The book is well written and poetic but it doesn’t appeal to me. I will finish reading it because it is for book club. It is the kind of book I have to take to my reading hideout in the market parking lot and finish as I eat an oversize sandwich on whole wheat with choice of pickle, celery or carrots and drink dark roast coffee. I can’t read this book at home.More to the truth, I won’t read it at home. The afternoon sun will fade. Grey nothing best described as late afternoon surrounds the car and I drive home. It is the way this book is tolerated. In a few days there will be a meeting and we will have a good time as usual for this is the book that has brought us together. A well written, poetic book,complicated and thoughtfully done, it has merit. Historical, educational, sensitive and bluntly graphic with images of sunlight on the feathers of geese and the flight of a terrified child falling into defective net,a flag held by other children,breaking both arms and no one coming to help. It has become a chore and most likely worth finishing to get the full benefit. My book, which I’ve never written glints in the moonlight. No geese.
Category Archives: allegories and parodies
Not the way to go home but in the immediate vicinity
a dark moody time
sometimes a brighter sunshine filled afternoon
the lane to take in
being at home again
among the ancient
trees and tangles of undergrowth and weedy growth
just to feel the air
and hear it
through my mind and soul
to the very quick finish of the lane
along the hardened surface that takes me suddenly back to even a safer spot
sometimes I just need
as the dusk gathers
once more around
the older part of the world
the ceiling fan and the surprising chill
the night caused me to wrap up in the summer quilt
me off guard
my dream worked
seeing someone surprised at me being in their house
checking on things and scaring them no doubt by hearing my footsteps
at their front door
shocked at what was
and then only a few moments to make the morning coffee and see the neighbour
before finding out the news
yet again about the crazy
that happen oddly
a form of shock
had the impact of overwhelming
and a need to either go back to sleep or find a place with flowers and trees where some beauty remains
Such along time has passed since my last post. Why has the title appeared so bold faced when typed? I no longer know the features on this blog site so everything is new again.
Hot chocolate, made from a dark chocolate bar and hot milk( don’t try it) at hand and very late at night I settle into the chair , aching from an old church parking lot injury ( (don’t ask) and therefore suffering a bit for my art I decide it is now or never. I must write. Fighting off the cat from the laptop and from sticking her nose into the hot chocolate ( I’ll use milk chocolate next time) I make this feeble effort to at least open up the writing part of my quiet existence once more. I know I can do this.
It is the will that has somewhat atrophied almost to the point of disuse.
Folks in general have noticed my absence from writing. Comments, blunt and discreet are often made. The greeter at church one day mentioned it to a visiting minister. The coffeeshop staff have cleared a spot for me and reminded me of their hours of business, gently suggesting I should return to my table of soup, sandwich coffee and journal writing, people watching and listening in on conversations. Family send updates to writing events. Hints drop, suggestions are made, jabs here and there.
Even the winter creature that lives somewhere along the exterior wall under the radiator behind my desk has rattled on a bit with encouragement for me to return to my swivel chair, laptop and late hours. Mr. Mole or Miss Mouse or possibly worse nibbles and scratches a bit as I type keeping me alert. Nothing more arouses the will to write than the prospect of having this wee soft creature zip across my foot. It is like having a snake loose in a dark bedroom and being too petrified to confront it so the imagination must cope.
Topics to write about are overwhelming and yet some appeal to me. Reading, writing, poetry, music, theatre, family, cooking, gardening, teaching, pets are my comforting favourites. My own stories are on the surface, bubbling, waiting to be stirred. World issues, problems and general chaos are too much for me, yet provoke thoughts and disturbing dreams. Am I reluctant to write of these things because of what they are or am I afraid that I will write?
Cat has jumped over the screen once more, the mug of wretched chocolate has been drained, the small creature behind the wall is quiet once more. The will to write has stretched a little ignoring the ache.
Deep down there is a belief that a profession in vulnerability would have been the right choice and I could have been a contender. It all bubbles up and down ,still there but all along but no one, including myself seemed to really notice or take it seriously because there were gaps of knowledge and confidence.
So wandering off led to a very long road which with all the right turns and defeating disappointments led to here and there and now a stopping place where there are so many thoughts and dreams and memories and gaps in those memories that is almost funny.
Despite the loss of some of the unwritten songs that should have been belted out and too little and too late training in something poetic like a profession in vulnerability that would have been exciting, I managed.
Yet no regrets because it all happened in a different parallel with all the fun and meaning still intact and it left me at the end of the time used up and battered about but glad enough and relieved there was just enough of me left to have the time to take each shattered piece and give it a turn in the sun and then shade and hide a bit of it in the dark and try to find something to say that matters in a time of strange human tragedy and confusion.
Late November and heavy
sky just holding
off the rain so that the barn swallow can fly
so gently on its back
a tiny fairy girl I once knew
as a little one
running along with her sisters on a country road and in the school house lane
orchards on one side, towering evergreens sweeping us kindly with low branches as we played and imagined our stories over and over again using our own words and changing very little when they were told again because of the simple beautiful comfort of knowing each other
today the rain just held
back its tears long enough
for the songs
to make us smile once more and make some feel
the reaching back
to gathering together today for the sake of family, friends and art
a silver butterfly as a spirit
today to connect
with the symbolic appreciation of her monarch of familiar earthy colours
to take the time
to look for the butterflies and let the milkweed grow enough
at the side of the road and in the rough garden patch
all the while thinking that she was right
in wishing and hoping and expecting
that we need to take better care of each other
barn swallows and butterflies and giving each other the chance
peace, our only chance
forever this is home
Well now, if you are tired of the old run of the mill kind of song and dance type theatre offered up by the typical theatre companies and would just like to check your disbelief at the door and join in something that is a disturbingly funny storytelling and theatre experience, Have I got a show recommendation for you!
If my blog title doesn’t ring a little bell in your head try singing it in a jingle way…meh, maybe you won’t ever get it by doing that. Perhaps just google for the sake of time.
( Mr. Burns, A Post Electric Play, McManus Theatre,London, Ontario. )
Everyone involved in this madness of art, tonight, opening night, “bravo”in an old school way and I’ll be back to see it again!
( Yes, I am the mother of the director but this is my blog and I’m plugged in, shamelessly.)