fortune I'm after, though that'll be nice, once I get some stories and a novel or two finished. Right now I'm just concerned that the kids not sit around saying "oh, mom, what were you thinking."

Whatever motivates, eh?

festival weekend

2010-10-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

The 2010 Vancouver International Writers & Readers Festival is now over. Fortunately I didn't miss the whole thing while I was hanging out in Ontario. I volunteer for the festival; most of what I do gets done ahead of time, but I made it home on Friday in time to wash my car and drive out to the airport to pick up David Mitchell (his latest title is The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet). I was star struck before I met him, he writes such good stories, but even more now, as he is quite lovely. What a relief. Imagine if I hadn't liked him. How would I explain those novels?

Anyway, I got a half hour of him to myself, a fantastic perk to this particular volunteer job, and then went to hear him read on Saturday evening. Again, he was interesting and gracious and funny. Really, if you haven't read any of his books, do, because his books are absolutely brilliant, which is the most important thing about him.

It was a most extraordinary weekend really, because I drove several other authors too, as well as members of their families. I had several good conversations, and didn't crash my car, which means they all got where they were going, at least while they were with me.

And I went to three other events besides Mitchell's, and listened to several writers whose work I didn't know and will look for now. And bonus, on Sunday afternoon I got to hear Ivan Coyote read/tell another story. She is worth the price of admission to just about anything. And on a whim I went to the last event Sunday night, and picked up The First Person and other stories, by Ali Smith, because I liked what she read and I liked what she said.

shifts and changes

2010-10-21T06:55:00.000-07:00

Life is quite the journey, so when your life takes a turn, going on a trip isn't a bad idea at all. I'm living solo again. My partner has moved out, at my request, and so we'll now see how dating works out. Happily ever after isn't entirely easy to work out, at least for some of us. But that's all the personal drama I will report on here, sorry.

I left my house and cat in good hands last week, not running away, but in a serendipitously timed, long-planned trip to a wedding. Therefore I spent several days in Stratford, attending two plays and the wedding, so in effect, attended much theatre. Dangerous Liaisons was the first play, and brilliantly done. I got completely involved in the story (even though I knew it) and felt the tragedy of the ending. Ah, life is harsh, and people often unkind (and no, that's not a personal comment).

The wedding was brimming with hope, love, and potential for longevity. Happily Ever After seems possible. I like it.

The third day I saw As You Like It, which was less successful (than the first play or the real wedding) though I'd say the audience didn't seem to agree with me, so perhaps I was just worn out. Or all the relationships in the play just seemed silly after seeing a real-life happy ending/beginning. Or it's just that I've seen the play too often, and should have just gone for a walk by the river. A longer walk, anyway, because I did use that route getting to the theatre and back again. Stratford is a very pretty town; I've finally (in my getting-old age) come to appreciate places that don't have mountains. I've embraced variety!

I left Stratford by train, a mode of transportation that is less useful in BC, as there are greater distances, and fewer places to go. It's too bad, because it makes a good contemplative trip free from airport 'security' and friskings (on the way out of Vancouver I declined to step through their microwave oven, and so got patted down thoroughly instead. This profiling has to stop.). The train trip was a bit long, because of some contortions VIA Rail had to go through because of a derailment that day, but they got me where I was going, finally. And since then I've been having a leisurely visit with one of my kids and her partner. Again, I'm cheered by youth and hope.

And I've done some shopping. The therapeutic effect is real.

morality wars

2010-09-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday a Superior Court justice in Ontario decriminalized prostitution, or so most headlines put it. Actually prostitution was already legal. It's just that all the laws around it made it impossible to perform this legal act without breaking the law. Can you spell hypocrisy?

I am not happy that prostitution exists. Not because I have any great problem with people having sex with whoever they want, nor with how many, nor with whatever kind of economic agreement they might arrange around the act, as long as everyone is a consenting adult. (Actually I can think of a few unfortunate occasions in my own life, when money changing hands would have been more honest, and oddly enough, might have left me feeling less used.)

What I don't like is coercion. I don't like it that the sexworker, female or male, is usually the coercee. And I don't like that the world views such people as somehow lesser beings and therefore unworthy of our protection. I am tired of the good girl/bad girl dichotomy. I am tired of restrictions on women's (and men's) choices of what to do with our own bodies.

Laws based on morality have over the years criminalized all kinds of behaviours that we now accept. Interracial, gay/lesbian, oral sex. They've all been against the law (and still are in some places around the world). If you think it's sinful, don't do it, but don't tell someone else they must live by your code. I think that is sinful.

Yes, I think it's a crime that some women are driven through poverty and a lack of choice to choose prostitution, but I don't agree that this should make the act itself criminal, or any more despicable than any other service desired and provided. I think it's the poverty that is the crime, and the lack of addiction support that traps people in lives they don't want. (And what is not really a digression in this discussion, I also think that drugs should be decriminalized, regulated and taxed, just as we deal with the legal drugs, alcohol and tobacco.)

The law, as it now precariously stands, does nothing to protect women in the sex trade. It forces them to operate in dark corners with no protection, and results in horrid, and sometimes spectacularly gruesome scenes like that found at serial killer Pickton's farm in Coquitlam.

And whether we like it or not, prostitution will never go away. Why not start to deal with it in the light?

sanity

2010-09-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

When things are getting to me I like to go hiking. Spur of the moment hiking isn't a bright idea when you are alone, but the Grouse Grind is a reasonable compromise. There are so many people slogging up that hill, that it is rare to have the forest to myself, and when I do it is anxiety-free (if sweat filled) bliss.

On Wednesday just past, a glorious sunny day (I refuse to think it's the last), I put on my shoes and socks and headed into the woods. I find the hike is getting more doable, though I'm not going any faster. On top I wanted a bit more so went for a walk around the resort. I meant to walk up to the windmill, but there was a sign warning of a bear in the area, and really, I'm not a fool. So I turned around, and saw this:


I did a little amateur photoshopping to bring in the distance.

And that did the trick.

bit of a schemozzle

2010-09-17T13:44:00.000-07:00

I had to look up the spelling of schemozzle; it's a variant of shemozzle, according to the Canadian Oxford Dictionary, which is my favourite for checking out words. It's a Yiddish expression, which is why I favour the variant spelling. If the logic of that eludes you, well, it eludes me too. But I think it's because, even if I don't pronounce it differently it has a different feel in my brain.

I've been in a kerfuffle lately too. That's another word I looked up, just to be sure. The spell check on this site is happy with it (though it doesn't recognize schemozzle). I expect this is because kerfuffle has a British Isles origin. Makes sense, given that that's where English comes from. Mind you, this spell check doesn't recognize favour either, even though it's the British Isles spelling. So I guess English is only English when it feels like it. But spelling with the u has a different feel in my brain too. These things are kind of strange. I know that so-called Canadian spelling is a schemozzle of English and American, and includes local-to-Canada (imagine!) words tossed in.

Anyway, this should illustrate to you the schemozzle I'm in. One thing leads to another with no apparent direction. I have to-do lists building, and am on task with a few things. My calendar is full of appointments and events. I know I have some deadlines. I will likely meet them. But my house is a mess, and I feel kind of rudderless.

Sounds like a pretty typical life, doesn't it?

Some things are going quite well. I decided early this summer that I needed to lost some weight, and I've managed to shed between five and ten pounds. I'm hazy as to the exact amount, as I was in denial about the upper number. But my clothes are loosening up, and that's always a good indicator of success. My winter coat will fit me this winter. Hurray!

The reason I decided to lose weight was because I've got a (laparoscopic) surgery coming up, and I thought the surgeon might have an easier time of it if there was a bit less of me. I saw the surgeon in June, found out this week that my surgery will be in December. Healthcare takes its time, doesn't it?

It's kind of funny, because I'm generally very healthy. It's just that I have a gall bladder that is jammed with pebbles and stones, and when I slip up and eat the wrong foods (too much fat mainly, which means no fish & chips) it lets me know loud and clear. It's quite unnerving, because I can't tell how long an attack will last. They've ranged from fifteen minutes, to fifteen hours (that's the one that got me to the doctor).

So I've been eating differently, which is not a bad thing. Everything I read tells me to eat less, and in particular to eat less fat, so this is all good. It's become a bit of a habit, which is something. More veggies, more fruit. All good. Not much booze. Also good.

But anticipation of this thing maybe is what leaves me feeling rudderless. I've been hesitating about some travel plans, because of it. It's harder to avoid fat foods when away from home.

And I still haven't got the writing habit nailed down. That's probably the biggest source of my rudderless feeling. I am a writer, and I don't write, much. I can make a case that reading is part of the process, but I've got that nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I'm supposed to be doing something. Being just never seems enough. It's weird. Even though I can be busy all day, nothing shows.

Maybe I need to imagine some upcoming surgery for that. Get my writer's blockage removed, that massive sack of fretfulness and indirection.

We'll see. The gall bladder may be the source of all this, in more ways than one. It's a reasonable metaphor, I suppose.

making a habit of it

2010-08-25T16:25:00.000-07:00

Habits are hard to establish, but once they've worked their way in, they are hard to break. They might be good habits, in which case it's great to be a creature of habit. If the habits are bad, which is a judgment call, then really, you need to find a new habit to replace them with.

For instance, I had a habit of drinking wine with my dinner just about every night, which was quite pleasant really. But it became a very bad habit as my (faulty) judgment called out for more. But early this year I decided that this was going to have to stop. It was surprisingly difficult for about a week, and then it was fine. Now I have water with my dinner and usually some tea after. I judge this to be a good habit so I'll keep it. I also deduce there were a lot of calories in wine, because I've lost a few pounds. I'm not against having a glass now and then with friends, but no longer at home. That just seems wise. Being wise also seems a good habit to get into.

Interestingly, it was no more difficult giving up wine than it was to let sugar go, as I did several years ago. I was in the bad habit of putting sugar or honey in my tea and coffee. I had a bad coffee habit too, so there was a lot of sugar pouring in. It was especially difficult to drink unsweetened coffee without much grimacing, but after a week the stuff started to taste good again. And interestingly, candy and chocolate bars became disgustingly sweet, and the taste of fruit became wonderful. So sweet!

Lately I have the habit of going to the Grouse Grind. This is a good habit (or an obsession, but I'm not ready to deal with my OCD just yet) as it is helping me to be healthy. But it's maybe a bad habit in that it takes up a lot of time, and I let other things slip. This I'll have to work out. There are other things I need to do as well.

I've been trying to get into the habit of writing regularly. I have read that this is essential to any writing practice. I habitually read lots, but forget to shake the cobwebs off my pen. Writing is very hard to make habitual, because it requires work. Drinking coffee without sugar doesn't require work, and drinking water and tea instead of wine doesn't really require work either (less, really, as water is much cheaper than wine). The Grind takes work, but the thing is once your in it, it's hard to stop. After a certain point going down is quite painful, so you just have to finish.

I think maybe writing is much like the Grind. I feel very good when I'm in the middle of both. (People might not believe me about the Grind, but it's true.) And I feel very virtuous, like I've done something useful, when I get to the end of an hour and some of hiking. Writing too. They are different, but similar.

Last week I took a class at SFU to try and ease myself into a habit of writing every day. Creative writing, actual generation of stories. It's hard work. Fixing the stuff once it's printed out in a heap of paper is easier. But it's getting a story down onto paper that's the challenge. (Onto a computer screen a well, as my erratic entries here indicate, but that's another habit I'm working on.)

I always know where I am when I'm on the Grind; you'd think that would be true of writing too, but there lies a big difference. You never know whether the story you think you are writing is the one that's going to come out of you. And you might think there'd be more excitement on the Grind (forest, potential bears, mountainside) but really it's quite routine. More like climbing stairs, albeit with a nicer view. Discovering characters hiding around corners, or popping out of cars, can be exciting too, and this happened last week at SFU, when I was sitting in a room with other people, and couldn't do anything else except keep slogging with my hand holding a pen. Uphill, but then this kid slipped out of my pen and onto the page...

The problem with writing, unfortunately, is that you can usually get up and walk away without falling off anything or wrecking your knees. So the habit is peculiarly more difficult to establish. Last week was a good, if pricey start, but not sustainable. I'm going to have to go it alone, and find some way of establishing, for myself, a duration of time I can't walk away from.

I think this will be a good habit to have. I just need to work at it. Because I do have a story to tell. I mean, it might end up in a bottom drawer, the way I hear first novels often do, but so what. I'll feel so virtuous, having made it to the end.

rambling roads

2010-08-04T00:10:00.000-07:00

I've lived my whole life in BC, yet don't know it well. So in the last week, my partner and I went driving. We tried to go down roads we'd not been on, if not ever, then at least not for a long time. Mostly we were successful. We started out last Monday heading north on highway 99, instead of east, the usual route, which I have driven oodles of times. The road north is beautiful instantly. It takes you past Brandywine Falls, where we stopped, goes through Whistler, past Nairn Falls, where we stopped, and then Pemberton, where we had lunch. Then we took the Duffy Lake Road, through the mountains into Lillooet. Until a few years back, I don't think it was paved all the way, but it is now. It's the slow road, lots of twists and turns, but so beautiful!

Duffy Lake

More Duffy Lake

You get my point about beauty. This is BC. It may not actually be the absolute best place on earth, as BC's slogan brags, but it sure has some staggeringly beautiful sights.

We found a motel in Lillooet that had a balcony overlooking the Fraser River. A view can make up for a lot in a motel, and so it was a fine place to stay.

Lillooet is in the interior of BC, and BC is burning. We watched a helicopter fly in to fill up its bucket with water, then head out to dump it on a nearby wildfire. It looks so woefully inadequate, one little chopper and one little bucket against massive tracts of fire. And the fire's still burning.

From Lillooet, Mile 0 for the Gold Rush Trail, we headed for highway 97, the road north. Just before the junction we came upon Historic Hat Creek Ranch. We neglected to tour the ranch, but our brunch was good. Most places seem to owe their existence to the gold rush. We stopped at a fire tower just before 100 Mile House, and climbed up to look at the view. The Cariboo would seem to be a flattish plateau, and trees. There don't seem to be a lot of people. Just trees, and a lot of them are dead, thanks to the pine beetle. Things have progressed past the first-year, nicely reddish-coloured trees, to scraggly black ghosts of trees. The whole forest looks like tinder, and that's just what it is. The air is not clear.

It was hot driving, though we had the air-con going, so we stopped in at Lac La Hache for a swim. Whew. That was great.

Barkerville cabin.

The plan, newly formed, was to stop in Quesnel for two days, and make the side trip into ghost town territory, Barkerville. This way we wouldn't have to move house twice. Road trips that are unplanned don't get packed for very well, I've discovered. We had everything with us we might need, except bowls for our morning cereal. The motel in Quesnel had bowls. How could we not stay?

Barkerville is more interesting than I expected. It's a tourist spot, yes, but low key. I feared it'd have more of a circus atmosphere. It does have stage coach rides, but then the setting fits. The town is prettier than in gold rush days, as the forest has grown back around it. At the time, the hills around were logged, and the place was pretty grim. Of course, we were looking at it in sunshine and summer. Not rain and mud. The town has actors playing townspeople. They hold to character pretty well. We sat in for a court session, by an actor doing a credible Irish accent, regaling us with tales of frontier justice. Not an easy life for anyone, back then. Which was just yesterday, really.

Lots of abandoned wagons and machinery.

From Quesnel you either carry on, or go back, so we carried on. Our new plan was Jasper, and the Icefields parkway. This meant a drive up to Prince George, and then we could turn eastward, to get through or around the Cariboo mountains. Prince George has around 71,000 people. A metropolis in the north. (Quesnel is around 6,000, which is a big burg too, judging by what we saw.) We drove up to Connaught Hill park and walked around it to get the panorama of the city. Marvelled at an ant hill that I swear had more residents than Prince George.

From there, it's highway 16, which going west would take us to Prince Rupert, but east took us to Jasper. The next town after Prince George was McBride, population 745. Between them, trees, and signs promising moose, elk, deer. We did see some deer.

The drive after McBride is through the Robson Valley, between the Cariboo Mountains and the Rockies. Interestingly it looks much like the Fraser Valley, minus the hordes. Lush and bucolic and beautiful. And the river is the Fraser. It turns out we had pretty much been following the Fraser to its source. I must have know that once, that the Fraser begins in the Rockies. I'm sure I coloured in a map when I was in elementary school. Fifty years ago? I guess that's a good excuse for forgetting.

An elk at the side of the road.

The road heads into the Rockies past Mt. Robson, which is one of those massive hunks of rock that just make your jaw drop. Promise of much more to come. Mt. Robson is still BC, but soon we crossed the line into Alberta. We did see an elk finally, whoo hoo! Might have missed him, but there were of course a bunch of cars pulled over to have a look. I can't remember whether he was a British Columbian, or an Albertan. It was maybe an hour before we got to Jasper.

The elk stepped into the woods, illustrating why we saw no others; a metre more into the woods, and he was gone from sight.

Jasper is a nice little tourist town. It's like Banff, only quieter. We had dinner on an upstairs balcony at an Italian restaurant. The food wasn't great, but the spot was gorgeous. A narrow balcony and tons of greenery and flowers, so it felt very private and cozy. Yum, even though the food wasn't yum; sometimes you can only have one. Good food or ambience. We had managed to get a room in a 'heritage' hotel, even though this was day one of the long weekend. It was just fine, except no air-con, so we left the window open. Foolish, as there was lots of noise from the street. But we slept, finally, until someone started up a motorcycle early in the morning. Slow to learn, but we closed the window, and slept in some more.

The thing about an unplanned road trip is that you're not in a hurry. Checkout time most places was 11, and we would be ready to go around that time, but not always. My partner had brought along his espresso machine, and once armed with a latte, what's the rush? No worries, we were on the road by noon. I have to tell you, that Jasper, and the Icefields Parkway, and Banff too, are all in Alberta. So while BC may be the best place on earth, I can't help but feel that somehow Alberta has managed some pretty good stuff too.

We set out for a two and a half-hour drive that took us about six, because we had to stop so often to gawk at the views, and to walk in to have a look at things. First place we went was Horseshoe Lake, on the recommendation of the hotel clerk. She said people jumped in from the cliffs, and sure enough, that's what they were doing. Next stop Athabasca Falls, yet another mind-blowing example of the power of water.

Athabasca Falls

And after that of course we stopped at the glacier that feeds the Falls. There was a hike up to the tip of the glacier, with many signs warning of the danger of walking on it, because it is receding, and there is a lake developing underneath it's front edge. A hundred years from now, it'll be gone. Which should make the Falls less awe-inspiring. Everyone who doubts global warming, should come have a look.

Athabasca Glacier: the marker shows where the glacier reached in the year 2000. The valley behind me has markers stretching back through the years.
This melting thing has been going on for awhile.

After awhile, all these mountains and glaciers and deep canyons get kind of ho-hum. Seen one, seen 'em all, eh? But we walked up the pathway to the Bow Lake outlook. This was from the highest point on the parkway. How many times can you say wow?

Bow Lake

But then we saw a bunny, so it was okay. Bunnies are cute, but you don't get knocked over with awe. Elk now, that's different. That stops traffic.

A week is not long enough for rambling around BC (and a bit of Alberta), so when we got to Lake Louise we decided to head for Golden, and then to Kamloops, with the thought we could hang out there a couple days, and then make a quick run home.

The Trans-Canada highway is awful. It's crowded and busy and everyone drives like they're in the middle of rush hour. But I've never driven into Golden before. I've always been one of those goofs flying by. It's a nice little town! We had a good dinner, food and ambience, at a restaurant on the Kicking Horse River! And we slept all right in a cheap and cheerful motel on the highway. Next day, the most gruelling of our drives, because of Hwy. 1, taking us to Kamloops. We staggered off the highway, headed downtown, and checked into the Plaza Heritage hotel. What a treat! And we went for a walk, and then found ourselves outside a beautiful restaurant, where again, the food was great, and the place was lovely. Then we went for a walk, listened to some music in the park, and looked out at the sunset over the Thompson River.

It was the long weekend, which meant we couldn't stay on at our hotel. But we were completely refreshed by Kamloops, so decided to take the slow road home. The Trans-Canada used to be the major road, but it's become the secondary route since the Coquihalla Hwy blasted it's way over the mountains. If you've the time, I'd sure recommend it. It made it feel like we were still exploring, winding our way along the Thompson River. The countryside is beautiful in a different way from all those mountain crags we'd been oohing at. It's dry and varied, and I'm sorry I didn't take any pictures to put in here, but we couldn't really see far, because of all the smoke. And I see on the news tonight that there are more than 400 fires burning in the province, lots of them new ones, in the places we drove through. All that pine beetle tinder.

Just before Lytton we spotted some rafters. There were at least four rafts that we watched come down the river. I don't think any of them were going forward. Amateurs.

We could hear screaming from up on the highway...

Then we were back with the Fraser River. Just outside Lytton, we saw helicopters again, hauling water, probably to the site where a plane went down the day before. Fighting fires is extraordinarily dangerous.

So it's all these contrasts, travelling on the holdiays. I love the drive down the Fraser Canyon. Twists and turns and tunnels. I loved the drive all over the province. And then I see on the news that people died on some of the roads we took. And fires are burning everywhere. But we had a good time!

Our last stop was at Hell's Gate, so-named because Simon Fraser didn't enjoy himself there. Lucky for him, as he was discovering(?) the Fraser, that the Thompson Indians (the Nlaka'pamux, or Thompson Salish, or just Thompson people) had built some ladders and (scary) bridges along the sides of the canyon. And the river wasn't as narrow then. It's worse now because a huge pile of rubble fell into the river when the railroad was being built. The salmon haven't recovered yet.

We of course rode the gondola down. I noticed that there's a trail, which suggests to me that you could skip the fee for the gondola if you wanted. Much less of a hike than the Grouse Grind, too. But I only noticed this when we were at the bottom, and had already paid. Ah well, my partner's not as keen about slogging up hills as I am.

From Hell's Gate, it's a quick ride down to Hope, and then onto the Lougheed Hwy through Agassiz, skipping the freeway, then Mission, Haney (Maple Ridge, to all you recent residents) and, then, sigh, onto the freeway but then, hurray, home, where the kitty was waiting. Speaking of wildlife.

Courtyard Kitty

dishonour

2010-07-09T11:58:00.000-07:00

Anyone else out there ever had an illicit relationship, or perhaps just been accused of one? Think you should have died for it?

Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, an Iranian woman, was convicted of having "illicit relations" and has been sentenced to death by stoning. She has already been punished with whip lashes, which may have something to do with a "confession".

An international ruckus has been raised. Today in the Globe I read about how Sakineh's story galvanized Heather Reisman to do something about it. Reisman has posted an online petition, one that I hope you will sign. I have. While reports are that Sakineh's been reprieved from stoning, it this doesn't mean they won't hang her.

The Guardian in England reported on her story last week, and had an update yesterday. Sakineh is not the only person facing this brutal death.

While it seems barbaric to me sitting in my vantage point in Canada, I know from reading history that it's not that long ago that women were considered property here as well. Owning your own property after marriage, having your own bank account, voting, being a person, having the police come if your husband beat you; these are all relatively recent things.

There is much more acceptance here, now, that women are people too. But if you read newspapers or watch the news you hear about so-called honour killings often. To put it very mildly, it does a serious dishonour to women, to call their murders a way to save family honour. Shame is a powerful emotion, but it is only possible to think that someone else's behaviour shames you, if you think you own them. And considering how many women are in serious danger when they dare to leave a bad relationship, you have to admit we've all got a long way to go.

our home and tarnished land

2010-07-01T13:16:00.000-07:00

Canada is 143 today. Very young in the life of a country. Out here on the West Coast, we're younger still, not having joined the party till later, making us part of the Canadian scene for only 139 years. But we're part now, with red maple leaf flags flying everywhere.

This is a free country, or so we've been led to think. I'm not so sure. Such a nice place, too, where we expect courtesy in our civic affairs. And it generally is a very nice country to live in, not usually any surprises.

Occasionally though, things kind of fall apart, as they did recently in Toronto, where our federal government hosted the G20, and the police responded with great glee in bringing down the heavy hand of the state. It's an interesting choice governments sometimes make, to metaphorically wave red flags in front of the bulls. They did it some years back out here for an APEC gathering at UBC, stretching a chain link fence across the university campus. I was working on campus at the time, and remember being grossly offended by the fence, and I'm as mild-mannered as they come. It's wasn't very surprising that the campus rumbled with unhappiness that day, and we now have an often-broadcast news clip to commemorate the pepper-spraying of protesters.

I do remember though, that a section of Chancellor Blvd was repaved to make sure the poobahs were secure from bumps on their ride out to lunch at UBC, so something good came of it all.

The feds upped the ante this year by setting the G20 in the middle of downtown Toronto, our biggest city, pulling out the chain link for another thumb-nose at the general population, virtually asking for the goons that like to show up in black and smash windows. Everyone expected it, and the expected became reality. And no surprise the huge buildup of police resulted in a huge number of arrests. No terrorist threat to any of the world 'leaders' but plenty of threat to the security of citizens of our fair country.

So the billion dollar bill (money we don't have, as we're already running a deficit) for 'security' to host a conference concerned with cutting deficits (bitter irony there) served to reduce security for the average person who happened near the fence, whether they worked there, shopped there, or objected to the fence there. When you hear governments talk about security, they are not talking about yours.

It was an egregious example of the heavy-handedness that comes with power, and so stupidly unnecessary too. I mean, I've flown over this country. There are lots of unpopulated places to hold these conferences. Or, and it's not a new idea, they could hold them at the UN, where they're set up already with the security.

Happy Birthday Canada.

anniversary

2010-06-29T10:57:00.000-07:00

Thirty years ago, just after midnight on this date, I became a mother for the first time. It was a dark and rainy night.

I wasn't ready. I thought I was. But I wasn't prepared for the actual birth, though I'd done all my homework. The physical nature of birth, the way the animal body takes over; can't say that was discussed at prenatal class. I wasn't prepared for the emotional nature of birth, the realization of responsibility, the absolute impossibility yet absolute necessity to keep safe this new tiny being. I wasn't prepared for the chasm that opened up between the me that was and the me that now is. And there's no going back to try out that other pathway.

And I wouldn't.

The other thing that I don't remember picking up on before I had children, was how much they would teach me about myself. Maybe that's not universal. I only know my own trajectory. My knee-jerk emotional responses, unattended personality traits, they got magnified, and I had to look at them.

And I became an adult by having children, not in the physical sense, that was a given, but in how I approached life. I'm not saying this is the only way to become an adult, but it chanced to be how it worked out for me. The birth of my three children put me on the other side, as someone who had to look ahead, had to consider consequences, had to plan. Had to be responsible. Was responsible. It made mortality real, oddly enough. Before my daughter was born, I don't think I believed in death. Now I could see how important it was to keep this small heart beating, not to mention my own. It's maybe the first inkling that I had in the world that I was essential, too.

This I owe to all my children. There is no favourite here, and I'm not just saying that. It turns out my heart expands, and can fit them all. But there is a first, and today is her day.

She is beautiful in every way.

springtime rambles

2010-06-14T10:58:00.000-07:00

After spending a couple of months with my place fluffed up for selling, and then taking it off the market, I've been moving back in. It's nice to dig stuff out of drawers, and put back some of the personality into this apartment. I'm into Plan B: to sell at a later date. For now it's a road not taken (not offered?) but sometimes the path you are on turns out to be just fine. For instance yesterday we took ourselves for a long walk along the seawall, around False Creek, and back over the Cambie Street Bridge. Then we finished up at Granville Island to pick up some snapper and vegies for dinner, before bring our weary feet home. Very urban, extraordinarily lovely, no car.Why would we want to move?

Since all the fluffing, my place became much lighter, as so much stuff got cleared out, and so now I want to keep it that way. But to answer why I want to move, eventually: I do have a rented storage locker and it does have all my books and bookcases, and I do want a room to put them in, so I think this place won't in fact be home for too many more years. But for now, it's quite a pleasant place to live. So I'm back to organizing, both inside and out. I bought a new chest of drawers that fits into a spot in the living/dining room, and with some shifting around of furniture, it still feels relatively spacious. Cozier too, because I shifted around the chairs in the living room. We don't have a couch just now. The old one was very old, tattered (the cat) and huge, so it got tossed in the fluffing. I was thinking we should get a new, smaller one, but the way I shifted our furniture around, I don't really miss it. Except for when I feel like lying down for a nap The only option is the bed, and I did like dozing on the couch... Pretty small problem, eh? Next place.

The new chest was so I could organize my sewing stuff in one place. It was scattered into several drawers, closets, crannies, and so I never sewed anything unless one of my kids showed up needing pants hemmed. The table is the only spot to work the sewing machine, but that's fine, as I do have a spot to put it away. And I pulled out a bunch of my own mending, and actually mended some. There are several pieces of fabric I've bought, that I want to make clothes out of, and that seems possible now too. The trick is to be able to clean it up in between, as I've gotten used to the place being clean, since all the showings.

I got new glasses too, recently, and so have been literally looking at things differently. In fact more clearly, as the glasses correct my vision properly. I've given up on contact lenses, after forty years! They were bugging me, and the soft ones don't correct exactly. I can't stand seeing things unfocused anymore. So back to glasses. There were always pros and cons to both methods of vision correction, but I find some bonuses to not wearing contacts. My vision is really bad, can't see clearly much past my nose, but interestingly I can see really clearly up close. Threading needles has become possible again. So I sew.

There's been one unfortunate thing about the glasses. I can see the dust bunnies now. Having slightly unfocused vision has kept me a casual housekeeper for years, but now I notice the dust as it builds. And between the cat and myself (long hair) there can get to be some impressive bunnies. My partner is sorry to see my vision clear, in this particular area. Turns out it wasn't that I was so casual about cleaning. I just quite literally couldn't see the need. But it's okay. He does most of the cooking, so needn't feel pressured to clean to my new standards.

Outside's been changing too. The other day I got out the pruners, and tidied up the rhododendrons that sit in the planters outside my front window. Result? I have a mountain view. I'll have to remember to do that again before the next time I try to sell this place. Everyone wants a view, including me.

We've scattered a great number of potted plants all over the courtyard; that's another reason we'll need to move eventually. The plants, like my books, and like us, are waiting for somewhere to root. I was a dabbler in the garden before, sigh, when I had a house and garden, but I think it may be because there was just too much else going on in my life. But now, faced with a concrete courtyard, I'd like to get out and grow things. (I'm not the first late-middle-aged woman to want to garden am I?) My herbs in pots made it through the winter. I think my azalea is going to bloom, as is a hydrangea I planted a few years ago. I set out some carrot tops that are happily growing into a pot full of the snowdrop bulbs from my dad's front lawn (my partner salvaged them before we sold the house). I'm thinking I'll get another reasonable sized (pretty) pot to set out in the courtyard, and grow some lettuce. I do want a garden. If it were possible I'd grow some snap peas. At the store, they always seem to be shipped from China! My partner is a real gardener and he too needs actual dirt to dig in, but for now all those potted things definitely improve the outlook, and they get us outside.

Things are growing. The lilac from my father's yard produced two flowers this year. Poppies, also from his yard, are popping up (sorry) all over the planters. What else from Dad's? Forsythia, originally a transplant from my own former house (it has no flowers yet, too young), a winter rose that has one healthy looking leaf right now, but did produce a flower earlier this year. Rhubarb. There is a lily about to bloom (I think it's a lily) from off his back porch.

There's irony in all this. Though a lot of the plants remind me of my father's house, they also remind me that he didn't give a hoot about any of them, and by extension, of much else either, grumpy old man that he'd become. They're all plants that meant something to his wife, my stepmother, who died about six years before Dad did. My sister tended to them, and also kept many going on the back deck, as homage to her mother. And so they carry the mix of feelings that our father and his house held. Which is fine. I like it that life goes on, and some of it blooms.

it's not different this time

2010-06-04T22:05:00.000-07:00

I have this theory about real estate, that every year things go much the same way. Early in the new year there are very few properties for sale. Home owners who plan to sell wait for the spring. But the buyers come out early, and swarm through the few open houses that they can find. Multiple offers abound, as there's not much to choose from. Home owners notice, and think wow, this is the year we should sell! Suddenly there are hordes of listings, and lots of choice. The buyers who lost the bidding wars start to take their time. Numbers of sales go down. Prices start to drop. Buyers back off as prices become more reasonable. The newspapers report how the market is falling. The summer brings doldrums. Maybe in the fall it'll pick up, maybe not. People take their properties off the market. Winter comes. People cook turkey. Then, voila, the new year comes, and there's very little on the market, and buyers start to buy because this might be their last chance to get into the market. Prices move up.

I think this is what's happened to me. (It can't be that I'm deluded about how much my place is worth!) I've had two offers for my place that I considered to be fishing expeditions by bargain hunters. If I really needed to sell, I'd have had to concede. But I don't, so if I can't get what I think is fair value, then I see no reason to sell. So yes, I've taken my place off the market.

Perhaps I'm not alone in this testing of the waters. Lots of listings get canceled. Real estate is an example of an illiquid asset. Doesn't mean it's not worth what it's worth. It's just harder to withdraw from than, say, a bank account.

I was late getting my place listed this year; I hesitated first because of the Olympics, and then I just wasn't quite ready, when there were those few listings at the end of February. A month later I had all kinds of people come to open houses and say they really liked the place, but, alas, there were a whole lot of listings at the same time, so lots of choice. Comparison shopping was possible.

I read recently about a study that demonstrated that too much choice paralyzes decision-making. Offer people sixty flavours of ice cream, and they'll have a hard time choosing. Offer six, no problem. I think house-buying works the same way. Too many listings, and people freeze up. On the news tonight they said listings were up, what, 40% over this time last year? And guess what. Sales are down. Even though rates are still at historically low points. You tell me if it makes any sense. Next year, rates will be higher, and I believe we'll see a surge in sales at the beginning of the year, because there will be very little available. If prices are down, it'll be because the banks are making up the difference in higher rates. I may eventually have to take less than I want for my place, but it'll cost the buyer as much. (Forget real estate and buy bank stocks?)

I think it actually was a bit different in 2009 because of the great recession that happened towards the end of 2008. You couldn't sell a place in the beginning of the year, because everything was so cheap that there were no listings. Then what listings there were began to get bidding wars. What can I say? People like to buy high. That's all I can figure. Unless there's lots of choice. Then they'll hold off.

Realtors will tell you this is nonsense. And they're right, of course. No one can predict the markets.

road trip

2010-05-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I think I should take a workshop. Sometimes this is a good idea, and sometimes it's not. And sometimes, it's a mixed result. This weekend has been a mixed result.

I hit the road on Friday morning, for Salmon Arm, to take part in the International Writers Festival there. (This is a somewhat grandiose title, as I don't think there were any internationals in attendance, but then, the organizers are thinking ahead.) Sometimes you need a road trip, and it's good to have a destination, and this seemed a good one. I was drawn to Salmon Arm because I had lived there, briefly, before memory. My first birthday would have been celebrated there. No one is left from that group; father, mother, older brother, gone. (I have a younger brother, as well as a step- and a half-sister, not to mention children, so don't feel too sorry for me.) I obviously don't remember living there, but I have pictures that prove it, and remember where the house was, vaguely, because my Dad pointed it out once, on a camping trip. It was more a cabin in the woods, and there may be a Macdonald's where it used to sit, but there's no one left to ask. Anyway, after this weekend I feel less drawn to Salmon Arm. Been there, kind of thing.

The festival was the same idea as the Surrey Writers Conference, if you know about that, but in miniature: designed for newbies. I sort of figured that, but was lulled a bit by the status of a couple of the names. I hoped to pick up some useful information, even though I've kind of graduated from this level of workshop. Encouragement. Or a reminder that what I should be doing, rather than sitting around listening to people talk, is get to the writing. That's what I got. Maybe the best thing I heard was from Brian Brett, who gave the 'keynote' speech. He talked about how writing and publishing are two different things. I wrestle with this identification as writer, because I don't have books published, and in fact I don't even have much writing finished. But I write, and I think about writing. All the time. And I read. Both: write, read. Ergo, writer.

Publishing is a different issue, and getting murkier all the time. I mean, really, this is a form of publishing. Any less valid because I set it up myself? Probably, in most of our heads, but maybe occasionally I'm brilliant, and this way I get to share it. I like to think so (that I'm brilliant). Anyway, all these workshops about getting published are getting ahead of myself, because the writing needs to be done first. I think that may be true for a lot of the attendees, but what do I know?

In a fit of that feeling of brilliance, I signed up for a Blue Pencil session, which is where you show something you've written to someone else, who doesn't know you, so they can give you some feedback. I picked a writer/poet I admire, and showed him some poems. This is akin to stripping off your clothes in front of someone you like, before he (or she) has said he's interested. It turned out well, though some flabbiness in my writing was apparent. But I was encouraged that, with some work, there is something there. My blue penciler was late, as he was knocking back some wine with another alpha male, if I'm not mistaken, and so my session was a bit short. It happens. Bad form (a bit of flabbiness in his behaviour) even if you do find yourself in a little town far from the metropolis. I was feeling it myself.

But I know what to do, and really, I already knew it. Write, rewrite, and keep working on these poems, and all the other stuff too, because it needs to be written. I need to write it. I get good enough, maybe I'll get 'published', ie chosen by a publisher, and then maybe my blue penciler'll invite me along for the booze, next time. And maybe I'll decline. Meow.

It's a very beautiful place, Salmon Arm, but unfortunately this weekend was also all about clouds and rain. I get enough of that at home, and finally this morning, after some bad coffee and pastries for breakfast (bleah) I lost interest in listening to someone talk and talk about things I either know or could google. So I checked out early and started home. I had intended to stay an extra day in Salmon Arm, to do some writing, away from the distractions of home. But the clouds were pulling my mood down, so I hopped in the car instead. My car has a way of following different roads, so I took longer to get to Merritt than I might have. I find I have aging joints which object to sitting in one position for hours at a time. I don't think I would have been able to get out of the car, had I continued home today. But, the sun is shining here, and I can hear birds. I can hear traffic too, but I'm off the highway, I have a bit of a view, and the air is warm. I'll finish my trip home tomorrow. But tonight, I'm going to pull out those poems, and have another look.

curious days

2010-05-06T22:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday and today I turned myself inside out to accommodate possible buyers, and then they made an 'offer' that was oddly insulting. The offer was missing pages, it had many significant errors (my address was wrong) it told me my place was crap and I better run fast now, and take this offer which was extremely low, because we're aiming for a crash and it won't be worth anything soon. It was pretty unfunny at first but then my realtor and I cracked up, it was so ridiculous. Imagine trying to bully someone into selling to you, by telling you the place you are selling is junk, although they didn't put in subject to an inspection. Huh? They were trying to panic me, but I happen to think my place is very fine. I'm not selling it because it's a bad place. I'm selling it because I want to make a change in my life. But there's no urgency. So I said no.

I didn't counter, because it was nonsense. They asked both too much and too little.

Anyway, it reminded me, in it's curiouser and curiouser way, of an open house my partner and I went to in Victoria last weekend. We were just poking around, snooping at opens, and then found ourselves in Esquimalt following the signs to a house we hadn't planned on seeing. Turns out it was a for-sale-by-owner. There were hammers banging as a couple of guys worked to rebuild the basement stairs (though it looked more like they were dismantling it) and the grinding sound of a power saw intermittently blasting our eardrums. She was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, and it didn't smell particularly appetizing. There were people all over the house, no lights on. Some rooms empty, some furnished. The basement was a rabbit warren of rooms, not particularly inviting, and all of this alone would have been enough to send me running away from this seller, the way I ran from today's buyer.

But then the most peculiar thing. She knocked on a door in the basement, said the tenant was in, opened the door a crack, and said "here's his room." It was a shambles, and dark, and I stuck my head in. Around the corner was a mattress on the floor, and there lay the tenant, tucked into bed with a young woman nestled into his arms. He looked quite pleased with the state of affairs. Alas, my partner didn't see, and somehow I didn't feel I could say, "hey, have a look at this." As we stepped away, the owner said, "he's in love." And I said "yeah, I can see that."

We aren't ready to make an offer and anyway, she was asking too much for too little. It was such a shame, really. The house could be lovely, without the slapdash reno.

clarity, maybe

2010-05-06T13:32:00.000-07:00

I like to think that I'm a pretty good writer, but sometimes what I write turns out to be something different from what I think I'm writing.

So what am I talking about now? This:

There is the possibility, just maybe, perhaps, that someone just might make an offer on my place. Before making the offer they needed me to clear it with my strata council, that should they buy (if they offer me enough and there are no other objections) they would be able to rent out the place for a year or so, until they are able to move in. So I asked. Unfortunately, I had previously asked whether it would be okay if I were to rent back, should that be an option, and that clouded the responses to this question, as to whether someone could rent to a...stranger.

So, turns out everybody likes me fine, and I can stay if I want, but no one directly answered my question about renting to ...strangers... because, really, I'm not going to commit to staying here forever, to save them from the riffraff of tenants (mostly thinking about whether I might need a month or so to find my next place).

In all the flurry of emails I got some clarification. One voice said, "well, the bylaws," and then I thought, hmmm, right, when all else fails, read the manual. So I dug out the by-laws, which are clear enough. I could have saved myself a lot of email traffic if I'd just done my homework. I know, I know, it's like reading the manual for your new phone but sometimes sitting down and reading the by-laws (or the manual) can be quite edifying. Unfortunately it's much easier to have an opinion if you don't check first.

But I had a second question--Are we at maximum rentals?--which you'd think would be easy to answer too, but no, even that question turned out to be greyish. When I suggested we might not be at maximum (we allow two) I got one vehement statement that we were at max, case closed. However, while one unit is definitely rented, another only sometimes rents out her place when she's away, and she's away now; is it rented? No. ("It's empty, does that still count as a rental?" asked one. In fairness I think she was joking.) And another unit has the children of the owners living in it, and it was hazy whether they were renting, but, no, they're not, and anyway, family is not tenantry. So my maybe buyers are free to put together a proposal. Fingers crossed they will.

People very much read with their emotions. I should know that, but this just illustrated it again. I've now emailed everyone the clause from the by-laws, which everyone should have, but might not know where it is

And here's why I blame myself in this one, for muddying the water with my unclear writing. I think that even though I thought my questions were clear, what I really wanted to know and didn't ask, was, would these people who are my neighbours (for now) still think I was a nice person if I sold my place to someone who then turned around and rented it out. (Will you still like me if I actually accept an offer that is good for me [and legal!] but might be inconvenient for you?)

I mean, what a person I'm turning out to be. I am just waiting for people to put their doormats on me. But it's fine, as long as they think I'm nice. (And they do!) Very female of me, probably.

It's all still hypothetical too. I am hopeful, but no one has showed up with an offer yet.

stymied

2010-04-29T21:23:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering how things are going...

Making plans for change is difficult when the plans require someone else to cooperate, and you don't even know who the someone is. My apartment has been for sale for a month now, and though there have been nibbles, no one has yet pulled out their chequebook and made an offer. Today I dropped the price (sigh) hoping that someone will get the hint. This is not a grocery store; the posted price is a suggestion.

Another plan I'd made required the library to hire me as an on-call book shelver. I'm stymied there too, because apparently, while my qualifications are interesting to them, they weren't quite interesting enough, because they didn't even bother to phone my references. I am puzzled as to what I said wrong at my interview. I know that in one sense I'm overqualified, but I haven't had a regular job in ten years or so, and really, at 58 I'm not looking to start a career. I just wanted a part-time job and I don't want one that sits me at a computer (do that enough as is). Maybe it's because I told them I'm a writer and they don't like writers to touch their books.

Or perhaps I looked too feeble for lifting books onto shelves, though honestly, I've been lifting books my whole life, it's my most consistent activity. Or they thought I'm not hungry enough (yet) though I don't think that the function of a human resources department is to emulate social services.

Grumble, grumble.

Anyway, I'm more bothered about the apartment not selling (it will, it will). I thought we had a taker yesterday, a young couple about to start a family. I liked the idea of this place having a baby in it. It could use that kind of life. (Maybe they'll respond to the dropped price, and come back with an offer. One can always hope.)

It's not that I really need to move, either. I just badly want to. I like the place I live, it's very nice, but I need somewhere looser, sprawlier. I feel constricted here. I'm not cut out for apartment living; it feels like being warehoused. I'm in storage, like my books, that are stashed away in a locker, waiting for me to get this sorted. I want a front porch again, and dirt outside my door, not concrete. I'm ready for change. And I don't like being so tidy.

Grumble, grumble.

fifty-eight tomorrow

2010-04-14T10:57:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to me!

Birthdays are funny; just about made it another year, whew. But hey, it gets my kids to call. And if they forget, there's always Mother's Day just around the corner.

It's not a prime number, 58, but it's two times 29 which is the age of my oldest child, speaking of kids, which I was, obliquely. For the next two months anyway, I will be twice the age of the first one (then she starts catching up). 29 is prime (I mean really, she is so lovely, and yes, they all are). 58 is not a prime number but it is a prime age to be, because it's the age I am. Any age is prime, come to think of it, because it means I'm still alive. (I don't mean to seem morbid, but I have a cousin who died a couple weeks ago, and he was just four months younger than me. So for him, 58 will never be.)

It does bring it home, the cliché that there are no guarantees, that life is fleeting, when somebody topples over, just like that. So what to do about it? I've been reading financial advice recently, and it's all about putting off, saving, so that I'll have something left over when I am old and grey (and, no, I haven't got any grey in my hair yet, and as you are asking, neither did my dad until his late 80s, so that's a prime indicator, if you ask me). Hmm, I'm getting mixed messages from the universe here. You know, assuming that the universe has any interest in my personal speck-of-dust in the whole picture. But saving till you are old and grey and then dying when you are youngish and seemingly hearty, well that's just not fair. My cousin was grey, mind you.

But speaking from a strictly biological viewpoint, I'm done; the universe if it's got a plan, got it's work out of me. It's those three kids, you see. I did my bit, and now as a post-menopausal woman, I'm free of obligation (or am, as long as I file my tax return by the end of the month, but then that's not universe, that's speck-of-dust bureaucracy).

Next year, 59, will be prime for numerical reasons. (Primes are of course all odd, as they're only divisible by themselves or by one. I'm already odd, so it should be a good fit.) I know I'm getting ahead of myself a bit here, but 59 is also the age my mother was diagnosed with cancer, so I'm a bit leery of that number too, even though I don't expect history to repeat itself. At 63 I will catch up with her, and after that it's uncharted territory. I'm looking forward to several more primes, 97 being a pretty good sounding one. (Better do some planning, eh, so I'm not sharing catfood with the current furball, should I last that long.)

Bear with me here. There is rust in my writing joints. I've been focused on detail and bureaucracy (estates, probate, final tax returns, trust tax returns, ye gods) so much in the last couple of years, that my journal has cobwebs, and so do my thought processes. But I've been dusting things off (well, that's also because my apartment is for sale, and I need it to sparkle, all the time).

But it's true my thinking about writing has focused more recently. Although I packed up all my writing books and put them in a storage locker along with a half dozen bookcases (oh, pain) for the time being, which illustrates my contention that this apartment is one room short of perfect, size-wise, it's all about marketing, so that we can move to a place that allows some sprawl, and not because I don't yearn for the scent of book.

I know, I know, you can write anywhere, and in fact I'm writing right now in a very pleasant room with two (holdout) bookcases warming the scene. It's a shared space though, which is why I want to move. I don't want to keel over with my books and journals all moldering in a storage locker. I want them spread out on my bookcases, in a room with windows looking out over greenery.

So, that brings me back to my birthday. I want a buyer for my apartment, for my birthday. Universe, are you listening? (Because tomorrow is all about me ;-)

Oh, and Leonardo da Vinci, too. He'd be 558, if the universe had allowed.

life is change

2010-04-08T11:42:00.000-07:00

Change can be repetitive. My apartment is for sale. I'm going through motions I went through five years ago, staging the place, though with less angst, as my heart isn't as attached here. The pictures of my extraordinarily beautiful children are all in the drawer, as are some of the more "hippie" of my dewdads. I'm trying to make the place look like somewhere someone else might imagine living. I think I've done a pretty good job; it's actually quite elegant. I look at it myself, and think, gee, what a nice place. I could live here. That is if there was another room for my office, so I could get my books out of storage. And if there was a garden outside, not just planters and concrete. And if there was room for my partner to get his tools out of storage...

I'm greedy, and I know it; I've a much easier life (now) than most of the world. Still, it's unsettling to plan to uproot myself. But uproot I will. The partner has agreed to come with me, so that's all good. (Not that he could stay once I've sold the place.)

Part of the plan is to pick a new place to live that is new for both of us. He moved in here with me, and while I'm sure I'm pretty saintly, there is still the overtone of 'my' place here, not least because I do in fact own it. So, we will move somewhere new for both of us, and pay rent for awhile, and see whether that shifts our dynamic a little.

This is not to suggest we're aren't dynamic already. Things are flowing pretty well in the relationship department (some bumps smoothing out) but after two years of living together, there are the inevitable signs that other life continues, and one needs that, too.

In a sense, moving will help with that too, because changes necessarily shake you up. I'm curious to see what it'll be like to be a tenant again. Last time I had a rental agreement was 1972 I think. A while ago indeed. I wonder whether being ungrounded will unsettle me (easy punning, eh?) or set me free. There's a lot of security in having your feet firmly placed on ground you own. Mind you, I don't feel that same solidity here, sitting in an apartment that floats over a concrete garage. So I guess it's been a useful transition. Not sure I could have made the leap straight from the house my kids grew up in to one that I had no stake in. Ready now, though. I've noticed that they grew up (the youngest hit the quarter century mark last month, whew) so it's not like I need to make my decisions based on more than my own selfish needs. Right?

Isn't this an all-over-the-place ramble? Which is also fine. I do enough organizing into spreadsheets in my life to take the odd apparently aimless stroll down the word street.

Which reminds me, that I've signed up for a writing workshop next month, and if anyone wants to buy my place, we'll have to work around it. I've been missing the sound of pen on paper and that's one of the places I plan for my shakeup to land me more often. Wordsmithing; extracting words from my brain, and making them make sense. This may not have been the best example, but then I'm kind of rusty. I feel like I've been away a long while.

But I'll have to leave it again for a bit -- someone's coming to see my place today, and I have to get out of here in an hour. And there are crumbs on the floor, dust on the shelves! Yikes!

heading for the cloud?

2010-03-08T22:29:00.000-08:00

I went to a workshop last Friday, put on by the Writers Union of Canada. It was a daylong exploration of the writing life in these definitely changing times, called: "Getting a Secure Footing in a Changing Literary Landscape." Do you even need feet in cyberspace? Listening to the three presenters, I thought of Neuromancer, of jacking in, of virtual reality, of cyberpunk lit. Could that be me? We're moving into the 'cloud', that amorphous fog of information flowing through cables and out of them, all over the world, possibly never even setting 'foot' down in any servers at all.

I got some interesting ideas out of this workshop. Perspective, really. The talk was about what books mean, where they are going, if we need them. How writers will find readers (if they want them) and where. How the publishing world is changing.

I can see for myself that things are changing. I grew up in a pile of books, and spent a great deal of my life adding to the pile, surrounding myself with bookcases, and filling them up. The smell of books hold memory for me and I love their feel; I don't even have to read them. But space has become an issue, and books lose their appeal somewhat when they preclude other bits of life. So, I've been thinning out the stacks of books, and taking myself to the library and not the bookstore when I want something new to read. Reference materials? The internet.

A lot of my books have been turned over to used bookstores, but last week I discovered that the rules are changing there too. The independent bookstores are folding, and now the secondhand shops are increasingly unwilling to take in any stock except in trade. One store I went to has stopped buying completely, and only does trades. But the credit they give only applies to half of any books you want to 'purchase' in trade. I thought about that long and hard, and then decided that I don't want to donate to a failing business. Harsh, I know, but if I have to cough up more money to get back the credit that's due, well, I suspect they won't be there long enough for me to get any value back. Then the next store I went to gave me cash for some of my books, but it was so little that it barely covered the gas (non-renewable) I used to get there. Forget whether my time is worth anything. I took the rest of my books to the Sally Ann; if it's charity, I get to choose.

Anyway, that was all in my head as I sat listening about different ways of living the literary life that really don't have a lot to do with my old love affair with books. But it all still involves writing and reading, and that did get me thinking. Book publishing is drifting the way that music publishing has, and more and more, it'll be print-on-demand, if you want print, or else digital. And a lot of it will be free. Like this. The lovely romantic vision of life as a novelist working with an industrious editor before your books arrive in the mail is fading away (what's mail?).

So here I am thinking of ways to write in a digital world without all the noise of popups and twitterers and such. And yet. I do put in links from time to time, encouraging you beyond my words, don't I? (And of course 'noise' exists in the published-in-paper world too, judging from all the newspapers, magazines, newsletters, flyers, ads, etc that litter our physical landscape.

I think that the workshop made it clear that if we can loosen up our thinking, and it is an incredibly freeing concept, there is writing-life out there in the cloud. All you need is a computer and an internet connection, and if you're reading this, well, you've got that already. You just have to keep writing.

And if you've got the world out there as potential readers, it certainly beats the numbers you might reach the old way. No matter how obscure your appeal, there'll be someone out there, no doubt about it. The old way, the book, is going to become elitist, too expensive. Good books anyway. The pulp market may be something else (like sustainable). I'm enough of a snob that I'd rather be the winner of the critical acclaim of my peers than the winner of best-selling blockbuster... er, um, maybe.

So the only problem is the one writers and other artists have always had. How to live while you work. Get creative, which shouldn't be such a stretch, if we're any good at this writing business. It doesn't really matter how good we are either; if we need to write, we need to write. Getting readers and getting paid are separate issues that we all have to work out, once we've got the word on the page. Or in the cloud, as seems more and more likely.

winning (versus the alternative)

2010-02-20T14:08:00.000-08:00

It takes a lot to turn Canada into some kind of tribe, but extravagant sport seems to be able to do it. We grumble and complain about everything, but when one of "ours" wins, we cheer and sing the anthem and wave the flag.

Although I'm not convinced that rabid nationalism is something to aspire to, as a way to get there, sport sure beats war.

As for all the emphasis on winning, some perspective in comparing apples to oranges, ie countries with three hundred million people to thirty-five million (or China with over a billion) might be in order. It's hardly surprising that large countries can find (coerce) some good athletes. But as with cheering sports heroes over war heroes, winning beats losing; I won't deny it.

I had a taste of what it feels like early this afternoon (and no taxpayer funds were hurt in the racing)...

Picture the scene: both of us reading the paper, still in dressing gowns and sipping our coffee, the TV tuned to Olympics coverage. Oh! I said, and raced to my computer. It was time for the Race for Tickets courtesy of the Globe and Mail. The clue for the day appears at noon, and it was noon. I came back into the living room to announce the location was on Granville Island. Let's go! said my partner, and we leaped into our clothes, or some of them anyway, as I didn't bother with socks (but this is Vancouver, so no frostbite worries). He's faster, so he got the car out and picked me up in the lane. We broke no speed limits, but I ran the last bit, because traffic was stopped on the Island by a parade. I dodged walkers and the parade to land on the mat, first of the day. We won Gold! Whoo hoo!

Two free tickets to a hockey game at GM Place (or Canada Hockey Place, as Vanoc likes to call it) so we can even walk there. Yay! Winning's great!

a mixed message

2010-02-13T14:16:00.000-08:00

The torch road show made it's way through Vancouver for a second time yesterday. It had a way of starting each day somewhere far from where it left off the day before. This is similar to stock market behaviour (a recent interest of mine) where prices seem to begin at a different place in the morning than they leave off the night before. There's no explaining it.

The excitement was in the city though, that's for sure. You could track the torch by where the choppers were buzzing. Noonish it went by near where I live, and finally I had to go out and look. It was mid-False Creek by that time, aloft in the fron of a dragon boat. Sweet! I could see it from my street corner (no view from my apartment, alas). One can't sustain being a grouch in the face of it. Well I can't, not completely anyway. (Sorry about the teeny, fuzzy picture, but it replicates what I saw.)

Apparently there was still a good contingent of protesters kicking up a fuss here and there in the city. They blocked Commercial Drive, no surprise, so the torch re-routed along Clark Drive, not such a pretty route, but who was watching then? Later the protesters (professionals, they would have been at APEC too) tried to interfere with the opening ceremony, but not surprisingly were left outside and on the fringe. Quite literally, as the size of this behemoth of an event just dwarfs the sound of the not-so-enthusiastic. I'm thinking that protesting only works for so long, and that the timing is critical. This is many years too late, as the show was a done deal long ago. You have to figure out something positive as an alternative by the time you get to this point.

I find I'm such a contrarian that chanted slogans turn me away. Slogans are tiresome, whoever's chanting them. Own the Podium! makes me bah humbug (I'm too Canadian, to the core, or maybe too female? to get behind the chest thumping, much as I like it when 'my' team wins, as though that was something I contributed to) and then No Games on Native Land! and I'm a booster again, especially With Glowing Hearts... (you've got to admit, that last's a pretty good one).

The truth is, I've always enjoyed the Olympics. I'm dazzled by the athletes. All of them, not just those who get there first. (Their single-minded purpose is a great model for anyone working towards any goal, including writerly types like myself. You can learn from the young.) My favourites are the airborne, either on the ice or the slopes. Wow.

I'm sure there's a personality disorder designation that would explain my fluctuations (I'm passed 'the change') because I watched the opening ceremony, and I loved it. I didn't have to manufacture any of my enthusiasm either. (Have to admit though I'm glad I was watching it on TV—and recording it on my PVR—so I could pause, rewind, have dinner, and not sit through the pre-show warmup acts which probably would have got my contrary self back up. And I can invest the saved admission somewhere else.)

I started to think that Vancouver must be an interesting place (okay, I've lived here forever, so I just think it's normal). Certainly there are a tremendous number of talented people kicking around, and I like that so many Canadian stars came home to be part of it. Or have been here all along: I am pumped that Shane Koyczan (one of our local treasures) got to perform, because I think he's an absolutely marvelous writer and performer; Olympic calibre if I may say so. (Here's a link to a recording of the full poem; it was a variation last night.) And k.d. lang. Man, what a rendition of "Hallelujah." I never get tired of that song (thank you Leonard Cohen). Sarah McLaughlin, isn't she good?And I love Joni Mitchell.

Go Canada! (oops)

I liked the cleverness of the show too, of using the audience to stretch out the spectacle. And I liked the sharing of the lighting of the cauldron, which seemed such a fine acknowledgement that all these endeavours are group efforts, even when it comes down to individuals getting the spotlight. Even if one of the pillars did get stuck in the floor, sigh.

And here are my beefs. The one chance to actually get a mass of Canadians to sing along with the national anthem, and they go all artistic on us. I think that was an unfortunate decision, and the singer will likely get the blame. What were they thinking?

And last but not least: The volunteers leading in the athletes wore really short skirts or pants under their (unnecessarily) wintery coats. This was more subtle than the summer Olympics, with the egregious example of beach volleyball, but why oh why do women have to bare themselves when men don't? You'd think they'd be a bit sensitive to this sort of issue, given the bad publicity around denying Olympic ski jumping to women (see Vancouver poet laureate Brad Cran's poem on the subject).

And there was tragedy yesterday: I am sorry, so sorry about Nodar Kumaritashvili, 21, a luger from the Republic of Georgia, who died yesterday during a training run in Whistler. He will live on as a graphic reminder that sometimes building something bigger, faster, taller, isn't always the best idea.

curmudgeon time

2010-02-11T11:58:00.000-08:00

I live in Circus City right now. Churlish of me to grumble, I suppose, but I'm such a contrarian that all the hoopla around the Olympics is making me a, well, grouch. (Perhaps I'm channeling my father, who died last February, but would be grumbling by now too; curmudgeonism is in the blood.)

It's funny, because the truth is I greatly enjoy watching the actual events when the show finally starts. The dedication and physical contortions that individual athletes go through leave me in awe. They are models for individual focus (and I'm not talking about the over-paid professional men's hockey team either). A model for having a dream and working toward it. And though they're happy to have the applause, I'm guessing that's not what drives them. (There ought to be some medals handed out to the support teams, ie families, that make their single-minded purpose possible, too.)

But the contortions to put on such a show, years and years of siphoning off public monies, in order to make a grand nationalistic chest-thumping, leave me cold. It's like when I'm at a show, and the audience is exhorted to cheer, and cheer louder, my enthusiasm goes out the window. Even if I was excited up till then! And I won't clap when they tell me either. I'll clap when I feel like clapping. Contrary, yes. It all feels so manufactured.

Today the torch 'relay' where no batons are passed on, is snaking its way through Vancouver, finally, after a gazillion twists and turns around the country, during which I wondered whether they knew which direction Vancouver was. It's designed, I suspect, to take people's minds off the enormous outlay of cash that's been thrown at this party, to show that we're a great place. I always thought Canada was a great place, but I don't like it as much with exhortations to smile, be welcoming, but stay away from work, play, don't use your car, welcome the world, pay your taxes, use transit, but stay off it, use bicycles, but don't bring them, yada yada. And even more taser-happy police and security people swarming the city, perusing security cameras and generally keeping an eye on us all, while the court system is pretty much shut down, as the police have other things to do.

It's not that I'm a cheapskate, either. I can be generous with guests too. But it's the constant background noise of businesses being hammered by road closures and security zones, by cutbacks in other services, promises of no money for pay increases for the poor souls paying the taxes, and the obvious likelihood of many years of government deficit (which translates into increasing debt, you know) at the same time as elected officials get to fly around the country shepherding the hallowed flame up, down and backwards across the country, for the greater glory of, well, just what exactly? All this "Own the Podium" negates the tremendous abilities of the vast majority of athletes who don't "win" even though they may excel. What are they? Losers? I don't like that attitude either. It's great to win, but it's also great to try.

And I can't abide the hand-wringing over the weather either. For heaven's sake, this is Vancouver. What do people expect in a city that is famous for rain, besides crocuses. This is the only part of Canada where winter is not a factor. It's not the first time the hills have been bare in the winter. I remember clearly a few years ago when all the snow had melted off the North Shore, and the Grouse Grind opened in February. It was a lovely hike. Very springlike. And of course it snowed soon after, and it will likely snow up on the mountains again this year. Just a little hard to predict.

So let the Games begin. May the kids have fun in the snow (manufactured or otherwise) and on the ice (and don't be fooled by those outdoor rinks, they're manufactured too in this climate). And though it's too late for the snowdrops, do enjoy the cherry blossoms. And get an umbrella. And welcome to Vancouver!

Here's someone I don't mind my tax dollars going to... (having a poet laureate is a lot cheaper than hosting the Olympics).

his poem 2010-handbook-for-entering-canada

and his essay Notes on a World Class City.

home turf

2010-01-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

Once again, I have generated a home full of rubble. I seem always to be mid-reno. Right now half the kitchen has spilled out into the dining area, while the insides of cupboards get painted by my sweetheart. Last coat tonight, with any luck. Then tomorrow the other half of the kitchen can be emptied out, and all this work will be repeated. Sanding, primer, paint, two coats. It's the inevitable result of upgrading. New counters, new stove, new sink, and the cupboards look shabby. The doors are fine, but the insides? Ick. It's not just the water damage that causes particleboard to bubble up, but the peculiarly drab and nasty colour inside the cupboards. Anyway, half have transformed to the same creamy colour that is on the walls in the kitchen, and it helps. Lighter, I'm going for lighter. This apartment is light-challenged.

I've done this before, not really that long ago; worked at upgrading a place so it can be 'staged' for selling. This time I'm doing it as a duo. Though the place belongs to me, I'm now part of a couple, and we're on the move this year. This apartment was transitional anyway, if I'd only realized it when I bought in here. Everything is transitional I suppose, change constant. It's funny that we ever think we've got it right when we buy a new place to live. But I have learned one thing by living here, and that's that I lived too many years in a house to transition easily to apartment living. I'm spoiled; no doubt. I miss the luxury of a house to myself, and some green around it. Doesn't have to be a lot, but stepping out the door onto the ground instead of onto concrete strikes me as very desireable, essential even. And anyway, I bought this place thinking of myself as solo, and now I'm not. It's become crowded, too much stuff again.

Ah yes, stuff. That's always an issue, and lightening the load is a goal too. But there are limits, and some cushioning that I'd like to keep around me, thus the impetus to move into somewhat roomier digs.

So, what's the plan? Well, I'm going to sell my place sometime this spring, if all goes well. Then we'll find a place to rent while we take our time about where next to put in roots. And there are roots to put in. We have a growing selection of plants that are waiting for some ground to sink their roots into. And I want to be in a place where I can watch them grow. They're having a hard time here—not enough light gets through to us on this patch of concrete. And it's high on my list, that sunlight will stream through windows in the next place I live. For me, and for the several house plants that D had to farm out when he moved in, till we have a proper window to put them near. I gave away a lot of plants too when I moved in here too. It's funny that I didn't put together that a shortage of direct light would trouble me as well.

Renting will be quite the change for me. It's been more than 35 years since I last rented a place to live; not so long for my partner. Will I feel free? Maybe. D liked the freedom from responsibility after being a homeowner (though he seems to have been roped into pseudo-homeownership here) and isn't troubled at all by the idea of renting. Of being transitional for awhile. I'm kind of intrigued myself. After so many years of being responsible for everything, it might just be a nice holiday. But I wouldn't bet on me staying a tenant for long. That plot of land, it draws me.

Time

2010-01-12T09:44:00.000-08:00

It passes, doesn't it? Here I thought I was on top of things, and it's already January 12, with nary an entry in nearly two weeks. I'm trying to put some kind of schedule into my life, so that all things get attended to. But really, I seem to be a person who works at putting out fires. Deadline approaching? Douse it.

I haven't just been lying around eating leftover shortbread. There are signs of movement here. Mostly in my computer though. It's interesting how the advent of technology has changed the way life goes. Once upon a time, I wouldn't have had my nose in a computer for hours a day. But it's mesmerizing. I'm mesmerized right now! Oh, maybe that's my problem. Too much absorption in myself?

I did take a brief writing break. A friend was house-sitting on Bowen, and I packed up my papers and pens and went to join her. A good 48 hours away from computer, tv, newspapers. And city lights. I like sleeping in the dark, and that doesn't happen where I live. So quiet. Trees. Sound of rain. Wind. Wind chimes. We did write, and also walked in the woods, and poked around in shops, like any self-respecting tourist might do. I found I was irritated by the chatter from radios in some stores. It was a blissful break, and I will remember to do it from time to time, whether there's a friend conveniently house-sitting or not. Doesn't have to be Bowen, it's just the away-from-city-racket part that I liked. Also stepping out of usual setting, makes you think. It's all about perspective, I suppose.

I have got one or two resolves I've made for this fresh new year. I decided that I would take a break from being a drinker of alcohol. I've had a one-night lapse, where the dinner I made cried out for wine accompanying, but oddly I didn't feel particularly great the next day, and so my resolve has been reaffirmed. I'm a bit on the fence as to whether I have a really great problem with the stuff, but I am certain that the habit has been getting a little too habitual. It's as if I fell into a holiday from being the responsible adult in everyone's life, but I've found I still need one in mine. No one's the boss of me!! except me of course, and so the resolve.

The other resolve is around writing, small steps to bring myself back into the habit. This is a habit that I would like to become habitual. My journal and my blog are babysteps forward toward some writing projects that have been slightly touched on, but mostly lie in (virtual) piles. Or maybe I'm taking tiny adult steps. The steps of a somewhat responsible adult. We'll see.

Happy New Year

2009-12-31T16:06:00.000-08:00

That's it, it's the last day of 2009, and I'm not that sorry to see it go. It was the year of my father's death, which certainly occupied most of my mental and emotional energy for quite some time. I remember last New Year's being a pretty gloomy time. And then while my Dad crashed and burned, so did the financial markets in the world. It was something to see, and I must say it made clear to me what they mean when they talk about risk in the stock market. Risk is great when things go up, but watching stuff go into freefall, well that's not so much fun.

This year things look brighter, though cancer still seems to be catching. The markets have come back (for now) and we're heading into, oh yeah, the Olympics. I have to admit to having lost my enthusiasm for the Olympics. It's nice to watch on TV, and well, being as I live in the host city, that's just what I'll be doing, watching it on TV. I can just about see the Olympic village from my place though.

I'm sorry, but this is just getting to me. The "Olympic family" gets tickets, the extremely rich or extremely foolish buy the over-priced few tickets left over in the nosebleeds, and the rest of us are told to be proud. Oh, and could we please close our schools, and our courts so the police can provide 'security'. Could we get our cars off the road, stay off transit, don't go to work. Oh, and just watch those grants for arts go into freefall, and any funding for sports for anyone who might isn't in the elite. Chuck out the animals from the Children's Zoo. Get those pesky homeless off the street. Reduce hours at the library. Postpone repairs on the schools. Smile for the new HST, an Olympic change in policy for our "Liberal" provincial government and let-them-eat-cake-Campbell. It will arrive along with a boost in the carbon tax next July (we're so green).

I flipped around through several newscasts last night and the top stories were five Canadians dead in Afghanistan, one of them a journalist, the proroguing of Parliament, and wait for it, The Team Members were picked. Only CTV had the decency to mention that they were announcing the men's hockey team. But it's not just sexism that's got me going, it's class war. On the morning after let-them-eat-cake-Harper prorogued Parliament for the second time in order to avoid running an honest government, the front page of the Vancouver Sun carried nothing but photos of Canada's warriors. Not the ones that died in Afghanistan, or the journalist who died with them. No, the pictures are of a bunch of wealthy hockey players, the gladiators for the ruling classes.Our chance for Gold. Gotta have our priorities straight here.

Okay, so I'm losing it.

There is some good news at least, on the labour front: Yesterday MVT (the evil bosses) finally agreed to binding arbitration, which the union asked for at least a month ago, and MVT swore they would never agree to. Upshot is the strike is over, picket lines came down at 9 this morning, and once the buses are up and running (any that have had problems have been tucked behind the picket line so haven't been serviced) my sweetie gets to go back to work, and any sick, disabled, fragile or elderly folks still alive after their two+ months sitting at home, will get to ride the buses again. It'll likely be a while before the labour contract gets sorted, but at least the system will be started up again next week.

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas

2009-12-25T08:46:00.001-08:00

still on strike

2009-12-23T20:13:00.000-08:00

Well, there you go. I thought the numbers would be the opposite, a grudging acceptance. Instead the members of ATU 1724 have grudgingly rejected the mediated offer. Fifty-eight percent of HandyDART employees said no. This just tells you how poisoned the relations are with the employer, to manage in one year to turn a non-militant group that has never had a strike, into such determined strikers. But 42% said yes, so it's not good.

Expect something like another miserable month for the passengers, before the heavy hand of the government brings HandyDART back to work. Or maybe, just maybe, the employer will say yes now to binding arbitration, which the union had asked for.

I suspect it's the pay scale. HandyDART drivers were offered an amount that is $4.75 less per hour than drivers make in Victoria. This is a historical wrong that may never be corrected. And it may explain why they feel hard done by. They are. But so too are the passengers, and I fear the sympathy for the drivers will begin to slip.

Oh dear, that's all I can say.

treading water

2009-12-22T17:03:00.000-08:00

Today is one of those days, not a bad day, but not a whoo-hoo-things-are-great-day, either.

I'd been waiting to hear from my partner about what kind of offer was made to the HandyDART union by the new-this-year employer. For some unfathomable reason, TransLink gave the contract to run the non-profit disabled transportation service in the Lower Mainland to a for-profit American company. A service that is mostly subsidized by the taxpayer (and should be, in the realm of some things are just the right thing to do). Any profit they gouge out is our tax dollars draining to the south.

Anyway after 29 years with no strike, the new employer managed to run down service and demoralize the drivers enough to leave the union no choice but the always hurtful option of striking.

There’s been a lot of misery caused by this strike, a lot of forgotten people stuck in their homes waiting for the buses to roll again, and a lot of under-valued people tramping a picket line for the past two months. Two months!

They're voting today and tomorrow on a mediated offer. They've been offered pretty much what they already had. If the union accepts the offer, the drivers will get to continue being the lowest paid staff in the TransLink system, and the lowest paid HandyDART drivers in BC. What about this picture seems wrong to you? Is there something easier about driving around our area?

The union will probably vote yes, but I'll bet it won't be resounding (don't quote me on it -- I guessed wrong about Survivor). I don't think they're going to be happy though; just less mad.

A two month strike in order to tread water. Two months pay lost to the employees, and two months life lost to their passengers. (No word on improvements to service and scheduling; that's up to TransLink to remind the company about. I hope the passengers keep on letting them know.)

But it does seem that the downtrodden just keep getting trod down, doesn’t it?

Re-Beginnings

2009-12-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

I've been doing this blog thing since 2003 in another space, and ran out of steam in the last year. I’ve decided it’s time to get back to it, here on blogger instead of my old page, (which will stay as my archive, if you're interested) because I started to realize that all the housekeeping around doing my own html was fun, but it kept me from the words and the writing, which are the whole point after all; word after word after word, until they create some shape and turn into something worth keeping. (Now whether this pile of verbiage remains worth keeping, we’ll have to wait and see. Databases have doomed us to such a fantastic ability to keep everything. So much easier to store ether.) It’s not like the world is going to run out of words, and on bad days I think, well, who needs mine added to the clamour, but on good days I think well yes, because my peculiar brain has things to say too. Peculiar, as in unique. We’re all unique. Right?

This post is a first start in the deluge, word after word after word, and I hope that it’ll get me going again in pulling out the nuggets that deserve shaping. In the meantime, I do love to hear what I think, and often can’t tell you unless I’ve written it down first.

I'd set this space up two years ago when I went rambling with my new love. I guess I've been rambling since, as much of the focus went out of my writing during this time. (You know how love makes things all fuzzy and unfocused). Then also my father died in February, and estate business, not to mention a complicated kind of grief, set in. What’s the point of a life, that kind of thing.

My relationship with my father was hard to define. Lots of emotion, fractured because the relationship was pretty fractured. He was complex (everyone's complex) and my feelings were complex. I can't be the first person to wash between me, me, me, and realizing it's not about me, I mean if any time should belong to anyone, it should be the person doing the dying, but then why does the me feel so, well, torn up too? And it’s not as facile as saying well, he was your father, so you loved him. I’m not sure of the truth of that. I spent so many, many years not loving him, a mix of hurt/hate. With an admixture of pride, the guy was such a character. And then I’d feel sorry for him; with all he had going, he was such a mess. No wonder he didn’t satisfy as father. And then, in all fairness, can anyone satisfy the father-hunger that kids have? Yeah, complex indeed.

So what brings me back to this place? The writing. It won't go away. The year drifts by, I think I'm looking after other stuff, and the emails get longer, the letters to the editor get more frequent, motor-mouth sets in when I bump into friends/anyone! and I think, well, what is it this picture telling me? Oh, right, write.

I'm going to use this space instead of the old one. I'm a supreme procrastinator, able to throw up distractions at the blink of an eye, and I’ve figured out that all the playing around with html, getting things to fit, and the background set, and remembering code, and feeling clever, means that I don’t get around to actually writing anything. And surely there are people besides me who will want to read what I write. Right? Well, maybe after a bit of focus sets in.