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Thursday, July 23, 2009
Expletives? You're soaking in 'em. Here's the thing: in the summertime the hobby farm tends to fill with Nik's family, many of whom are of tender years. I drove back from Alberta with 11-yr-old Cydney, Nik's niece, and other young family segments are expected any day. The problem: I tend to swear when I'm frustrated, which is a paternal inheritance. Farming, even tiny small hobby farming, brings an almost daily portion of frustration that could easily keep me spouting filth like a backfiring Edsel.
Hence the "Fuck It Bucket": if I drop the bomb in the presence of the innocent, I must drop a loonie into the cuss bucket. Of course, we call it the "Eff-it Bucket," ruining the rhyme somewhat, but preserving the delicacy of minors.
I'm down $2 as of this evening.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Despite all that I have done to it, often under the belief that I was helping it, mostly under the conviction that it was worthless and deserved anything it got--this body still hopes I'll trust it.
Sign that a cheery pop tune is doing its thing: the baristas are all singing and bouncing around to "I'm Yours," the Jason Mraz ditty. All of them. I expect they've forgotten the old bat with the laptop over in the corner. Cute to see.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
July 15/09: The brain does not wish to cope with permissively raised little Honor, who rockets around the Starborgs while the auntie elephants and nanna applaud her every precocious move. This is in the Starborgs in my old Calgary neighbourhood—i.e., the one that wasn’t there when I lived here. Oh, well, now it’s here, but its wireless connection is tits up. Tick sigh tick. Today has felt odd all over; while I was driving from the farm to the big city my mind was calculating endless escape plans. Now the sky is bucketing rain, as it does on the Prairies, and I am thinking tonight’s lawn bowling meetup with the magnificent Myrmidons may not happen. Which was kind of the whole point of the trip. Oh, well.
Inadvertent charity: those expensive clothes that I dropped off at the Pendulum, home of “upscale resale”? They were dropped off six months and three weeks ago—so three weeks past getting my money for them. “We would have sent you an account update,” I am told. Oh, would you’ve? That being something I didn’t receive? Upshot: the store says it donates all unclaimed funds to charity, which means that a few hundred clams of Janegeld may actually help someone somewhere. Here’s hoping.

Now darling little Honor is shrieking “Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!” and I regret the loss of the veterinary clinic next door, as their way of putting things down mesh with my way of dealing with the uncontrolled young. Phenobarbital in a sippy cup, oh yes.
This day begins to adjust. This I attribute to the soy latte I am imbibing—oh, yes, Starbucks is a big target for world scorn, but they are saving a few lives this afternoon.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
By Some Miracle:

By some miracle
unfettered from accountant cares,
a heart slips past the barricades
To wind itself clumsily, joyously
in you.
But if I Abandon

But if I abandon
they who fear the unknown,
Then, too, must I abandon
they who do not forgive,
leaving me with a soul of remnants.
My love has its forebears; as do you.
Perhaps to call this life, my life--
perhaps it means that to abandon all pain
is too ambitious.
Instead, let us confound all
with the lightness of disregard--
so they are not abandoned, merely bereft.
Even now my families survey their new surroundings,
and even now the muttering has begun.

Monday, July 13, 2009
Karmic burden, anyone? In the past I have written about not helping people when I've had the chance. Once it was driving past someone on the side of the road who probably could have used my help (the memory still shames me). How appropriate, then, to have a bike tire blow when I was still 20 km away from the farm. And that tire repair kit that we checked to make sure we had, before setting off that morning? Was right back on the farm next to the kennel of disappointed dogs. Well, then, it's walkies for Jane.
Karmic poetry was enhanced by two things: the previous day I had done a huge walk mit hundz, and was a tad shin-splinted in consequence. Also, I was about two swallows away from being out of water on a hot summer's day. Walk walk walk, little karma debtor. Oh, and now what? Gut troubles? Yes, indeed.
So there I was, walking and pushing my crippled bike and trying not to blow an internal tire. My gut was trying to convince me it was just gas, really, so why not open a valve? However, we've fallen for that one before, and clean scanties were still 20 km away on the farm. Clench, walk, push bike.
And Then: I had been expecting to be ignored by passing traffic, and indeed I was purposely not trying to make eye contact with any drivers, since I felt, well, I probably deserved this walk. It's Catholic legacy, guilt that is, although I thought a karmic imbalance was probably a kinder perspective to have. Anyhow, as traffic whizzed past, I accepted it stoically enough. Five km down the road, though, guts now painfully a-burble, I reconsidered my stoicism and phoned the older bro to beg a rescue. He was a distance away, returning from a child's sporting event, and was distinctly unimpressed. But being a sterling brother and human, he agreed to come get me. I thanked him profusely and was stowing the cellphone when the huge road truck drove up. Two highway workers had driven past me a couple of times, then realized I had a flat tire.
They drove out of their way to come back to where I was and offer me a lift. Karma, you goddess. I accepted, though I did press a bit of cash on them for some thank-you beer, and I didn't take a ride all the way home (still had a 5 km jaunt after the drop-off.) Still! Rescued by complete strangers! The older brother was probably relieved when I called him back to call off the rescue.
Though still intestinally turbulent to the extreme, I managed the remaining walk home on much lighter feet. Good people in the world. Good people.
P.S. YES I'm re-equipping my bike repair kit, and attaching it to the frame. Karma's not that forgiving. Or shouldn't be.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Day Three back in the land of my birth, Alberta, farm-sitting. The trip out, in the farm "trock," was of course jam-packed with vaudevillian escapades, such as missing one on-ramp outside Vancouver and needing two (TWO) hours to get back on track. Or getting way too smart for my own good, trying to avoid Calgary traffic, currently snarled all the more on account of the yearly Stampede, and ending up way (WAY) out of my way. More time wasted.
Being back in Alberta: I got all weepy at the sight of the foothills and the ugly license plates. But no tears actually dropped, because it's southern Alberta and therefore at zero humidity.
But at last we made it to Jean and Tyke's farm, and have been impressively active so far. Despite a troubling bout of mental turbulence that tends to hit in the early afternoon, and threatens to scuttle me each time. Oh, this noggin. What's it gonna' take? Physical exertion, that's what. Cheap therapy--just take the dogs for a 6-mile round-the-blocker. Go and scratch the absurdly long ears of Senorita, the donkey foal. Repeat "despair is boring," and thank Rob Breszny. Okay, that last isn't too strenuous, but it's good advice.
I decided to text message Nik last night, and ended up causing a huge panic. I wrote something like "Plz 2 help old friend," which was translated as me being crippled in a ditch somewhere and unable to remember my brother the doctor's phone number or e-mail address, only managing to stab out a few letters and digits to a phone number I have to look up every goddamned time. In retrospect, I find Nik's momentary panic quite funny, but this feeling isn't shared.
That hay isn't going to feed itself to the horses. Back to the farm we go, giddy up, old girl.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Furious Resurrection

Staring into the storm-gravid sky,
I am aware that the present
ignores what is on either side.
And present danger, born of warmth and surge,
burgeons and retracts, pauses and roars
making manifest what is possible.
Low murmurs from far away, above.
Somewhere there are panicked races for safety,
prayers for belongings--lightning. Stop.

Straying thought: that here, yes,
the very words I thought you would say to me,
here I heard them said by you to another.
Perhaps that is the risk--lightning. Light.
At last the sky is crowning. Yet I am at peace,
daring my end in the purifying rain.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009
What Mr. Six hath started.
You asked: do I love you?
I am blunt:
You are air.
You are infinity.
Love is for mortals,
whose puny words
can never hold
a heart like this.

Monday, July 06, 2009
I am needed:
"There have been many sightings of an Ogopogo for decades around the Okanagan Lake area. Descriptions of the beast resemble the Lock Ness Monster."
Thank you, National Post!
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Green Modification: This was the first day of the Organic Festival here in dotty old Victoria, BC, over at the endlessly scenic Glendale Gardens. I smugly rode my bicycle over and smugly brought my own water bottle, and then proceeded to spend far too much cash on essentials. Miso/mushroom chips, Tanzanian coffee beans and dried Andean berries, them'd be the new essentials. Met up with Nik after the lunch hour--she's taking notes for a radio production. We listen to a panel discussion on sustainable Island agriculture, and it is here that Nik's and my opinions diverge slightly. There is a passionately committed woman on the panel who just happens to have the upper class English accent and the slightly batty fashion sense. And I, working on keeping an open mind all the while, put up with five minutes of the Britrant before succumbing to the mad dad's voice in my head: oh, another goddamned English bird telling the colonials what to do. There's a change.
I mention this to Nik; we discuss, amicably, how even though she may be fatmouthed and fervent, this woman is actually doing what she is telling others they should do. And yes, I can learn something from her. Okay okay okay. Maybe I just don't like being harangued.
I love this Island: the volunteers at the bike lockup thank me for biking to the festival instead of driving. I thank them for not letting anyone steal the Mighty Banana. I leave before tongues get involved. Also: heatwave, oh my yes.