Into The Books

Looking for many hidden dragons and finding the gorilla sneaking into the zoo keeper’s bed were just a couple of the adventures I shared with a three year old child yesterday. Among other things such as little pigs making big messes and needing hidden kisses from a mother racoon we also considered how to detangle the horns of the wild reindeer so that they could be harnessed to fly. Worries about everything a three year old and her parents might worry about such as going to school and deciding what costume to wear in a parade and listening to the wisdom of a very cool laid-back grandma were covered in depth.It was a very full story hour or two and intense enough for my over sixty years old self. However,it was a precious part of her three year old day along with her special gifts, family and fun around her. This little patch of the day, shoulder to shoulder finding ourselves inside the storybooks together, sharing the stories,art and wonder. The blessing for me was to hear the tiny sighs and laughter responding to my telling and pointing out and questioning either the obvious or the insightful. You had to have been there.

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

Writers in a Polar Vortex

Putting out the call,

writing up the bulletin, drawing the poster and gathering

together

ideas

Sensory games analytical for some

insightful for others

Listening to the inner voice before it dissipates ignored

Snow falling, repeating the warning in the words spoken, bulletin printed and sketched

postponed as expected

and yet the interest stirred enough to warm the inner voice

muffled in layers

surviving

Leftovers Again

Extension cords in a bundle are heaped on the mudroom bench and three garden rakes lean against the wall in the television room. A truck load of new lumber wrapped in places with duct tape and hammered with a few nails landed in my back yard and helpful neighbours have carried it away to repair their own projects. Other things such as a fat suit and a play sword have just been returned to a dance group. A few useful things such as a small carpet, flashlights and a one dollar charity shop lamp ended up in my son’s apartment. Some things were trashed and some were donated. A few boxes of things are still in the car. A rehearsal hall fan, purchased by me is stored away,somewhere. These things, related by their usefulness in a recent play directed by my son seem almost charged still with some kind of weird energy, like the props and costumes in my years and years and years old dramatic play collection, now totally dispersed. My long acquired collection was for school kids. This recent collection was for theatre.

Something else has arrived here waiting to be dealt with when the energy builds to face it. A form of anti-climatic mood lingers around the place like a distant relative, familiar, welcome enough but a bit tiring after an over extended stay. Time for it to go, run along, clean up after itself,” toodle-loo” and close the door. Routine needs to be enforced and motivation in the form of new projects, hard work and completed tasks should alter the clingy mood sighing to itself in the little piles of stuff in the mudroom and also in the back of the car.

Tomorrow is a new day. Up at sunrise. Clear the decks. Green tea (gag/trying to be healthy), journals, coffee ( finally), emails, scrambled eggs ( with hot sauce) and toast, garden rakes and extension cords. Then clean the car and put the boxes in the mudroom to sit for days and days and days.

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.)

Mixed Messages

He walked over to my friend and asked her for money but also told her why he needed it. When he turned to me he was still telling his best story, leaning in a bit, rather shaky and not totally coherent. The bottom line being he needed a couple of dollars to buy a slice of pizza because he had used up all his money helping his sister.

This fellow was making the best of the steady flow of people going into an evening performance at the theatre and zeroed in on us. Well, he had a prepared story anyhow and we gave him a little money despite the awkwardness of the situation. Entering the theatre, my son waiting for us at the entrance gently commented on what we had done .He felt it encouraged such individuals to panhandle and that he encounters another fellow everyday requesting money from him using a standard tale about needing bus money at the same spot during the morning rush to work.

Later when we left the concert and the crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk there was yet another man, seated in a doorway, holding up a cardboard sign, not saying a word but scanning the crowd for possible benefactors. Troubled by this and wondering if I should give him something also, I managed to get by and out of range of the guilt factor of not handing over a coin. At this point, hours later I’m wondering what the message on his sign said. I’m wondering about his story.

At dinner earlier the stories were about me involving my struggle to get a technical computer program problem straightened out so I can write for my own enjoyment and my storytelling preparations for an evening presentation I’m giving at the local library. My friend shared her stories about getting things packed for her trip to the cottage and also the elaborate vacation some good friends of hers had just taken. In between these stories we spoke about a great many other things such as lost children, a terrible local tragedy and our sadness about the recent passing of a talented actor who we felt we knew a little somehow because we admired his work so much. Of course we didn’t know his story at all and didn’t foresee the ending.

In the theatre, the showcased performer provided an amazing concert letting her music reach us on it’s own merit, no explanation given or required. During the performance her storytelling was there all the time through her wonderful trained voice and everyone in the audience was steeped in the richness of her range and style. Many thoughts and impressions stirred in my mind based on the experience and I was aware of the awe of the other audience members as they enjoyed the concert in their individual ways. So many different memories, impressions and stories must have been inspired by her tonight.

In the lobby I encountered a woman, visibly unwell but attended by friends.

A friend I haven’t seen for awhile reached out to me at intermission when I reached out to her. We have some shared childhood experiences and our stories are very different but there is a feeling of understanding there. We will find the time and talk.

My son’s story is all about his work, his art and doing what he has to do, right now. It’s all about telling a story and creating a shelter from reality. He has his responsibilities and he also has his creative adventures. At the moment it is challenging, meaningful and ambitious.

Hours later, I’m wondering about the man, seated on the busy sidewalk who quietly held his cardboard sign. The sign I didn’t read.

The Odd Little Spark

Tonight there were only two of us at the bonfire on a very quiet August night.
Last week, at a different bonfire there were over a dozen adults plus an assortment of children on a not so quiet August night. The atmosphere at both bonfires was a concentration on the flames and the conversation flickered and fanned itself, dying out at times and then bursting up into little stories or commentaries, even small jokes, an update on the game running televised but unwatched in the house.
Tonight, a quiet night, is a night to let thoughts surface. Instead of coming home to sleep it is a night to drink hot tea and eat whole wheat bread and Sarah’s strawberry jam while writing out the swirl and range of thoughts that surface unbidden. Thoughts from every angle, corner and folded crease just announce themselves and flutter around much like the over excited children at the other bonfire on another night, the noisy one.
Tonight, as it all flew by I wondered if any of these thoughts would catch my interest and ignite a story or a poem. Although interesting enough to me in my mind’s eye, none of the thoughts or images are the right material to expand upon. The other night, I worried about the fire sparking off a dangerous flame as the children whirled about showing off, cooking burnt marshmallows and running around with charred hotdogs on long metal sticks. I found myself mentally reviewing emergency first aid in case it was required and thankfully it wasn’t.
Neither bonfire was mine so as a guest at each one all I could do is share the cool dark night, the brightness of the flames and follow the flow. Hours later at home, on the quiet night, comforted by the second cup of hot tea and homemade jam with fresh, soft bread I write this odd little post that came out of the smoke, unbidden.

Stretching It Out

Billed as “local literary talent” the predicament of choosing the most suitable material for the event is upon me. Two weeks from now I will be the entertainment for an age group that ranges from toddler to adult and perhaps, senior adults.
With some concentration I can recall some fun songs and rhymes that I used in my days of Kindergarten teacher. Oddly enough, at first I had some trouble dredging them up. After all it’s been four years since I had to use them daily, almost nonstop from total recall. Where do these wee rhymes go once their time and usefulness has past? Fortunately, I remember a couple and one begets another and so on.
There will be the older children to contend with and hold them rapt while the evening unfolds. Something interesting and off beat and yet relatable to their experience and understanding is required. Fortunately my drama experience will fill the bill here. Oddly though, the little book of excellent ideas that I’d put away for a rainy day isn’t to be found. It’s here in a bin or a drawer or hidden away on a shelf, snickering at me because I can’t find it or recall where I might have used it last. Annoyed, I’ve come up with something based on a drama structure that I do recall and there is more than enough for a lively hour of preteen activity and creative inclination.
The older ones, the high school kids, will have their cell phones on so their time will be occupied nicely by texting each other in the same room and I need not worry too much about them . Yet, something should be included for their benefit. My poetry may fit the bill for them even though it is not written in a thumping rap or whine. It is unrhymed and melancholic, self absorbed stuff and therefore good enough. On second thought, maybe I should bring food.
My adult audience will consist of neighbours, family and church folk with a few unknowns. Hopefully, I won’t offend. For their edification, they can join in with the little ones and do the fishy dance song and soak up the vibe of the poetry non slam that I offer. As an added bonus for them I have some short stories from my stockpile or from blog archives. These are a style mix like if Maeve, Alice and Kurt were writing together maybe with a dash of Pym and side of Herriot.
This writing is gentle, at times gloomy, at times humorous but reflective. It has taken a couple of years to write out all the emotion to the point where it is now, still holding back some of the reality and as a result any art in that respect is still unwrapped. (What would the neighbours, family members and church folk think of it otherwise?
Hmmm, would anyone recognize themselves in the mirror?
My writing mentor and I haven’t worked together for over a year because of my irregular routines, the polar vortex, my aches and pains and my lack of focus. Next week though, we will work again and see where I am headed. All it took was the friendly invitation to be the local storyteller again to jolt me into seeking this focus once more. Apparently I don’t just write for myself like a reclusive artist content with elaborate stockpiles of unfinished work. I need an audience, even one that is prone to tantrums, texting, worrying and supporting.

Curtain Time

Well into the early morning hours, after reading and finishing several books I’ve had on the go and doing some online writing research, with an aching appendage or two, I ‘ve made the tea and sat down to this post. The quiet of the country night, it’s darkness and coolness after yesterday’s dramatic storm appeals to my urge to express this mood,this condition and tribal connection. Finding the inspiration by only doing the work and yet not finding it really, just darkness and quiet. All coolness, the night is long  but manageable with hot tea and still fresh cherry bread purchased  from the bakery on impulse but sustaining in these long hours, soft lights and locked doors. Poetry gently nudges around and settles in little thoughts from lists, totally off the cuff and useless but securely drawn and suitable for the night.

No,Not Now…

Cat adoption, no, have one with issues, already.

Like cats though. Nice , cute cosy ones.

Will take an old winter bedraggled looking like death cat crying at the kitchen door out of a storm and keep the poor thing, sores and all in the basement in a warm place with food and water until granted time to recuperate further at the farm, surrounded by barn cats and made their queen.

Best cat ever, Duster also named Mistral because he was brought home the night of the first autumn storm that brings the dark clouds, wind and snow. Duster kept his fluffy tail poised to collect dust from underneath the chairs and table so the name stuck. Beautiful cat and my friend. My son’s cat too. Duster cared. Duster lived and lived and lived. His ashes are still here. Must find a quiet spot.

Little Buttons tossed on our porch by a crazy person. Alone wee thing,did ok for awhile and seemed ready for vet and the procedure but didn’t make it through the operation. My heart was broken because the wee thing had trusted me and had curled up around my wrist the first night like it knew I would love it like a mother, The neighbour and I cried about the poor little thing and gave it a Celtic burial in the garden.

Then Archie and Frances came along, siblings, from a long line of barn cats .Archie became famous and visited everyone for toast and affection. He was invited to parties. A car hit Archie and there was a big loss for everyone because he was just so nice. Children brought me cards and drawings of Archie and told me he was with God at the top of the big tree.

Frances is still here. Small, delicate, beautiful tortoise coloured, very loving but partly crazy. Frances has a time, almost every night when she has to beat up the bathmat. For an aging cat this is very strenuous. She loves me and wants to be petted however without warning she will swing a paw to scratch or bite an ankle or a hand she perceives as a threat. This early morning writing, she lays softly beside the keypad, just wanting to be beside me, stretching out her little brindle foot to touch my hand, rolling her head onto the edge of the computer and trying not to interfere too much.

Another cat, big and orange and from out of town has requested adoption but no, I have Frances and that is all I need. Out of town cat might be considered a foster cat if needed but I think he wants to just stay at his own house and learn his manners or have his space.

Frances and I, just us, enough.