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.
Must be fire somewhere. Waking to look at the clock. Waking to realize I didn’t wake to look at the clock. Waking, gathering clothes and showering. Sensation of falling. Waking to realize I didn’t yet move. Waking inside some Shakepearian bookend. Am I awake? Is it official?
Like a bad dream Flickr is screwing around with its layout again making it hard for me to post my photos. But here we go,
Cats have good vision for movement left to right. Still objects of similar colors, not so much. In plain sight isn’t as clear as in triangulating in plain scent.
We look for new places to hide treats about the house for environmental enrichment; I think if I could hide treats in a way that would necessitate her doing our taxes first, we’d have ourselves an accountant.
I hid one in the pebbles on top of a house plant. She found it but decided there may be more. In the night, plink, plink as they hit the floor.
When she gets bored the irregular pebbles move in an unpredictable way and she’s quite delighted to pounce on this new prey. Now we have cat soccer where every now and then a metal cymbal as a stone goes onto a vent inside the cold air return registers.
And then there’s the bowl of nuts. Apparently they too have fun properties for soccer. We’re going to have to keep it covered because they stray until anywhere on the floor is likely to be an improv nutcracker.
Absurd how I get a ridiculous amount of stage fright when I write when I post, or don’t. Even alone in a room thinking to myself. The I am who are multitudes needs some sleep goggles or dark glasses or something.
Autopilot can slip on without a click. Chunneling away at objectives, what matters? Present in all the senses, in the community of self, those around, the balance of action, and cherishing. What opportunities for someday should be now? Time doesn’t appear, it is made out of the same air that gets gulped up by defaults. Deep breath of pause. Little moments of not just seeing the brightness of sun on arm but waiting until the heat of where it is and isn’t can be felt.
And by phone I learned Natalie Gibb-Carsley has died.
She was one of the teachers who saw the human and the writer inside the shelled up young being, and encouraged. We kept in touch, about once a year over the last 25. The diary she gave me at graduation is my special occasions book. Once every year or few I made an addition and hope the book to be a lifer of glimpses, at least to retirement. It’s 23 years in now and not quite halfway.
Natalie was a busy lady but not a rushed one. “Throughout her full life, Natalie’s upbeat nature was to spread happiness, show love and compassion, and give encouragement to and for those who had the good fortune to meet her in daily life.”
Yep. Doing was the thing, and being. She loved words but people and action had her involved.
Many people now say “I don’t do funerals” but hope this one will be an appropriate door crasher. Her husband John and her are like two fingers crossed.
The thing is, I can lift my elbows that high for that long to do. That hasn’t been possible for what, 10 months. I can also do fancy trick like lifting a full kettle or a cast iron pan without pangs as if that were a normal thing to do. Still can’t lie on my right side and can get turtled. But direction of progress.