Kitteh doesn’t mind. She finds me most interesting when I move about. She has an observation ledge to watch me when I cook. So, a sous chef. But if she wants to take over, how to get her to wear a net hairscarf. Body suit of nylons?
I’ve mentioned this before but such scrumptious potential words with meanings untaken. You can also challenge and ask for a daffynition and use in a sentence. The affixes and suffixes, the letter combinations are all English but those sounds that aren’t already taken by shapes are all fair game. Real words, however uncommon, like qaid, or zori or vau, are not permitted in anti-scrabble. Blank tiles are tossed. If you pick one up, replacement at no loss of turn. The brain can still jam for a word to play but the advantage of vocabulary size is levelled out.
In other news, you have from yesterday (for time-travellers) until the 11th to make a poem from book spines and get it to the Ottawa Public Library.
Or, on second thought, maybe harder.
What is stupid? Reactivity? Aggressive pugilist or passive blithe wallflower. I suppose both are ways of being shut-down, a one-solution dumb-down strategy because of threat of the past carried into the present. It’s not about intelligence so much as unadaptive reactions.
Intelligence is a hard thing to measure. My cousin who was institutionalized as being “developmentally delayed” when the institution shut down, she got herself a house, went on to date a guy who turned out to be a binge-violence person. Unlike some “normal intelligence” women in the same situation, whether she justified or strained over what to weigh against what, she drew the line fast and hard, changed the locks on her doors and he was not going to let him live with her anymore. There’s more that goes into understanding fairness and boundary issues than “intelligence” with letters or numbers.
Walking through streets of signs in Chinese, even the notice over the water fountain in Chinese, I felt partly stranded and partly freed. In the bookstore I could do the gestures of browsing, see the sections, see biography, cooking, art books, novels, magazines. Could look through particular books and know the arrows and pull out boxes were giving details on how to sketch a portrait of the face but words themselves were out of reach.
I get insular in my normal. Being among a Cantonese senior crowd I was tall and blazingly white. It does something to my brain to set me at ease. I grew up being told I was an other, joked about being so strange perhaps switched at the hospital, surely not from those people. Strange ideas and habits. Home, perhaps, I speculate, means being unlike those around me.
I grew up not being able to see, which was noticed in grade 4 when I was assigned to alphabetical seating to the back of the room. The fuzzy letters were instead vague direction of blackboard. My grades dropped.
Someone noticed and I got glasses. Also because the school intervened and ordered a dental visit, before kindergarden registration and at some points later, I went to the dentist 3 times before high school getting many teeth filled. If I were not funnelled through that hostile atheist school environment, being bullied from grades 3-13, what all would have shifted?
I pooh-pooh essential self. Events set up chains of events. If the path forked differently, or in one instant, decided intolerable instead of tolerable, where would I be now? If I were clear-headed and pulled up from the waves more than I did, instead of befuddled, would I have gone to Queens?
I got accepted to Ryerson journalism but in the final admittance essay argued myself out of it and never sent it. I got accepted to Canadore college journalism but couldn’t find housing as term came closer so backed out there. I accepted going to Baptist Bible College but as I mentioned before it didn’t seem religious enough.
So I ended up at Carleton doing an arts degree that I switched to linguistics, setting aside switching streams to journalism later. There I met future hubby who treated me more levelly and more kindly than almost any human I’d met.
Would any path have led to analogous people and poetry eventually? Some people get waylaid.
Ah, case in point. To think this was to be a photo post.
These were all graffiti and around Toronto.
In other subjects, Professor Richard Chess and UNC Asheville student Brian Hart interview award-winning poet and Oulipo expert Lee Ann Brown in November 2010. 40 interesting minutes.
A to-do list is tinnitus. From the start of March to mid-May I’m uncommonly on the go, getting all the ducks in a marching row.
When I work, work. When I rest, completely rest so neither saps energy from the other. Not being organized wastes time. Time is the only thing we have a chance of owning in this world. And it flashes past. What next? What next? What?
I recall saying that to someone at a party —how many years ago now— and she gave back withering derisive contempt. It completely broke pattern from the bland explorations and mild conversation that came before. “You never asked it, it’s not a matter of forgotten.” She bit off each word as if it were bitter with a nostril curl.
It was that bristle some people get who go nuts at you if you can “could you pass” instead of “may I have” and give a haughty lecture of how uncivilized you are and that there is a difference, a difference I tell you. I didn’t seek to retain her name after that, hoping to retain the face to brake and avoid for life.
Plant life are so much more beautiful. People can be beautiful but when livid and spiking such emotional energy…ach. The irony of outrage of being about being considerate. Ah, letting it go can happen after you admit it happened.
Am I the monk still carrying the maiden? Ah probably.
The KFC became Dixie Lee chicken and now is vacant. The ice cream parlour where I got tiger tail ice cream now sells real estate. (The funeral home is still there. Death, you constant, you.)
Weeks are rolling like minutes of highway miles.
Almonte’s city hall with its slate roof. (Incidentally I am a better photographer when its not cold and drizzly. Or on days with bitter wind. Or when there are mosquitos. I’m a climate-controlled indoor photographer, I guess that’s what I’m saying.)
Isn’t that the prettiest city hall? The coloured tiles remind me of the hospital in Brockville. Which brings me back a childhood images of my Aunt Maude’s face. And brings back to hubby a forgotten memory of glue and crafting at a camp day. Roofs house memories as they lower the lumens.
On a road trip you can’t predict what next.
— Pearl Pirie (@pesbo) March 29, 2014
We arrived a few minutes after the ever-delightful Danielle arrived in the Almonte bookstore, her coming from Washington, us from Ottawa.
Funny life and its intersections.