Category Archives: allegories and parodies

Half Done

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.

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Compulsion

Not the way to go home but in the immediate vicinity

sometimes

a  dark moody time

sometimes a brighter sunshine filled afternoon

finding

myself

travailing

the lane to take in

the feeling

being at home again

among the ancient

trees and tangles of undergrowth and weedy growth

just to feel the air

and hear it

go

through my mind and soul

to the very quick finish of the lane

finding myself

turning back

along the hardened surface that takes me suddenly back to even a safer spot

sometimes I just need

to be

away

before returning

as the dusk gathers

once more around

the older part of the world

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Waking

overhead

the ceiling fan and the surprising chill

the night caused me to wrap up in the summer quilt

 

suddenly changed

catching

me off guard

my dream worked

itself

out

seeing someone surprised at me being in their house

checking on things and scaring them no doubt by hearing my footsteps

stop

at their front door

shocked at what was

outside

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

things

that happen oddly

enough

a form of shock

had the impact of overwhelming

fatigue

and a need to either go back to sleep or find a place with flowers and trees where some beauty remains

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The Will Must be Stronger

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.

 

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Little Did I Know

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.

Baffling.

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.

Barely.

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.

Writing.

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Independent Spirit

Late November and heavy

sky just holding

off the rain so that the barn swallow can fly

carrying

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

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Opening Night and They Fight and Fight and Fight and Fight and Fight

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.)

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