Here’s a fun fact.
My dentist told me that flossing your teeth is the oral equivalent to wiping your ass. Then he described, with liberal hand gestures, the terrible things that happen when they have to surgically remove your sphincter; and the necessity for colostomy bags, despite their frightful malfunctions.
We really bonded.
I haven’t seen sunlight in a week. This seems to happen every year in Hamilton. In late Autumn the sun takes shelter behind a grey curtain of clouds for days on end. The last leaves fall from the trees and I begrudgingly add extra layers under my jacket to insulate my adventures into the dreariness.
Then, suddenly, the cloud cover will part and the sun will emerge, and although it is irredeemably cold, it is reassuring because the change has run it’s course. The sun is shining again and everything is right in the world.
Sometimes it doesn’t happen until the first snow. Those days are brilliant. Glistening white virgin snow covers the streets and the world looks like it has just been born. Winter, at last.
Not yet, though. Some things just can’t be rushed, and the weather is one of them. The sun is still hiding, the temperature is still dropping, the snow has not fallen. Winter is later than usual this year. In the meantime, we are stuck in the fog of limbo.
Your body can be read like the weather if you know what signs to look for. Unlike the seasons, though, the cycle is not predetermined. Some people get stuck in limbo for years at a time before their sun returns. Others, tragically, never do.
It has taken me a long time to learn to read the weather signs of my body. Multiple sports-related injuries has made me more sensitive to nerve pain and muscle soreness. Once I learned how to react (read: exercise), the injured area became an accurate barometer of my health.
The weather may be out of our control, but your health is not. You can learn to read the signs of your body and react accordingly. You may get stuck in the rain a few times before you figure it out, but with a little experimentation you will learn when to bring your umbrella. It’s a learning curve.
Not everyone learns, though. Some people smoke themselves to emphysema. Others eat themselves to obesity. That’s like pissing into the wind.
Once you learn to read the signs, you can work with the weather instead of against it. That piss smell will go away eventually.
Are you stuck in a dreary spell, like the weather here? Perhaps it is best to wait it out. On the other hand, maybe it’s time to rip open the cloud cover and yank the sun back into the sky. It’s up to you.
I met a Chinese couple while I was hiking on Bruce Trail. They were old enough to be grandparents, gray hair accenting their temples, but they had young faces and calm eyes, full of life. I stood with my back to them, gazing into a valley spread with trees and a golden-orange carpet of leaves, when the man walked over to speak to me. His wife remained sitting patiently a few yards off the path.
“Where is Tiffany Falls?” he asked. I did not know. He told me proudly that they had hiked four kilometers, out of the valley, to sit on that log and eat their lunch. He produced a map from his pocket and explained to me that the falls were back the way I had come.
I told myself that they ought to be able to enjoy their hike in peace, and left. I chased the rumble of the falls off the trail, across private property. I ended up on the wrong side, too far up river. I could hear, but not see, the water rushing to meet the rocks.
Forced to retrace my steps, I headed back down the trail, then along the road to a parking lot with signs pointing the way to Tiffany Falls. As I started down the new trail, I saw the Chinese couple again, this time walking towards me. We stopped and greeted each other. They told me that the falls were beautiful. I told them I had wandered into the wilderness for a while, and then, laughing, we parted.
They remind me of my own grandparents. Only they were an American couple in China, and Nana would be the one chatting to a young Chinese man lost in the woods, Papa smiling patiently behind her.
A solitary dancer throws his body to the heavy bass of a funky beat. Most of the crowd is sprawled languidly on the grass covered hill beneath the dancer’s flailing arms as a man walks up the hill past the dancer without a glance and steps out of the frame. The dancer continues unabated, immersing himself in a creative movement of his own until he is joined by another. He greets the newcomer and then returns to his own rhythm. Shortly, the two dancers harmonize, each dance separate yet in tune with the same funky beat. Another dancer joins the two, this a big man with a wild mess of black hair and also apparently barefoot. The three spin and make themselves dizzy and roll in the grass down the hill and dance back up again. From the edge of the frame where the first spectator disappeared emerges now to join the three another pair of dancers, then three more. Cheers and screams erupt from the crowd and the madness spreads, people no longer shy or put off but encouraged by the confidence of company. Men and women run from behind the camera, from up the hill and down, and the languid crowd becomes unseated and swells the dance. Suddenly it is a large crowd and the brave incitor, the first solitary dancer, is lost in a joyous, dancing mass moving to the rhythm of the same funky beat.
Every day I take the bus to work. Most days the ride is uneventful. Downtown I step onto the sidewalk, wade through the crowd swarming to board the bus I just vacated, and walk the rest of the way to work.
Today the bus was late. There is another route that comes down a sidestreet next to the stop where I catch my ride. Since our bus was late, my friend and I jogged over and hopped onto the other one. It takes a little longer to get downtown, but better late than never.
The two of us sat down on one side near the front of the bus. We were talking, laughing, just shootin’ the shit. Harmless, really. Minding our own business. There was a woman on the opposite side of the aisle. My glance must have grazed over her once or twice, but she occupied only a distant part of my consciousness as I was thoroughly engaged in conversation with my friend.
I freely admit that I enjoy watching people, and I do my best to suspend judgment. Judging someone based on one look is a terrible injustice. All the same, people are the most interesting thing in the world to me. My mother and my Uncle call it People Watching. Maybe I inherited it from their side of the family. When I am in public, I am always vaguely aware of the people around me, even if my attention is elsewhere. Just in case, you know. Wouldn’t want to miss anything good.
There we sat, chatting away, when my glance wandered back to the woman sitting on the opposite side of the bus, a couple seats closer to the front. She was very thin, her hair was a bit dishevelled, but that is nothing unusual. Stranger characters make their way onto these bus routes. I had hardly given her a second thought, but as my eyes, under dark sunglasses, met hers again, she stuck her tongue out violently and turned away in her seat so that I saw her in profile. Her shoulders were thrown back now, her chin aloft, her jaw was tightly clenched in anger. It took me a second to register that her gesture had been directed at me. The conversation I was having with my friend paused only slightly before I shrugged it off and resumed talking.
The bus pulled up to the next stop, jerking to a halt. A young man got onto the bus. Before he was seated the driver had closed the door and continued on his route. The newcomer slumped into the seat next to the woman’s offended figure. She was suddenly on her feet. “I’m sick of your type!” she screamed at me. I was completely bewildered at this point. My type? What have I done now? I sprinted over the possibilities in my mind. I have unwittingly given offense to people before. Maybe I bumped into her when I got on the bus. Did I give her a dirty look? My hurried inventory came up empty. She had moved to the front of the bus and stood with her back to the rest of the passengers. She clutched her sweater around her thin frame.
“What did I do?” my friend and I inquired curiously, questioning her haughty back. “I’d really like to know what exactly I did to offend you,” I said.
“You know what you did, you narcissistic fool!” she spat her retort at me, then turned her back again. My eyebrows went up. I shook my head, then tried to forget what had happened. I couldn’t shake it. I looked around at the other people on the bus. Some had hands latched over helpless grins. Others gave me sympathetic, conspiratorial smiles. My friend and I looked at each other and chuckled in disbelief. When I tell people I take the bus to work, they always say, “Look out for the crazies!” I used to think, aw, they’re not that bad. They never gave me any trouble. I stand corrected. I told a few people at work about the incident. Everyone loves a good story.
Only just now, as I was going over the incident in my mind, did I realize that the bus driver never missed a beat.
Keep a tennis ball and a hacky sack handy for healthy entertainment in dull times and to relieve agression. Especially useful in small spaces. Surrounding flat surfaces and various objects are fair game. If you annoy the neighbors, count it as a bonus.
the cold side of the pillow. irreverent poetry. screaming obscenities in large crowds. skipping class. the first drink. breaking minor laws. renouncing mistakes of the past. impromptu roadtrips. the scent of a woman. hot coffee in the morning. tea in the evening. reading a good book in one sitting. playing guitar till your hands ache. finally succeeding after countless failures. the smell of rain. learning something new. snowboarding in fresh powder. old friends who proves their worth once again. falling in love with a new favorite musician. or falling in love with an old one all over again. laughing till you cry. dirty jokes. daydreams.
—to name a few.
its been five years since I didn’t get to say goodbye to that ebullient little redhead. five years and I am older now than she was then, too young by far for anyone so beautiful to be lost to this world. she was like the older sister i never had. i find myself wondering what she would think of me now, what she would say. i hear her voice, that laugh, always.
for the gift of memory, her love for this life, and ours for her: in memory of t.m.a.
nothing like a hot cup of tea to fire the mind and prop the eyelids open when night sets in. dodge the shackles of sleep, just a few more hours. escape from routine in the pages of a novel or sip the steaming liquid as you roll the first lines of a poem around your mouth long enough to leave a taste. eventually, sleep quietly overcomes …
i dream of the tragic desperation of an aged king… of perfect harmonic cadences… of ships lost on tumultous seas… of a beggar girl’s queenly radiance
I see a mad scientist with unkempt hair and crazy bulging eyes when I attempt to cook something new. Frantically involved in the experiment, I juggle twelve tasks simultaneously. I lose track of things and forget steps in my haste. A myriad of possible disastrous outcomes harass my best effort.
No matter. The end result is (usually) delicious and, for me, cooking is synonymous with edible creative experimentation. What’s not to love?