I'm All Over the Place

and see that I must slow down and take some time to organize and prioritize.

After writing this statement, I stopped and began making lists. And Sunday disappeared. 

(I did go to market in Gaillac, fill several holes in the floor, scrape small areas caused by water damage and re-paint these areas, do several laundries, and speak to Rob - I walked around with my computer with its built-in camera and showed him our house in the light. And I watched Charlotte Gray in the evening. The line that I remember is "Of these three which, in your view, is most important. Faith, hope, or love. Charlotte answers "hope.")

I'm finding it hard to write at the moment. I think that I've left it too long. But I think too that once I get going I won't be able to stop. Is this true? I have no idea. 

I would like life to be more generous. I would like it to allow me to finish one project at a time. At the moment, I would like to have this house finished to my satisfaction so I could write. But life isn't like that. When one project is finished, another will rise up and demand attention. 

So write, damn it, I whisper over and over to myself. Sit down and write. 

I'm reading, as I mentioned before, "Literary Seductions" and the criteria for inclusion, is that the author must be obsessed by writing, must not be able to not write. Nin and Miller, for instance, could hardly wait to finish making love, so they could write about the experience. 

I remember once, a long time ago, that writing came easy, that I'd be vacuuming, for example, and suddenly I'd be hit with an idea, and I'd turn the machine off and scribble furiously. I have not felt so compelled since, though I have ebbed and flowed. 

I want to both live and write. 

Friday night I sat on Susan's balcony with two American poets - one a long-time friend of Susan's - and as Susan and David were going out, we found ourselves alone. Sue was knitting and drinking red wine and Julie was drinking red wine and smoking when I arrived. They invited me to join them and share their wine and dinner of zucchini soup, duck breast and pickled beets. 

These two women were boisterous and fun, spoke of their misadventures traveling together, and their future plans. I have no idea where the wine and time went. At one point, I asked what they thought of Sharon Olds. Sue dismissed her. Julie said she liked her earlier work but found her repetitious. I said that I loved her work. Had they read the poem about her husband leaving? No. I didn't speak of Olds pact with Satan. And so the conversation died. 

I always find it strange when someone I like, doesn't like what I like - though why I find it strange, I don't know. It happens all the time. But not with poetry. Or am I deluding myself? Or have others deluded me? It doesn't really matter.

I am restless though not unhappy. I did find a few moments of pleasure, swimming in a friends pool and going out for dinner with Carole from Carolina (who turns 80 next year) and tells the best stories. 

SISTERS IN PARIS

Paris

I am here, waiting for my train down south.   

Flowers and Cake

I have had an almost perfect couple of weeks since I last wrote here.

My Gill came home and we spent most of her precious week together. Her second day, we went to Victoria for the day as I had to see a printer about a book that I've just designed. The sales rep was very kind, showed me a selection of books that the company had printed so I could choose paper and cover stock (and I picked up some tips on layout too.) She also explained at length the formatting process and all the pertinent info I would need to get the material to her.

The proof should arrive today and although I did none of the writing, I feel as if it's my creation though it isn't - all the pictures, images, and words came from others.

On the way back to the ferry, Gill and I stopped to see my nephew, his love, and their new baby - Aliyah. The baby is lovely, peaceful, a gentle disposition - funny how one can tell that even at a week old - and I have never seen Thomas and Mariah (especially Mariah) so content. The few times that I've been around her, she has been serious, rarely smiled. This evening a smile never left her lips.



My time with Gill flew. She cooked breakfast and dinner for Rob and I. We walked, shopped a little, had our nails done... can't remember all we did but it was over too quickly. On the way to the airport we stopped at a medical clinic as her ears were bothering her, both of us  hoping that the doctor would advise against flying and we'd have a few more days. No such luck.

Later that day, I received a cake - not any old cake but a Diplomat from Notte's Bon Ton - from Marlene and I proudly admit that over the next few days, I consumed over half of it myself. No wonder my belly is softly rounded. ("You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." And though not really a sweet seeker or lover, I do love the rich butter cream filling of this cake.)

Later in the week, my eldest son took me out for a dinner and I experienced for the first time Cakebread - not a sweet - but a rich fruity cabinet sauvignon from the Napa Valley - a real treat and one I could not afford myself. ( I'm not whining - in a less than a week I will be in my beloved France and will just have to put up with Gaillac vintage.) This Cakebread wine is so elegant that the wine steward opened the bottle at the table and then carefully poured it into a decanter. 

Saturday morning, as I was heading out the door to help my sister pack for Europe (she was leaving that evening) Rob stopped me and told me that I looked beautiful. Strange. He so seldom compliments me that I had to look at myself in the mirror. Wish I could see what he saw.

I wrote the above yesterday morning and typed it here today, intending to continue but I think I'm coming down with something, feel very very tired, and so will nap instead. 

Play



My friend Penelope was in town last week for a court case. She was angry at the way things went. She thought she had a good case but said that once in the courtroom, it felt as if the decision had been made before the trial. She was angry at herself too for being flustered when told that the afternoon - her time - would be cut to less than two hours. (She was only told this when she returned from lunch.) She'd flown all the way from the Yukon to be treated so unfairly...

Penn and I met at York University, first year theatre arts - nearly 40 years ago - and we've been getting together once or twice a year ever since. Why do some friendships last and others fade away? Although asking this, I remember that Rob and I got together several months ago with a friend from Ryerson - must have been over 35 years since we'd seen Allan. He took the photographs at our wedding. I felt awkward at first - wasn't sure the man in the lobby was him (less hair) but within minutes, it was as if no time had passed.

Penny's visit was a gift. (She hates to have that "y" on her name now - I think of it as an endearment.) I took several days off from my work and simply played. We went for a long walk on the beach and after, happened upon a wine tasting that we both enjoyed (first time I tried $80 a bottle wine), shared an amazing fish dinner at an outdoor cafe, and the next day, we went to see King Lear on the beach - an updated version (set in the near future) with music and chorus. I forgot at times that it was a tragedy... and I had forgotten just how tragic the ending is.

The next day I dropped Penn at the airport and I went back to work for a day.

Tuesday was the finale (hopefully) to Maggie's relationship with the slimy man who locked her out of her own house. She has only been allowed in once with his lawyer present - to itemize all her and their material possessions. But the dreadful man to whom she is still married would not allow her in to collect all. He said that it would be too traumatic for him and named me as her representative. I think he wanted to hide things. (When I asked him towards the end to walk through and see if the movers had packed everything that belonged to her, he refused.)

Maggie and I showed up at the house together. He came down the walk looking angry but she quickly said that she had to give the movers instructions. When the three arrived, they were wonderful - first of all, they took the wicker couch from the porch (that was hers) and sat it on the grassy boulevard beyond the sidewalk - public property - for her to use and there she sat and read. He - the horrible he of her past - went and sat with her several times, brought her diet cokes, and wanted to know yet another time why the relationship had failed - though he instigated the break - he must be extremely thick.

When things were to be split in two or rather, shared - like the baking dishes - he chose and gave me the leftovers. When I complained that he chose the best stuff, he called me petty - didn't recognize the projection. He's a mean-spirited, unkind, self-indulgent, power-hungry, sneaky asshole and I had to bite my tongue more than once to keep myself from lambasting him.

The worst moment was when I was stuck in the attic with him, dividing Christmas decorations. He asked why no one in the family had called him to get his side of the story. I said not a word. He asked what my mother and father thought of him. I said they were angry. And then he proceeded to tell me how unethical my sister is - basically because she would not put his name on the property she had owned before the marriage, and later signed it over to her son. I said not a word but I thought plenty... I wanted the stuff out before I let loose. But I never let loose. In the end, I was exhausted, wished him a nice life and left.

For the next few days, I played through some of our interactions in my head and came up with all kinds of smart things that I could have said but didn't. Why is it always after the fact that the right things come to mind? Though I doubt that any words would have got through his thick head. He blames Maggie for everything. He sees himself as the victim. In reality, he's a small-minded, mean, vindictive little man who isn't willing to take any responsibility for the breakup.

Before I left, I could have hurt him. I could have said that his first wife is "ecstatically divorced." His second common-in-law partner thinks he is a thief. And my sister thinks he's pathetic. But I didn't. I couldn't hurt anyone in this way - but he would have deserved it... I am just thankful that my beautiful, generous, ethical, fun-loving, vivacious sister is finally free of him.

THE WAY WE WERE



At 5:30 this morning, he rolled over, groaned, and muttered "Happy anniversary."

I'm barely awake.

"Will you bandage my shoulder," he asks.

"I didn't think I'd grow old with you," I reply, forcing myself awake and watching as he stumbles across the room, naked.

It's Friday, the 13th.

38 years ago we were married.

Every time I mention the number of years we've been together, I am congratulated. This irks me just a little. Do we deserve some award because we've stuck with each other for so long?

Perhaps we do. We've been through some tough times together and, without revealing our secrets, I doubt many couples would have lasted.

Why did we? Should we have? We both say that we don't believe in marriage (though, when we say this, many of our friends laugh in our faces.)

THE WAY WE ARE



He'll admit he has trouble communicating though, with time, he has grown better. Just the other day he sent me an email with three words "I love you" and three exclamation marks.

He's said that I drive him crazy though how I do not know.

We don't cling. We don't tell the other what to do. We let each other be. We think little of being apart for 2 or 3 months. We even think this freedom enhances our marriage.

I love watching him when he doesn't know I am watching - when he's sleeping for instance or when he's at his computer, head bowed nodding to music. I like seeing him singular, not in relation to me.

I like to think of myself singular, not in relation to him.

When I am around my parents, they squabble a lot. He tells her she should get dressed before noon, not listen to politics, get off her computer. She tells him he's inappropriately dressed, should not be working at 86, shouldn't fall asleep early evening and then roam the house in the wee hours. (I gently suggested that they let each other be.)

Rob and I seldom squabble. We seldom tell each other what to do. I cannot depend on him to make me happy. (Oh yes, I can tell him what makes me happy. And likewise.) I'm happiest when I make my own plans and do what I like to do - not always easy - especially for a woman who is financially dependent. But I see here that this is one of the reasons I respect Rob. He never lords it over me because he makes more money. He never makes me feel bad about taking off and enjoying time alone. And over the last few years, he's been telling me that he too likes to be alone - so I laugh when he says that it's unnatural to sleep alone. (I like it both ways.)

I do not want to be considered a success because I've been with the same man for so long. I do not consider myself a success for this reason. (Do I consider myself a success? That'll be the subject of another blog.)

I do feel fortunate to be with a man who is most often gentle and kind ("tell me when I'm being an asshole," he says.) I really appreciate that money has never been an issue between us - especially as I was raised in a household where my father controlled the purse strings and, to this day, I doubt my mother knows how much or little he has.)

While I was writing this blog, a big bunch of exotic flowers were delivered - from him to me, with love.

After arranging them in 2 vases, I ran out to run some errands. All the while, I kept wondering how to end this blog, how to tell him that, though not all is perfect - what is? - he's the nicest, finest, best man I've ever met. Is this true, I ask myself? I think long and hard and I decide, yes - he's unique, amazing really... for a man. Oh, I don't mean to be flippant - but I trust him. I'd trust him with my life. I guess I have trusted him with my one wild and precious life. And so I end this blog on a whimsical note: I like the idea of growing old with him.

My Old Vancouver Home

I have always loved my little house with its unpretentious air. It never mattered that I didn't have the time to paint inside closets, clean the eaves, and weed the garden. As long as my bookshelves were full, candles lit the table, and my children were well, I was content.

 

I pause here. Is this true? No. I thrive on discontent. But there have been moments of real happiness and those moments, in my mind, always involved my mind - when I was stimulated, thinking, learning, and felt competent, useful, needed. (A perfect house was never a priority.) 

Or when I was traveling. I didn't travel - or not much - until my fortieth year and since that time, I am happiest on the road. I love traveling alone. I loved traveling with Gill. Once - when she was much shorter than me - we were Italy and because of a series of circumstances, we found ourselves on the road and I did not know where to go. 

"Pisa," said Gill.

"Verona to see Romeo and Juliet's balcony."

And so we went, staying in cheap little hotels and once-in-awhile splurging on something better, usually something with one star and a bathtub.

Where am I going with this early morning blog? My mind is drifting. I was going to write about our house... the house we have lived in for 25 years. No one wants it so far. The other day a couple came to look at it and were in and out in two minutes... and I took this personally, knowing that I was being stupid. And now all I can do is find fault with it - the scratches on the floor, the musty smell in the basement, the area until the eaves that is rotting... and the garden where all that our friends helped us clear is once again pushing up through the soil. Damn dandelions and blackberry bushes, I curse as I take time off from the work I'm doing on my computer to try and show a cared-for property. 

I know that I've got it all wrong, that this is an exciting time, that we will look back and laugh at our angst and aggravation - when we are living our dream. 

When is the big question? 

And so I force myself to stay put, work, make a bed, weed the garden. 

I fear that we are stuck, that no one will buy our house and that we'll go further and further into debt, and that I'll never be organized and at peace with myself. 

I laugh here. I am alive. How dare I complain? I am alive. I love my life. And yet, I smoke. 

Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer came down on her head...

My thoughts are racing as I sit here and write in a small coffee shop, enjoying my morning coffee.  A man with a dog sits at the next table and we have a brief conversation. "I'm doing something wrong," he mutters. "I'm too busy." I tell him that I know what he means.

I realize that this is the first time in a long time that I have written in my journal.  I see that I will have to force myself to take time out and write out my discontent. 

I feel so much better. 

Catching up, once again

I hate to just state the facts but that's all I seem capable of at the moment. On Wednesday evening, I will be back in Vancouver... and hopefully soon after, I'll be able to write something more reflective.

LEAVING

This time in Montmiral - two weeks today - has been much to quick but I have done what I came to do and happy about that - if it weren't for these damn butterflies in my stomach. Sometimes I think I am to much of a coward for this world. I take everything to heart. I found it difficult to complain to the builder about the small imperfections because he has done so much more than we expected and the house truly is magnificent. And he also did thoughtful things - like set up the beds so we would have a place to sleep when we arrived... And he is proud of his work. How can I squash him with complaints or so my reasoning goes?

And our house in Canada... why haven't we had at least one offer? Oh there are a hundred reasonable answers but I don't want reason, I want someone to love it and pay our price. Rob told me this weekend that he will bury a statue of Saint Joseph in the backyard. This will insure that our house sells. (What happened to my sensible man? It is strange that he is embracing superstition.)

And I'm feeling a little bad - oh I just stood and looked out on the terrace - two pigeons are kissing each other on the next roof - I'm feeling a little bad about love - not keeping up with my correspondence - because there are friends out there who I love and who I haven't written. And I know that actions speak louder than words.

I know I worry too much... my thoughts are drifting here. I recall a coincidence - a news letter I received from "Carrie and Danielle" on Friday. (That's another story.) And in it, they spoke of butterflies. I shall quote them:

"Embrace the jitters. Butterflies are a sign that you’re alive and expanding. If you’re not feeling the flutters it’s just not that important to you.

Every time you feel the adrenaline whirl, imagine that you have wings and breathe that rush into your spreading wingspan. Think of it this way: your nerves are reminding you that you have what it takes"

I like their positive spin. Oh if life could only be that easy.

Anyway, must pack and do the hundred little things that must be done before I leave.

A Little Aside

Yes, I'm in France. Yes, I will write Part 111 of my last 2 1/2 weeks that soon stretches to three, but I just spoke to Rob...

He tells me that the birds of paradise still survive from my birthday bouquet he gave me (that I failed to mention.) Nor did I mention the bottle of Mexican brandy he gave me that I requested. We have been so careful with money the last few months that the little extravagant extras - like a snifter of brandy in the evening - like a spray of exquisite French perfume - like beautiful bouquets of flowers - were put on hold. Thus these gifts on my birthday were extra special.

I'm finding myself a little lonely these days. This is strange because I like being alone, setting my own pace, listening only to myself...

KATE SENT AN EMAIL,

reminding me that I had not blogged for 2 1/2 weeks, shaking me out of my lethargy and misery - I am heavy with a cold. So much has been happening that I decided to tell with pictures. Part 11 will be added hopefully sometime today.

Tis my Birthday


Gutsy Old Me

Yes, I have danced on tables. This picture was taken in France on a white-clothed table in the new hotel restaurant, one summer day, during a writing workshop.

I am astonished at how brave I am. And I love that though I am no spring chicken, I am not above being crazy. I love that this is not above my dignity. (What dignity? some may ask.) Dancing on tables has always been a symbol to me - that though I feel a fool, I believe that every table I climb on brings me closer to a certain freedom - the freedom to do and not worry about what others think. This reminds me of a letter my friend Susan in France gave me a long time ago and which I keep by my desk. I shall quote her:

O YVONNE
LETS LIVE IN A FOOLS PARADISE
LETS PRAISE FOLLY
AND PRACTICE IT
AT LEAST YOU HAVE FORCED ME
TO THINK ABOUT - BY YOUR COMPLAINTS -
WHAT A BIG THING BEING A FOOL IS -
THE BIGGEST THING
IN THE WORLD,
THE BIGGEST WE CAN ACHIEVE.

I WISH I HAD THE COURAGE
TO BE A FOOL.
AT LEAST YOU HAVE
TAUGHT ME WITH ALL THIS
CLAMOUR TO SEE CLEARLY
THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT.
IT'S ALSO WHAT I RESPECT IN
OTHER PEOPLE,
REALLY RESPECT.

BEING HAPPY AND HAVING
THE COURAGE TO BE FOOLS
IS VERY MUCH THE SAME THING.
LETS BE HAPPY.

Susan has given me a lot of courage over the years. Happiness is no easy thing. But how
I love it. I want more and more of it and if it means climbing on more damn tables, so be it.

I feel so loved today...

And since it's my birth day, I'm allowed to be self-indulgent (I do this every year) and say nice things about myself. And my daughter has also done it for me: Gillian's website

The other day, I had my hair cut and streaked. I like it. And in an hour or so, I am going out with my mother and Helen to have a manicure and pedicure. And later in the day, I am going out with my longest friend Penelope and her love and her parents. And, and... tomorrow my family are having a party for me. I love birthdays (even my 59th.)

A Breath of Fresh Air

I've come up for a breath of air. The two major projects I've been working on for months have been made public.

our house

and

Marlene Schiwy Website


And though I consister myself an excellent cleaning woman/house painter, I am less sure of my website abilities (though I did have help from both my sons) as Marlene's website is the first one, I have attempted.

And, in the end, although my writing has been put aside, I see that I loved the work. If anyone asks me how I feel about what I have accomplished, I will most likely say that I am pleased but both projects are far from perfect. (Oh, that old addiction to perfection is hard to lose.) But in my heart of hearts, I feel that I have outdone myself. Both shine with the care and attention I've paid to detail. (Of course, I am speaking of appearances, especially in regards to the website as it was Marlene who provided the content and images.)

The first public Open House of our home was on Sunday, Easter Sunday, and though the real estate agent said that it was well attended and that there were three couples who were interested, there were very few cars on the street and even the mall down the road - except for several stores - was closed so we will have two more Opens this weeks (meanly I will have to be especially clean and tidy) and hopefully get some offers. I know I expect miracles - a quick sell - but I do so want to get to France and get back to my writing...

On Saturday, I will turn 59 years - my last year in my fifties. I hope it is a good one. I really really hope this...

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm hoping and praying that this is the year that dreams come true.

Today a photographer will come into our home and take pictures of the house we have lived in for 25 years. Later in the day a sign will go up on our lawn. I'm hoping that the luck of the Irish will be with us and it'll be a quick sell. I'm hoping that a young couple, like we once were, enters and falls in love with it, as we once did, and wants to raise their family in it. (Before us, another couple lived in this cottage for 25 years and raised two children.) It is humble house without pretension and even though we have borrowed furniture and rugs to jazz it up, it is what it is. For three months, Rob and I have been working at clearing and cleaning and I like the result. There is no clutter, nothing or little superfluous in it, and I see that this is the way I want to live from now on.

And far away, across the ocean, our other home (oh, we are so lucky) is almost ready for us. Here's a picture of the roof terrace (without the beams removed.) As the town sits atop a hill and we have one of the highest houses in the village, we will look out over luscious vineyards and glorious sunflower fields. Rob dreams of barbecuing here. I dream of sipping wine and reading poetry under the stars.



Speaking of poetry, I thought of an especially lovely one - one I once quoted for another friend - when I was looking at Facebook and checked out some pictures of a sister - the sister who was locked out of her house by a man. On Friday, the court ordered that he let her in to get her "stuff" and half the stuff that they bought together. And though he gets the house (unfair), she is glad to be rid of him.

This sister has blossomed over the months, since she was locked out. She's become a sassy, sexy force... and I love her spirit.



Here's a part of the poem for her (by Olga Broumas, called "Rumpelstiltskin"):

Did anyone
ever encourage you, you ask
me, casual
in afternoon light. You blaze
fierce with protective anger as I shake
my head, puzzled, remembering, no
no. You blaze

a beauty you won't claim. To name
yourself beautiful makes you as vulnerable
as feeling
pleasure and claiming it
makes me. I call you lovely. Over

and over, cradling
your ugly memories as they burst
their banks, tears and tears, I call
you lovely. Your face
will come to trust that judgment, to bask
in its own clarity like sun.

Yeah, Maggie.

I must run and set the scene for the photographer. I imagine it will be an emotional week - one in which strangers will enter our space and examine all we have with critical eyes... but all we need is one who has the same aesthetic that we have...

I can't believe...

that two weeks have flown by since the first garden party. We did have a second "gardening" party to clean up the front yard and a number of good souls, who were free and able, returned. We had forgotten the little stone steps that lead up to the higher end of the garden and the cottage-y stone wall that runs along one side.... we had to pay for another load of debris to be hauled away.

We're piglets - no doubt about that but do I regret all the time that I spent doing other things - like writing? Not one little bit. But I do like everything spic and span. Reminds me of the poem "Woman Enough" by Erica Jong:

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

And in these two weeks the interior of our house has come under scrutiny. I have painted the entrance hall, the stair banister that Java uses as a scratching post, the interior of my little house in the garden (now virginal white), and laid a floor in the downstairs washroom. I took off one afternoon to be with my father and woke at 5:30 the next morning to take him to the airport. (And whose bag was searched because he was carrying 100 silver half-dollars of mine to sell.)



I had a discussion with my accountant who wanted us to pay 40,000 (yes I have the zeros right) right away. And I was on the verge of tears and my stomach was doing somersaults when I spoke to my father and then a friend accountant, who told me a way to waylay that ghastly amount. (And I wonder why our new accountant didn't think of this way herself. And I am sick to almost death of accountants. I was not impressed when I received her first bill the next day for 2,900 with no explanation, just that grand figure. And I find myself fuming that this profession does not account for their billing. Why can they/he/she/whoever just ask for a sum without an explanation. Rob notes his hours. I have always noted my hours. Our builder notes his hours... )

And beyond, repairs and money, there have been a few precious moments. Rob came to me, wrapped his arms around me and said that he could not go through this without me. My eldest son rescued me one night and took me out for a fancy dinner. It felt so good sitting across from him, talking, eating a perfect filet, lyonnaise potatoes, and asparagus, drinking a superior red wine in a crystal goblet, in an elegant restaurant. Those few hours took me away from the drudgery of house work... but that's not really what's important - what is, is that this son wished to be with me, treat me, and tell me of his life. Of course, not all is perfect - whose life is? - but he is happy work-wise. He has found his self-respect in his job.

And my other son, the younger, will turn 26 tomorrow. (The elder turns 30 this year.) The birthday boy is the little one in my lap.



He was such a joyous, loving, mischievous, talkative little boy. He engaged everyone in conversation. This picture was taken in Mexico when Rob was working on Rambo, and everyone in the hotel would smile and greet Michael by name, even the guards with their rifles who stood outside the hotel's gates...

Yet underneath his joyful clatter was a serious scared little soul who was always questioning his place in the world. I have a poem that he wrote when he was nine or ten on my office wall:

I am special
I wonder about life
I hear music..
I pretend that life is normal
I feel alone
I touch the stars...
I hope that I am loved
I am special

And I wondered at the time, as I wonder now, how he could question being loved... for he is so lovable and kind and sensitive... and creative and intelligent and thoughtful. He really is. He has begun re-organizing his life lately, is taking more university courses, is working towards a new future... and he sounds happy.

And so this coming year, my son, I send you much love and gold dust (my friend, Kate knows how potent this can be) so you will be happier, even more successful than your wildest dreams.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHAEL