This morning

our shapes are blurring under miracles of snow.
~ Faded Flowers, Shriekback

I want to write this scene, but I’m suddenly overcome by a fear that I can’t do justice to it. (May as well just not rather than do a shit job, the voice says). I follow the thread of it and find a link to the many instances lately where my confidence has deserted me. The thought, I can’t do anything right is in my head a lot it seems. A one-two punch of the Side Launch “restructuring” (it’s me, no matter what they say, it’s me, I wasn’t enough, the evil voice says) and all that goes on at the ski club (you are utterly useless, says the voice).

I fucking hate that voice. Why am I listening to it? It will never help me do anything with my one wild and precious life. In fact, it will do the opposite.

so fuck it. Here goes.

The morning is glorious, as only bright winter mornings can be. I can tell by Keith’s tire tracks on the driveway that another few centimetres of snow fell last night, adding to the many centimetres that had fallen in the last few days, enough snow to smooth over the footprints to the bird feeder. Our shapes are blurring under miracles of snow, a line from a Shirekback song I love springs unbidden to mind. I whisper it to the birds. They continue fluttering and cheeping around the bird feeder, paying me no mind as I stand at the living room picture window.

The snow looks smooth, but there are blue shadows that soften along the curves of the earth showing small imperfections, dimples and ridges. The crisp angular shadows cast by the trees is a sharp contrast to the contouring.

The trees, oh the trees. They are truly stunning right now. They still have a coating of ice left from the ice storm a week ago, and the sun is turning every twig, every branch into a crystal that reflects and refracts the sunshine. The pines, boughs sweeping low, seem like dark serene sentinels against this brilliance.

A slight breeze, not enough to make the pine branches move but enough to start the ice-covered birch saplings to sway ponderously, picks up light snow of the branches so that it slowly sifts to the ground.

The sky is cloudless, and is the cool pale blue only found in mid-winter, a gradient from an almost white to a soft loveliness of robin’s egg.

It is beautiful; we live in a place where winter is winter.

Neither words nor photo do it justice.

Day 4

Good lord, ready to bail on this already. A whole new record for me. Usually I can keep the enthusiasm going for at least a week.

I am not going to bail. Not sure what I’m going to write about.

Today I could write about how I am trying to feel a slight sore throat and not think, strep throat. I could write about how spazzy I felt all day and how I hit my goram head three bloody times. I could write about how some people turn lovely with age, and how others show their bitterness and snark in every line on their face. I could write about how often lately I’ve been thinking about calling a doctor. I could write about how Keith greets me with tea, and will make dinner while I have a bath, and how much more grateful I am to have him in my life than I have ever been before. I could write about learning a new cast-off stitch for the shrug that might actually look good enough the first try that I won’t have to frog it. Or I could write about the lovely the light looks at this time of night, almost golden hour but now yet.

But I think I’ll go to bed instead. I’m going in an hour earlier tomorrow so I can head to Stratford with Keith in the afternoon and have good Thai food (hey, I’ll do what it takes for a date night).

30 days

It’s September 1st. I’ve got it in my head to do a blog post a day for the next 30 days; the over/under on me bailing on this idea is about 12 days.
We’ll see.

In a pocket

There were two prompts really… One, writer self-care, was to write in a place you don’t usually write, notice the difference in self and mood. I took myself to the river, to the place where the fishermen’s have trampled the grass and left me a place to sit, and the river runs a bit deeper and slower.

The other, the writing prompt, was about what do we carry with us, what is in out pockets or purse. The only thing i really carry in my pockets are work related (knife, phone, paper scraps, malt bag strings), so I’m using the far more interesting talismans I carry in my messenger bag.

The first is an oracle coin; hamsas, clouds and the word YES on one side, a winged skeleton and the word NO on the other. It’s big and weighty, like two toonies weighty. Substantial. I don’t use it often, but I like having it for when I want to put some randomness into my life.

The other is a tiny version of the Travellers Notebook, released for their 10th anniversary. I refused to buy a tin at $40, but bought two at $10. Once I put it together, I got caught in my what if I wreck it what if I run out of pages, it needs to be perfect loop of inaction. After staring at it for months, I hand wrote the Laughing Heart poem by Charles Bukowski in it. It’s my reminder to live my best badass life.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.
— by Charles Bukowski

On failure

I think that in the end we all need our Nocturamas. Your Nocturama may, indeed, be the most important thing you ever do. Failure fortifies us. It moves us forward. It strips everything back to its essential nature and leaves us clean and pure, ready to begin again. You don’t create something as problematic as Nocturama without a certain risk and a little courage and the temerity to fail. I love this troubled record for that. It may just be my favourite. ~ Nick Cave, The Red Hand Files Issue #20

Fuck x 30

Fuck feeling like I need to give myself permission to write. Just fucking write. 1) it’s not hard and 2) who cares how it looks.

Fuck the time suck that is Facebook, with its endless fear of missing out interspersed with people missing the point.

Fuck only getting a clue now that I’m middle aged.

Fuck being this out of shape. 

Fuck my left knee.

Fuck STILL not being able to afford to do the things that are important to me.

Fuck herbal teas that always smell way better than they taste.

Fuck people who never try.

Fuck people who think I’m an inspiration. Aim higher, for fuck’s sake.

Fuck this squishy lap.

Fuck only figuring shit out now.

Fuck the ridiculously high US/CDN exchange rate.

Fuch autocorrect that keeps wanting to change fuck to duck.

Fuck not being able to put tech down for more than an hour.

Fuck poor self control.

Fuck losing my taste for beer (a temporary situation, I hope).

Fuck expensive wine that tastes like cheap wine.

Fuck acid reflux.

Fuck procrastination.

Fuck this city.

Fuck all my friends living so far away.

Fuck time poorly spent (I refuse to say wasted, but it’s close)

Fuck being introverted.

Fuck people who think I’m too stupid to figure things out for myself.

Fuck sometimes not being able to figure things out for myself.

Fuck being behind.

Fuck being left behind.

Fuck being bored.

Fuck trite sayings that happen to be true.

Fuck not taking photos of things that interest me. Why am I so uninspired? Is it time to pull the plug?

Fuch this burn on my thumb.

In which I attempt to write science fiction…

One of the things I’ve been wanting to do is to try my hand at writing fiction, specifically science fiction. The following story came about at my summer writing retreat with some amazing people at Firefly Creative Writing. The writing prompt was to find something in the cottage, and incorporate it into a story; I felt that a fish poacher (not unlike this one) seemed like a good jumping off point.

It was fun. I think I might write some more.


It was a dismal and grey day in Alaska the day the aliens landed. The aliens didn’t know it was a grey and dismal day, they were just happy that their long journey was over. They emerged from their craft in the non-corporal form they took for space flight, and looked for a life-form to emulate.

It was too bad that they landed where they did, that they hadn’t at least done a fly-over of this blue-green planet. They might have landed in New York City, London, Tokyo, Beijing. Things might have been so different. But no. Circumstances and coincidences shape the destiny of all things. The Sularg ship had been programmed to alight on the first land encountered before awakening the crew, and land it did, beside a slow moving river in the Chugach National Forest in southern Alaska.

There were five of Sularg on the ship, one complete pod. They floated beside their ship for a moment, taking in the environment, the oxygen-rich air, the breeze that made them bob and swoop to stay together.

This could work, thought-sent Childak, their leader by virtue of being the oldest by one slinoon. The rest of the pod thought-sent agreement and they began to slowly fan out from the ship for the next stage of their programming, to find the first suitable form for them to adopt. Traldak drifted toward the river, senses extended in the search for a suitable form. This planet is so rich she thought-kept, so much life and diversity. She probed each life type she found, trees, plants, insects, searching for one with enough complexity and sentience to hold their sparks. It wasn’t until she sent tendrils into the ribbon of water that she found anything close enough.

Here, she thought-sent, calling the rest back from their own discoveries. They came to her, leaving bears, wolves and ravens undiscovered. They each sent their own thought-tendrils into the water, and thought-sent agreement. A bit rudimentary, Childak thought-sent, but it will have to do. They were the only species on their planet with any sentience to speak of, and so it did not occur to them that might be others to keep look for on this one.

Childak sent the tendril back to the ship, and they drifted over the water waiting for the organic computer to sequence the information. A few moments later, they found themselves with mass again, and fell to the water. Garndak, who hated waiting and had been still sending tendrils out had  seen something moving in the trees and had begun to drift toward it.

Wait please– he had begun to thought-send when the change happened, and he found himself landing on the sandy bank beside the river. The shock of the new body contracted all his tendrils back into himself, and the thought of what he might have seen was pushed from him in the as he gasped on the gritty dry ground.

What– thought-sent Childak.

This isn’t right– Garndak replied.

The pod pushed an interrogative at him.

This body is failing – Garndak thought-sent. He could feel salmon instincts well up in him, and he felt the muscles contract and release rythmically. There was a tinge of panic edging into his movements as he tried to pull something into his body, something he needed for survival.

 Where are you?– thought-sent Childak. We’re fine– he added unhelpfully.

Fortunately for Garndak, his flopping had brought him to the waters edge, and his next movement sent him into the water.

He floated for a moment in the blissful coolness, letting this new environment soothe his skin. He pulled great gulps of the liquid into his mouth and out through openings on his sides, revelling in this new feeling of right-ness. The rest of the pod were near him, nothing moving but mouths and gills, and eyes that rolled to see him.

Are you all right? thought-sent Traldak.

Yes, he sent back, then sent his experiences to Ferndak, the podmate most interested in different life forms.

Interesting, replied Ferndak. -These bodies are meant for only one of this planet’s environments.-

Childak, who took his position and his age in the pod rather too seriously, throught-sent with a touch of irritation, Well now we’re all here, let’s get on with the mission.

How? came Coogdak’s challenge. Have you figured out how to move yet? Coogdak loved nothing more than to take Childak down a peg or two.

Before Childak could reply, Garndak sent, I think I’ve got it. Watch, and demonstrated the muscle spasming that had caused him to move on the riverbank. He used the same power that instinct had caused him to use, resulting in him swimming far beyond them. He experimented with the fin extensions from his body to turn and rejoin his pod.

He thought-sent the procedure to the pod, and soon all were practicing moving the bodies they had chosen.

This is fun, sent Ferndak as she swooped past Garndak. These are the best bodies ever!

Childak, who secretly agreed with Ferndak sent a time-to-go message, and they began to move downstream for no other reason that their bodies were becoming tired and it was easier. Soon they encountered the salmon that Traldak had seen, that they had all based their forms on.

Childak swam over to float in front of  it, so he could look it in the eyes

Take us to your leader, he thought-sent with a formal tone. We have information to share to help your planet.

The salmon merely regarded him, fins gyrating slowly to keep it in place.

Didn’t you hear me? Take us to your leader!

Still no response.

Childak  tried again with the formal opening, the one he had practiced by himself during the voyage. Coogdak thought-sent a smirk and smothered laugh, which irritated Childak as it was meant to do.

Childak ignored Coogdak and tried a third time. We are travellers in space and time. We can teach you better ways to travel, to live, to manage your planet. Don’t you want that? Hello?

Coogdak thought-sent deeper amusement. Exasperated, Childak sent the equivalent of ok smartass, you try.

Coogdak swam forward to the salmon and used simpler language. Where are your leaders?

This the salmon could answer. The Sularg had no way of knowing that salmon had only rudimentary language concepts that consisted of five “words” – food, spawn, where, upstream, downstream. The salmon understood “where” and helpfully replied “downstream” since the strangers were already pointed that way.

Downstream they went, asking each salmon they encountered. Childak shortened his practised speech to two words, where leaders, as it seemed to the only thing that got a response. And the response was always downstream.

The Slurag followed the current, which sped up now and then when the river narrowed. They revelled in this fluid environment and these bodies so very different from their own back home. They flipped and frolicked as they got used to the muscles and fins that propelled them. Once, Coogdak discovered that he could temporarily leave the river by swimming fast then flicking his tail just so, to leap from the water into a different place. The heavier gravity always sent him back into the water before the salmon body he wore became distressed in the air. He showed the rest of his pod, and it became a game to see who could leap the highest and for longest. The five of them were so delighted with this and so taken with the competition, that they sped past a final school of salmon that would have answered “upstream” to Childak’s question, the only way the salmon knew to warn these strangers of the air-breathers and their nets around the next bend in the river.


“That looks delicious,” said the woman. She and her husband were out for their anniversary dinner at The Kincaid Grill, the best restaurant in Anchorage. They had saved for months so they could splurge.

The waiter lifted a piece of salmon from the large fish poaching salver and placed it on her plate.

How fresh is it, her husband asked as the waiter carefully ladled a dill Bernaise sauce over the salmon he had just plated.

“Very fresh,” he told the man as he repeated the procedure. “Chef likes to go fishing in the morning, and caught five of them this morning. He said it was the damnedest thing, they practically jumped into his boat, like they wanted to be caught and go with him or something.”

With that, he bid them bon appetit and left them to their anniversary dinner.

Trading card time

It has been a week of doing that thing I most hate doing – writing about myself.

I know, I know, I write about myself all the time; there’s Twitter, Facebook and here. But those are different, fun. Writing something serious or semi-serious about myself for other people to read makes my procrastination gene work overtime.

This morning, I emailed my portfolio for the Brewmaster application. It’s been proofread and edited by 3 people other than myself, and I still found a grammar issue this morning upon the eleventy-hundredth reading. *head desk. I did the two tricks I was shown when I worked at the print shop – read it out loud (2 more issues) and read it backwards word by word (no more issues). I could re-write sentences forever, so made myself finally hit the Send button. I only checked 5 times before sending that I had attached the right file. And so far, 4 times after sending. Yes, I am that paranoid about it.

Then on to the other one. This is substantially less critical, but still needs to be right. It’s time to write my copy for the Toronto Roller Derby trading cards. I couldn’t help but laugh at the typo on last year’s – it’s so me. What made it funnier was the fact that it wasn’t my typo!

After much thought, this is what I’m going with:

Spirit Animal: Grumpy Cat*

Three Likes: Beer, motorcycles and Doctor Who

Three dislikes: Bad coffee, romantic comedies and To Do lists

Is known for: Refusing to act her age

I’ve decided to go with last year’s picture as it’s one of the few pictures of me that I like. That and the fact I’ve put on weight during my unemployment, and I can’t keep denying how much if I have actual proof, now can I?


*Keith asked me why Grumpy Cat – she can’t help the fact that she looks so grumpy all the time, and apparently is quite a lovely and sweet cat. Not that I’m saying I’m lovely and sweet, but I’m a damn sight nicer than my Resting Bitch Face  would lead people to believe.


Oops, forgot to hit Publish last night.


From last night’s writing session;


It was our second day in Dawson city. We had moved from one of the apartment-style rooms to the renovated Gold Rush cabin. I loved the cabin, with its odd mix of old rustic and new modern. I liked to put one splayed hand against an exposed log on the wall, and the other against the fridge or TV and pretend that I could feel the years channelling through me, that i could send a vision of the room in the luxurious now to its former occupant in a wild and rough past.

We had spent the day exploring Dawson City. We had taken the ferry back across the river and looked around the ship graveyard, where most of the old steamships that plied the Klondike river had been pulled to shore and left to disintegrate. In any other place, in any other national park, there would have been an interpretation centre, and paths with signs to tell you the history of each one. Not here. The first person we spoke to at the Dawson City visitors centre didn’t even know about it and had to go ask. An older woman managed to find a much-photocopied hand drawn map and gave us the instructions to “take the ferry to the campground, walk all the way through it and follow the path”. The path proved so long and so overgrown that we began to wonder if perhaps we’d missed something when the prow of a paddle wheeler, rusted and covered with moss, appeared from undergrowth.

We poked around the wrecks for an hour or so. We only found 5 of the 6 or 7 before the drizzle prevented us for delving too deep into the thick underbrush. we went back to town and had lunch in former bordello. What is it about former bordellos that lend themselves to becoming restaurants? We’d seen the same thing in Skagway and Haines. Bars, maybe, but a restaurant?
But I digress.

We tried to avoid the bus groups taking tours of old part of town, and found ourselves walking in and out of the residential areas as we wandered up and down the dirt roads. We found the liquor store and a grocery store in our travels and decided to make dinner in the cabin than eat out yet again. We made it back to the cabin in time to watch the opening of the Beijing Olympic games before grilling our steaks. We sat on the porch overlooking the Klondike, and as we ate we talked about what it must have been like a mere hundred years before.

“just think” Keith said. “there must have been a time at this very spot with someone eating steak and beans outside. We could be like an echo”.

“Yeah, an echo with propane, a four piece bath and hot and cold water on demand.”

I’d seen photos during the day that stripped away any of the period’s romance. Would we even have been among the ones that survived it?

After dinner, I headed to Diamond-toothed Gerties, a gambling hall at the north end of town. Every vacation, I pick someplace, state I want to fill in the blank here, and make that a goal of sorts for the trip.
On this trip I had decided I wanted to go to Diamond toothed gerties, play some poker and add another poker chip to my collection.

The gambling hall itself wasn’t really what I expected; from the pictures I’d seen of the stage where they put on old dance hall shows and of the casino floor, I was expecting it to look like more of a period building on the outside, as had the other buildings we’d looked at during the day. Instead, it had the look of a small town hockey arena or community centre, with white painted cinder blocks and siding.

I’d just made it through the external door into a small foyer and was beginning to greet the two employees inside when the power went out. Immediately, thin back up lights came on, and my way into the casino was blocked by the larger man, the one in the period outfit with Gerties embroidered on the pocket.

“sorry ma’am, I can’t let you in while the power’s out.”

Over his shoulder, i could see dealers quickly cover and lock the chips and cash boxes. Their movements were smooth and practised, and the casino patrons seemed to be taking it all in stride. I wondered how often it happened.

“No, I understand” I told him. “I know this is a stupid question, but any idea how long?”

“it’s been going off periodically all day. Give it a few minutes.”

I walked back outside and past a group of men, standing by a side door, smoking and listening to one guy complain about a bad beat in the last poker hand. I hid a smile as I past and wondered if the same rule applied where you had to pay your listeners a buck after forcing them to hear your bad beat story, your poker tale of woe.

I walked around a few blocks, and took some pictures of abandoned and decaying buildings and of a very friendly cat that twined itself around my ankles but soon ran off in the direction of a woman calling “blackie, dinner!”

I headed back to the casino but could see that the power was still off. The desire to complete my goal of playing some poker in a Gold Rush town was still there, but it was starting to wane. The combination of waiting around outside in the damp and knowing that I had beer in the fridge and bubble bath for the cabin’s claw foot tub won out over standing around, waiting.

It will give me a reason to come back, I thought as I abandoned the goal I’d had in mind for months and headed back for the triumvirate of beer, book and bubble bath.

The streets were deserted on the walk back, even by the ferry landing that had been busy all day. I found it kind of surprising until I looked at my watch to find that it was well past 10. The light in the land of the midnight sun made it seem like much earlier.

I was close to the cabin when my attention was caught by two ravens on a street light above me. The one on the left had a large piece of food firmly gripped in its beak, and the one on the right was being very vocal. I had to anthropomorphize, but there seemed to be something very questioning about the raven’s gurglings and caws. As I stood watching and listening, I realized that there was a pattern, there were three distinctive calls repeated over and over.

Watcha got? Where’d ya get it? Whatcha gonna do with it?

The raven with the food stared straight ahead, ignoring the other. This went on for a quite a while and I was just about to give up and continue down the street when the raven on the left suddenly ruffled its feathers and turned to caw at his neighbour, and so dropping the food it had had in its beak. The vocal raven immediately launched off the street light, swooped down to grab the food and flapped off over the trees. I couldn’t help but laugh at the the look the remaining raven gave to its now departing companion, earning me a blink from a beady eye and a rough gurgle in my direction before it flew off in a different direction.

I was still smiling about it later as I lowered myself into a bubble filled antique claw foot tub in a renovated Gold Rush cabin.