Thursday, January 29, 2004

I am going to attempt a replay of what happened last night.

Mike came over and made dinner for the two of us. We left a 6:30 to buy a few groceries for him and then I was going to drop him off at his apartment.

We went along Marine Drive from West Van into North Van. I drove into the middle of an intersection, green light, and put my left flicker on. The light turned to amber. There was a white car coming west but he was far enough back to stop and so I turned the steering wheel and put my foot on the accelerator.

Mike screamed. Instead of slowing down the white car sped up. Mike knew he was going to hit us.

Crash.

The car spun, crossed the road, and its nose curved around a post.

I started wailing. It felt as if half my face was gone.

Mike asked if I was all right and told me to open my door.

I tried to open it - wailing all the while - but it was locked. I pulled the button up and pulled the door handle. It opened. I stepped out but couldn't stop the animal cries. Mike climbed out after me.

My face was burning from the airbag I later learned. Someone led me to the side of the building of Speedy Auto Glass - the place where I had brought the car just a week before to have the back window replaced - and I slid down to a sitting position. Mike sat beside me.

A man came over and said he was a doctor and checked my vision and grasp.

The other car was still in the intersection and the driver remained in the car.

The ambulance arrived. The police arrived.

They took us to St. Paul's - all three of us. The young man in the other car was on a stretcher and only whispered his replies.

At the hospital, they checked us. Both Mike and I could walk and talk and after they gave me a tetanus shot and took x-rays, Helen came and drove us home.

I saw the young man who hit us, being rolled into the x-ray department.

I keep seeing that white car coming toward us.

Today we are both sore. Mike has several bumps on his forehead, a bruised elbow, swollen knee, and scraped legs.

The right side of my face looks like it has been scraped with sandpaper. So does my nose. My upper lip is swollen, scabbed, and there is a cut from the middle of my nose to my lip. My right leg is swollen.

We spent the afternoon at ICBC. They won't have a chance to assess the damage to our car until tomorrow.

We picked up a replacement. Mike drove.

This is all the writing I've done today.

Damn it all.

I know I should be singing. We're alive.

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

I've decided to change my wayward ways and become a hermit. At least for the next month. I've a lot to do including a buying trip and the subsequent placing of orders, and I somehow have to squeeze in our (Rob and mine) business year-end.

I'm slowly recovering from that wicked cold and am still not up to full energy but I've been having fun, learning a new computer program, designing a pamphlet, and beginning to organize this year's French writing workshop (in my head mostly but I have been jotting things down.)

And then there's the store. I was in on Monday and Sherry said she liked working with me. She said that I was one of those rare women who like herself. My head spun. What gave her that idea? But surprisingly or not, most of the women who come into the store (including Sherry) are forever complaining about their bodies and, in most cases, I don't understand.

But Mike just walked in and we're going to have dinner together (the house is lonely without Gill) and then I'll drive him home. So no more musing about bodies for the moment. I have been writing but don't want to jinx anything by telling at this time.

Monday, January 26, 2004

Another day has come and gone and I have not returned to this blog. I must admit it wearies me. I've decided to write every other day but, if it's any consolation, I am writing other stuff. If it sees the light of day I have yet to decide.

But I am thinking a lot of my Gill these last two days. I read a poem this morning I think she'd like:

All I Was Doing Was
Breathing
by Mirabai

"Something has reached out and taken in the beams of my eyes.
There is a longing, it is for his body, for every hair of that
dark body.
All I was doing was being, and the Dancing Energy came by
my house.
His face looks curiously like the moon, I saw it from the side,
smiling.
My family says: "Don't ever see him again!" And implies things
in a low voice.
But my eyes have their own life; they laugh at rules, and know
whose they are.
I believe I can bear on my shoulders whatever you want to
say of me.
Mira says: Without the energy that lifts mountains, how am I
to live?"
(translated by Robert Bly)

Where are you Gill?

Sunday, January 25, 2004

My energy is too low to tell about my day although it was good - a writing binge - ideas flying - healthy lunch of quiche and salad (tasted good too) with my marvellous plum group; but I faded at 3:30, drove over to Kits to pick up Bren who unfortunately was at work - I either forgot this or didn't know this - and so waited two hours and have just arrived home.

No wine in the house. No food. No one here.

Poor Rob has to work a six day week this week. He thinks he's too old for his line of work. No age could bear the hours.

Saturday, January 24, 2004

I said I'd return to my blog today and "a promise is a promise' - the title of a book I used to read to my children but I'm still recuperating. Thus the late hour.

I promised myself that I would take it easy today, that I would only go to work for a few hours but a new shipment of clothing had arrived - the order I flew down to Los Angeles to see - and I had to change the window, price the clothing, and rearrange the store.

Walter then hit with me a new plan. The Feng Shui woman thought that she might accompany us on our buying trip to Seattle and he wanted my opinion. I balked at the idea. (In fact, I thought, "what nerve. Who the hell does she think she is?" Walter loves her, thinks she is magic. Bah humbug.)

A buying trip is intense - hour after hour dealing with representatives showing clothing. It takes maximum energy to look, discard, choose, photograph. I work on instinct. I think I'm good at what I do. And the thought of another person coming and offering her opinion is too much - especially a strong women who has definite opinions and who may or may not defer to my experience. I would prefer to know her better and especially know that I can trust her. A buying trip allows no time for personality or taste clashes.

I told Walter this. He said "But you're a strong woman, Yvonne." Not that strong.

I wanted to write about the body today. I wrote long-hand this morning about it. Perhaps because I feel fragile, perhaps for other reasons. I'll save it for another time.

Tomorrow, I go to a marathon write with my Plum women. I need to sleep.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

I've been sleeping since 8:30 last night. My head is in a vise. My nose continues to pour. I've been filling myself with vitamin c, sudafed, and neocitrin. I'm taking two days off and will hopefully return to this blog Friday restored. yy

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

I'm feeling old and beaten this morning. How the hell does one believe in one's Self when a number of people seem to be questioning that Self - not maliciously - out of kindness really - and perhaps Self should revise her Self. Some days I feel as if I know nothing. (I know I'm being unclear but, at the moment, exposure would leave me too vulnerable.)

Anyway, last night I went out with my three offsprings (I can't call them children anymore) and we met my mother and sister with her three children (baby Cameron included) and ate at the Red Onion in Kerrisdale, went to Ikea, and then drove to Mike's new flat. It's gorgeous. 835 square feet of artist's space. Ceramic tile floor, white kitchen, beautiful new fridge and stove (better than we own), and high high ceilings. No wonder he's proud.

Helen just dropped in and we spoke of Self, integrity, and love. I thank the heavens for her love and wisdom. I'm feeling better but have to run for my mum and take her to the airport. Will continue this discussion at another time.

Monday, January 19, 2004

I have enough time to think this morning but, as a result of the Dialogue meeting yesterday, I'm trying harder to catch the thoughts that are happening below the surface - which are "Stop trying so hard to write intelligently. Let it flow. What do you really think? What do you really feel?"

Insecure.

We spoke of control versus discipline. We spoke of spontaneous conversations that happen like improv and require courage and trust - if only in oneself. If one is measuring one's words, trying to be sincere, is spontaneity lost? We spoke of the open conversations one has with an other when one is not on guard, when one knows one will be loved no matter what one says. And I wonder if this is not the idea behind Dialogue - testing one's intimate or virgin thoughts with a group of people who do not know one well.

Did I sound like an idiot when I tried to express myself and couldn't find the words, when my hands started gesturing to fill in the blanks?

In one of Marlene's workshops, she gave us an article by Irene Claremont de Castillejo in which she speaks of conversations and the question of exhaustion and refreshment: Why do some conversations exhaust us while others refresh us?

"We are only exhausted when talking to other people if we do not meet them, when one or both of us are hiding behind screens." She writes that proximity does not constitute a meeting and gives the example of a husband and wife who have an intimate closeness but who have never met.

"For there to be a meeting, it seems as though a third, a something else is always present. You may call it Love, or the Holy Spirit. Jungians would say that it is the presence of the Self. If this 'Other' is present, there cannot have failed to be a meeting."

I would say that we had a meeting yesterday or some of us had a meeting. Marlene and Steve had to leave early. This was strange. We spoke of responsibility. When one takes it on, the other or others can relinquish it.

One man spoke of control, if I remember correctly, as wanting to keep all others in the same relationship - as if reconstructing the past so there will be no imbalance, no unknowns, no surprises whereas discipline is containing oneself, not others. We also spoke of the body and how it wears? bears? an individual's control and discipline. And how it suffers more and takes longer to recover if one doesn't recognize or admit its pain and suffering.

I met with Brendan before the meeting and we went for lunch. We met. Why is it, I wonder, when I meet with him that, more times than not, I feel energized? It wasn't always like this but the last few years, I feel a real sense of trust and respect. He doesn't waste words, doesn't engage in small talk so when he asks me how I'm doing, I believe he wants to know the truth.

After lunch, we picked up a "Lemon Heaven" cake - an unusually tall light confection - for the Dialogue meeting (his suggestion) - a splurge - but it was so magnificent and it tasted as good as it looked. One man mentioned that it was as good as sex and more reliable - he imagines if the same cake was purchased again, it would taste as good.

Food for thought.

Sunday, January 18, 2004

I was working in the store a few days ago and Ann Hamilton, a journalist (best known for her sports' reporting) came in and we talked of this and that and then she began to quiz me on Rob and said she'd like to write a story about him.

"Is there any chance he'll get an Academy Award nomination this year?"

"I doubt it," I replied. "And if he does, it's my story."

She requested that I email his resume and I did.

I forgot about this conversation until this morning and then, from where I don't know, came the idea for a story about Rob. I went onto the internet and punched in his name and found several articles about this man that I'd never seen. I began to write a lead to an article about the year Rob was nominated for an academy award. (The timing is perfect and as I wrote an article at the time that was published in two small newspapers, the bulk of the story is already written.)

Is it fair, I wonder, to steal someone else's idea for a story? (If it works, I will contact her and confess.)

Yesterday, Marlene and I had a meeting with Ramona, director of UBC's Writing Centre to discuss this year's French writing workshop. (Ramona is lovely - she looks too young for her accomplishments - creating the writing centre and implementing many of its courses - plus teaching a number.) She also looks weary. She has just moved into a new apartment, is trying to furnish it, and has already spent four hours at her university job before we arrive just after noon.

Marlene has brought a French feast - cold meats, cheeses, bread, salad, and grapes - which Ramona adds to - and so we sit and munch and discuss the possibility of doing two workshops this summer. Ramona is optimistic that enough participants will register to cover expenses as she has already had four inquiries from a mention of the course in a brochure. Marlene would like to do a repeat of last year's autobiography or rather "life-writing" course and then create a new one (I don't know if the content is secret or not so I'll not tell yet) and I, the newcomer to this sort of business, sit and listen and am quietly optimistic and already planning the logistics of finding accommodation. We will decide the dates by mid-week.

After a quick trip to Granville Street, I dropped Marlene at her home, and returned to mine (hoping for a bubble bath and a dinner of popcorn and wine) to find Helen waiting for me. We went to the store and she read from her notes. Walter had hired a Feng Shui designer (also a fashion merchandiser) to try to improve business and unfortunately her appointment was at the same time as my writing meeting. Helen went as my representative. She was impressed. The woman is 6'4" - impressive in itself - and suggested simple ways - like moving a plant, painting a wall red, changing our sales corner - to increase business. She also messed a little with my window and wall displays - not much - enhancing outfits by adding purses and jewellery. For the most part, I liked what she did - very Leslie in many ways - and her ideas will help at the Seattle market that Walter, Helen, and I will attend at the end of the month. (The clothes we ordered for spring are just starting to arrive. One skirt we all loved and that I put in the window Monday have all sold, save one - a great reasurer that we are buying well.)

When Helen dropped me off, I settled into the couch to watch "Love Actually" but I had hardly begun when Rob, Gill, Shirin, and her dad arrived - they were supposed to go to a light show but were too late so returned to watch a movie - and so I gave up my place and the four watched "Lost in Translation." I watched a little but was so tired, I snuck away and went to bed. (Besides this was to be a fathers/daughters night.)

Today, I have Dialogue. And will return to my writing. (I've decided to ignore messy houses.)

Saturday, January 17, 2004

I have to change my ways and become a more balanced person but if I do this will I still be me? Robertson Davies explores such unbalance in "The Cunning Man." Gail Godwin also wrote about such people and I wrote her words down (where it is, I haven't a clue - some journal?) and she describes passionate souls as being a source of light, as people who really know how to live and I naturally, vain creature that I am, think myself passionate. If I'm writing, doing display in the store - any creative act - I ignore all else. Food is unimportant. Sleep is a waste of time. So what if the house is a mess. I'll pay that bill tomorrow.

But I'm also a person who likes order and after expending my energy, I crash and lash out at myself and even hate my unbalanced ways.

Vaughan sent me an email the other day telling me to take care of myself and my energy. She even gave me instructions on how to breathe. (Vaughan used to teach yoga. She has more discipline than I'll ever know.) I do forget to breathe - I need to be reminded.

But last night, I did manage to do my French budget but having never done one before, I don't know if it is acceptable or not. We'll see. I have a meeting at noon today with Marlene and Ramona regarding this year's French Writing Workshop. This one should be easier. I only hope that the heat is not so intense but now, at a distance, I think the heat added to the adventure. But I will definitely add several fans to my French household.

I spoke to my friend Susan in Castelnau de Montmiral this morning. She hasn't been well and blames her fatigue on too many visitors last year. Susan loves visitors and, if you read this blog in the summer, you will remember that she met a young musician on a train and invited him to her house. He came with a beautiful young woman and the village was filled with sounds from his classical guitar and her violin. They gave a private concert in Susan's living room and I felt as if I'd stepped into the past and was at a salon - perhaps one of the kinds that the courtesans used to hold in Paris. If it had only been them, Susan would probably be fine but she continued to have guests well into the fall and now she's paying. I wish I was there. (Oh I know, Susan can be cantankerous and difficult but she is also more than wonderful. When I called, she said she was just going upstairs to read poetry with David.) I love her love of literature and her almost childlike bursts of enthusiasm.

As I write about Susan, I think of all the amazing friends I have and am grateful. (And wonder also how they can love a crazy unbalanced Irish woman.)

At the moment - before I run to shower and drive downtown - I'm breathing.
Oh dear, I wish I'd written in the morning. At the moment, i'm without a mind. I've been sleeping late. Rob would love it. I hate it. I have been having extraordinary dreams that keep me in the twilight zone but when I'm fully awake, I can't reconstruct them.

Today I took Gill to a doctor's appointment and then went to work. That's it.

Oh last night I had a book club meeting where we discussed my choice "Journey by Moonlight" by Antal Szerb, thought a classic in Hungary. Several of the women thought the main character immature. I didn't. He married at the beginning of the novel in hope that he would fit into this world but it didn't work. When he stepped off the train for a coffee and climbed back on, he found he was on another train but did not make his way back to his bride. I loved his adventure and Szerb's writing. One woman said that she didn't usually enjoy my choices but she did this one. She thought the writing similar to mine. I only wish (but I loved the compliment.)

Tonight I must gather my wits and do my French budget. (I've hardly begun but I have a plan.)

Thursday, January 15, 2004

Last night just before seven, while my mother, Brendan, Gill and I sat eating a meal in a restaurant in Gastown, waiting for Mike to finish work, some crook took a hard object and smashed the back window of my car and stole Gill's English Lit book, agenda, and fancy borrowed calculator.

This is the second time in several months that Gill has had her belongings stolen. The night before yesterday, she had written me a note that said "Whenever anything gets too good in life, I feel like someone always comes out and slaps me, nothing's allowed to go that well, it's like it's trying to say "what the fuck are you so happy about?" (When we arrived home, she mentioned how appropriate this message is.)

We called Mike from the scene of the crime and told him we couldn't meet him. Bren cleared the glass from the back seat - his fingers were bleeding - and put cardboard and an old blanket down so Gill and I could ride home.

Gill felt violated. I was incoherently mad at myself. I knew that we were in a dangerous part of town. As we walked away from the car, I had glanced in the window, seen Gill's purse of school stuff, and thought "perhaps we should put them in the trunk" but casually dismissed the idea. "Who would want Gill's school stuff." (Is he or she enjoying Grade 12 English Literature right now? I hope so. Otherwise it's even more senseless.)

I checked the ICBC web site last night. I have to pay $300 (the deductible) for a new window. And replace Gill's stuff.

The strange thing is that after we parked, a street person approached me and told me he was not a "bum", he paroled the streets at night - a kind of neighbourhood watch program - but he was hungry. I checked my change purse but needed my coins for the meter so I gave him five dollars for a meal. Does this relate in any way to the break-in?

I've been having crazy thoughts - Aldan Nolan kind of thoughts ("What Happened When the Boy went to the Store for a Loaf of Bread" thoughts to be precise.) I've been thinking what if the evening had gone as planned. What if we had picked up Mike, drove onto the highway to reach the big Ikea, and had a horrible accident. I should really thank the thief for saving our lives.

Gill said it's more the energy such a happening saps as the loss itself.

Today, not surprising, I'm having a car window replaced and working on my French accounts. Despite the accident, I have spent a good morning with my mum - Maggie has just picked her up - and I've spoken to a man on the phone about lush thighs.

Enough said. Oh one other thing - I ate a chocolate bar last night for comfort.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Alas I have had no time for poetry and wine lately - or not much anyway. I've been on the run, working mostly but there have been moments of pleasure.

Last night, for instance, I opened the doors of the store for two friends - M & M (I've decided to use initials of friends' names for privacy) - and these two beautiful women with the souls of courtesans looked and tried on and bought a few items that I know they will wear with pleasure (or, at least, I hope they will.) Afterwards the three of us piled into the front seat of a pickup truck (honestly) and went out for coffee where we didn't even have time to finish before they kicked us out - not for rowdy behaviour but because they wanted to close. Does everyone go to bed at ten in this "manicured" city?

I still haven't answered all of my emails or cleaned my house and my mother is coming this afternoon. (Had an early morning meeting at store.) In the early evening, we will pick up my sons (Gill is coming too) and head out for dinner and a quick Ikea run for something for Mike's new apartment.

I tell myself that this week is simply a catch-up one after being away and next, I will set a serious schedule and write. I will tie myself to a chair if need be.

Must run out into this grey day and pick up my mum.

I can't help myself. I need to end in some literary way. Should I quote Beckett or Shaw? (My last year's calendar of Irish writers is lying on my desk, opened to Samuel Beckett's grooved face and piercing eyes. I love these lines of his: "Perhaps my best years are gone... but I wouldn't want them back. Not with the fire in me now." Mine is sizzling at the moment...)

Ah, George Bernard wants the last word: "An Irish[wo]man's heart is nothing but... [her] imagination." We are a privileged race.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

I am having one of those hard to do anything days because I have too much to do but as I write this I pause and know what I'm really trying to do is not write.

My house is a dump inside and out which isn't unusual (yes, I am exaggerating. I like order but my mum was supposed to be coming for several days and when SHE comes I notice things that usually don't concern me like little specks of dust, sofa cushions that are slightly askew, a single drop of spilled milk on the glass refrigerator shelf.

I knew I should get to it but instead, I focused outside the kitchen door. The accumulation of bottles had unnerved me early morning. (Re-cyling is hard work.) As I separated the water from the booze bottles, I realized there were too many labels I didn't recognize. (They resembled those from one of Gill's party and I began to wonder how such a number had gathered when Rob and I were out of town - Rob had requested that she not host a party when we were away.)

I am still wondering who did the drinking but I did return the evidence to the Liquor Store and collected just under ten dollars. Oops that includes the three cases of water bottles I took to IGA. (It took a good hour from start to finish but again I exaggerate: I also picked up a few food items for dinner at the grocery store.

Now I have a choice. Do I clean or write? Neither appeals.

And I wonder as I struggle to write this blog, why the eloquent words in my head never appear on paper. Vaughan gave me a lovely little book for Christmas called "Art & fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of ARTMAKING" and I've been reading it slowly, trying to digest its many messages. The one that stands out, at this moment, is work, simply work - don't aim for perfection. I knew this but somehow it helps to see it written yet another time.

Rob says that he can always tell when I enjoy writing and when it's a chore. When I'm in the mood, my sentences and thoughts flow and he enjoys reading me. But I can't force the flow, damn it. So perhaps I should/will close here. I'm boring myself.
I'm going to keep this short as I kind of swore at my plum meeting that I'd spend as much time writing as I do on this live journal and I'm tired, real tired, and worried too.

This life of mine is sapping my energy. I rose early (I like the image of a rose rising) and Rob rose too. He had to go to work. I had to pick up my father and take him to the airport. So by seven thirty something, I was over in my baby sister's fancy house cooing at wee Cameron, playing with Hannah, and helping my dad load his suitcases into my trunk - car trunk that is - think I'm a little crazy tonight. I just received an email from Maureen about a fella with big boots so I'm in my cow-woman mood. Dangerous.

So I had a big breakfast with my daddy and then my sister Maggie and her amour, Sterling, joined us and we ate big and talked about what else - relationships - not sex for a change. And Sterling asked me, older woman with experience, how long I figured it took to cement a partnership. And I quoted Kundera - a writer I adore - who said the terms of any relationship are layed out (should that be laid out? And I call myself a writer.) in the first two weeks. I thought a little more. And continued that it is probably easier when one is older to create a relationship of worth (is that the correct word?) as one is not so naive and has no need to fulfill any biological function.

He said, "Sex is wasted on the young."

I said, "Youth is wasted on the young." (I am not original but can't think of who I'm quoting - Bernard Shaw?)

Then I waved my father off and went to work and worked all day, came home and prepared a stew for Gill and me. Mike called to ask his phone number. I said I'd have to look around and he told me to check the caller i.d. Then, Gill showed me her grad pictures in which she looks like a beautiful young woman. (Probably because she is one.)

So goes the day of a woman who runs too much and who is trying to discover the way to create a writing life.

Monday, January 12, 2004

It is 9:30 in the evening in Mexico and time I went to bed but it is two hours earlier here. I am exhausted. I had my Plum meeting in the morning which sent my head spinning with ideas for writing (- really and truly. I felt so inspired I wanted to spend the rest of the day thinking of the ideas spoken and prose written. I thank the heavens for these amazingly wonderful women who allow me to work with them,) followed by a baby shower for my baby sister where a group of older mothers were sighing over designer baby clothes and where I felt a misfit except I had the privilege of holding my baby nephew for the time my sister opened her gifts and a woman created a bonnet from the ribbons, followed by two hours of arranging clothes in the store where I work where someone decided to discount everything (have they no brains, I wonder but who am I?,) followed by a return home where Rob made a one-dish Chinese dinner and I, brainless, made a salad.

I have just slipped out to my oasis in the garden where I could meet a raccoon or skunk while entering or exiting, and try to write this blog and wonder how I am to survive this world where nothing slows down, where so much has to be accomplished. Did I really just return from Mexico where applying lotion was my most difficult chore?

But I feel a strange excitement. Sheila - a woman I re-met yesterday - the first time was in France - has just sent by email several poems by a Canadian poet from Edmonton, Ted Blodgett. I have never heard of this man but his poetry is playing with me - colours and music - and flesh images - oh mon dieu. Here's a taste:

Woman at a Piano

I wanted to tell you this: a woman, sitting,
her hands almost not her own, sitting through long afternoons,
the light changing as it enters the room, the light,
in perpetual play between her flesh and air within the room-:
I could not tell if it was yellow I saw or yellow's warmth,
but over her skin the light moved, and into the light the warmth
of flesh, and she, the sense of stillness and flesh that disappears,
sitting within the light, music falling from her hands.
I wanted to tell you this and something more-the colour

When Sheila spoke of this poet yesterday, she was so excited... how can I explain... she excited me and I looked for him on the internet last night but couldn't find his poetry. I am too afraid to try to write poems myself and yet my daughter does. Where does she find her courage? Even my father has self-published a poetry book.

If I weren't so fatigued, I'd quote her and him. But bear with me (bare with me) as I have to think and sleep before I continue.
It is 9:30 in the evening in Mexico and time I went to bed but it is two hours earlier here. I am exhausted. I had my Plum meeting in the morning which sent my head spinning with ideas for writing (- really and truly. I felt so inspired I wanted to spend the rest of the day thinking of the ideas spoken and prose written. I thank the heavens for these amazingly wonderful women who allow me to work with them,) followed by a baby shower for my baby sister where a group of older mothers were sighing over designer baby clothes and where I felt a misfit except I had the priviledge of holding my baby nephew for the time my sister opened her gifts and a woman created a bonnet from the ribbons, followed by two hours of arranging clothes in the store where I work where someone decided to discount everything (have they no brains, I wonder but who am I?,) followed by a return home where Rob made a one-dish Chinese dinner and I, brainless, made a salad.

I have just slipped out to my oasis in the garden where I could meet a racoon or skunk while entering or exiting, and try to write this blog and wonder how I am to survive this world where nothing slows down, where so much has to be accomplished. Did I really just return from Mexico where applying lotion was my most difficult chore?

But I feel a strange excitement. Sheila - a woman I re-met yesterday - the first time was in France - has just sent by email several poems by a Canadian poet from Edmonton, Ted Blodgett. I have never heard of this man but his poetry is playing with me - colours and music - and flesh images - oh mon dieu. Here's a taste:

Woman at a Piano

I wanted to tell you this: a woman, sitting,
her hands almost not her own, sitting through long afternoons,
the light changing as it enters the room, the light,
in perpetual play between her flesh and air within the room?:
I could not tell if it was yellow I saw or yellow?s warmth,
but over her skin the light moved, and into the light the warmth
of flesh, and she, the sense of stillness and flesh that disappears,
sitting within the light, music falling from her hands.
I wanted to tell you this and something more?the colour

When Sheila spoke of this poet yesterday, she was so excited... how can I explain... she excited me and I looked for him on the internet last night but couldn't find his poetry. I am too afraid to try to write poems myself and yet my daughter does. Where does she find her courage? Even my father has self-published a poetry book.

If I weren't so fatigued, I'd quote her and him. But bear with me (bare with me?) as I have to think before I write more - perhaps I have to sleep before I write more.

Sunday, January 11, 2004

I am home. We arrived late last night, tired after a six hour plane ride, squished into seats that are painfully close - ridiculously close - and I swear that I will never travel by charter again (although I know that if enough time goes by and the price is low enough, I will force myself to relent and travel like a sardine yet another time.)

I am feeling good. The sun and sand and salty ocean did wonders for my body and soul - or was it the time alone with Rob that has made me so content? There was something quite endearing about lying under the hot sun in a lounge chair next to his, after smothering his back in lotion, and he doing the same for me. Oh the pleasure of flesh.

I loved the mornings, rising earlier than Rob, dressing, wandering down to the ocean and gazing and thinking for half a hour and then slowly finding my way to the cafe and sitting reading poetry while slowly digesting a plate of tropical fruit and yoghurt, drinking a coffee or two, returning to the buffet for eggs and sausage, whatever, and reading some more until Rob joined me.

Sometimes in the afternoon, we'd sleep a little, have a margarita and pina colada around five, and then shower and dress for dinner, and then walk hand in hand (yes we did this, we old married pair) to the buffet.

Now, only a day later, I can't quite recall how the time passed so quickly. (Both of us did a fair amount of reading.)

I woke early this morning and was a little panicked because I knew that I was being picked up around ten to attend Bett's liberation party (or "Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish" bash) and she requested we bring a poem, picture, postcard, or music. All week, I've been reading poetry (I took four books) to find the perfect message for this extraordinary woman who loves poetry and prose as much as me, who has suffered too much over the past year, and who wasn't treated with the respect her person deserves. I wanted to acknowledge her loss and my love. Impossible. But, at the last moment, I remembered a poem by Gioconda Belli called "Conjunction" that speaks of women, "stripped of convention" remembering women writers of the past who have brought us to the present day and given us permission to speak openly while, at the same time, admitting we are women who still like "silky underwear" and a kiss on the leg.

Yes we were a group of sexy intelligent fun-loving women. We laughed and sang along to the lyrics:

"I'm gonna wash that man right outa my hair,
I'm gonna wash that man right outa my hair,
I'm gonna wash that man right outa my hair,
And send him on his way.

Don't try to patch it up.
Tear it up, tear it up!
Wash him out, dry him out.
Push him out, fly him out.
Cancel him and let him go!
Yeah, sister!

If a man don't understand you,
If you fly on separate beams,
Waste no time, make a change,
Ride that man right off your range.
Rub him out of the roll call,
And drum him out of your dreams."

But the party wasn't about male bashing or Tony bashing really. It was more about the number of women who had gathered - twenty, thirty, forty? - voicing their love, respect, and admiration for Bett and their hope for her future fulfillment. Bett, in turn, spoke of each women's contribution in her life.

For the first time, I met her daughter Niki, and her granddaughter, Aria - both beautiful - and with more than a touch of Bett in their faces and sweetness.

It was a lovely afternoon. Good food. Great food, really. And plentiful. Great poetry. And the conversation flowed and flowed and, when I left with Venay, Sheila, and Marlene, we continued to speak of poetry, writing, and food all the way home. I am satiated. And tired.

I must now try to prepare for my Plum meeting tomorrow or my three friend writers will disown me.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

It comes to me that one should not try to use the internet when one is on holiday. The keyboard in different countries is enough to deter one from writing. It is also difficult in this resort to find a quiet place to think clearly. But I have hidden myself on a stretch of sand, under a palm tree, on a lounge chair. The weather is still wonderfully warm although there have been short outbursts of showers that come so quickly that one has to run for cover. This happened last night when I was watching yet another wedding ceremony by the water.

Except for our afternoon and evening in Playa del Carmen, Rob and I have stayed on the beautifully groomed grounds of this resort - an unreal Mexico - where there are reportedly 1.7 employees per room. It is pleasant not having to worry about making a bed or preparing a meal, and the hardest chore is smothering one's self in lotion. I actually read one cheap novel yesterday from the resort library - and am calling it research.

Three young women in bikinis just passed and remind me of Gill. She would love it here - the sun and the long buffet with enough choices to make any low carb person happy. I still haven´t heard from her but Brendan has reassured me by email that she and the house are well. She called this week "her liberation."

Rob is content. He is feeling rested and yesterday had a hour massage by a small Mayan woman who kneaded most of the tension out of his neck and upper back. He says that this week is well worth the expense for him. I left him lounging on a chair, under a palm, reading junk (his description.)

As for me, with my restless personality, I am enjoying the warmth against my nearly bare skin although I still have pangs of guilt about not writing - but little pangs. It´s difficult to find any place that is not over populated and there are no desks in quiet corners. But I am thinking and reading. (Does that count?) And I am being rather cheeky after getting the okay from Susan Griffin. Thank goodness for other writers who give me permission to be.

Some Italians just came and sat in neighbouring chairs. I love their accents and body language (as I mentioned before) - the men in their speedos strut as do the women - many with gorgeous bodies in thong bikinis but even the more matronly carry their abundant flesh with pride. I´m watching them closely for hot tips.

There is so much exposed flesh here... interesting people watching... interesting watching bodies relate to other bodies. Some of the most endearing are the elderly - those in their 80s or 90s - with fragile bodies - serving or assisting their mate.

This is our last full day. I shall take a dip soon in the salty Caribbean. I will ride a few more waves tomorrow before dressing for home.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

Rob and I caught a bus into Playa del Carmen today. Nice to escape the niceness of the resort and feel that we¥re really in Mexico. (I just opened an email from Brendan and he says that there has been so much snow in Vancouver that Gill¥s school is closed.)

The opposite is happening here. The sun was so strong this morning that I felt I was grilling. I have been riding the waves in the Carribean and find that all I¥m capable of doing is reading and dreaming. I have also been sleeping too much and writing too little (and that¥s an understatement.)

It is appropriate in this hot hot climate that I am filling my head with thoughts of courtesans and seduction and wit and cheek (that Griffin¥s courtesan book has inspired - that woman can certainly seduce with her writing as well as her subject... more on this when I return home.) The music is roaring in this internet cafe and I¥m having trouble thinking so I¥ll close on this note.

Sunday, January 04, 2004

I am in Mexico, south of Playa del Carmen, on a stretch of beach called the Mexican Riviera. It has been a lush day - across the beach from me an older couple (man bald, woman full-figure) have just been married. A mariachi band serenades them.

My toes curl around white sand. I¥m sitting on a deck chair, wearing only a swimsuit and long linen skirt. Rob is back at our room reading. He is content and I, who resisted coming, am enjoying sitting under palm trees, wearing little, reading poetry by Tony Curtis (a Dubliner.)

"4. Dark Chocolate
Here¥s how I like it:
Sweet, melted over nÌpples,
mouthfuls at a time."

A male experience. The female...

Rob and I have never taken this kind of all-inclusive holiday before and when they held us captive in the plane at Vancouver International for an hour and a half because they had miscounted the baggage, we worried about what we would find at this end.

All is surprising good - after changing rooms. We are now on the ground level, with a small terrace looking over a sheltered garden, near the pool and ocean. Our building is full of Italians. The men and women ( all ages and body types) have the unconscious body language and assurance of Europeans and remind me of trips to the French Riviera - except there, women go topless. We Canadians and Americans are too self-conscious. I wonder if we are afraid that we don¥t measure up to Hollywood standards.

Quickly I must finish - we have eaten well from huge buffets with lots of variety, and I continue to be a wino as Rob indulges in pina coladas- all is free, no bills - and it¥s strange for a woman who¥s used to travelling carefully and frugally.

Today Rob is going snorkelling and I will swim, read, and write.

I will not be able to blog every day as the cost is high and there is only one computer for 1200 guests. But, all is well and there have been a few surprises. I¥ll write at length once I am home again with the luxury of computer time.

Friday, January 02, 2004

The first day of the new year and I haven't written a word in my journal, public or private. I haven't responded to all my emails.

My parents have just left and Rob says I'm different around them. Is this so? I'm not sure but I do feel that I have to entertain them with coffee, wine, food, and conversation. They have bickered a little between themselves - some things never change - and I have stood up for my mother, telling her that she must ignore his brush-offs. Oh, it's so easy to give advice.

I'm so tired. It's six in the evening and I haven't begun to pack for Mexico. Should be easy - pull out anything light though most of my summer clothes are in France. But I do have a few things. Won't need much.

Gill has just returned from Whistler where she met some guys from Northern Ireland. She said she had a good time. Good. I am simply glad that she's home safe. Mike has just left with the last of his necessary belongings to start his new life in the artist's building. The house feels empty. And I know I'll miss his quiet words, his guitar strumming.

I am having a panic attack. Too much to take in too quickly. I am hoping this escape to the sun will give me time to relax and think through the past year to the present and manifest my desires.

I have no idea if there is an internet place in the resort we're staying so this may be the last time I blog for a week. But I will continue in my private journal and bring all up to date when I return.

My apologies for the hastiness of this entry. I am cluttered.