End of an Era

I like to go walking--sometimes for hours at a time. It takes a bit longer than jogging but there's something about it that makes me prefer it. Perhaps it's the little details I catch along the way, or the opportunity to stop and smell the roses. I've never been much for moving fast. I always took the moral of the Tortoise and the Hare to heart: slow and steady wins the race.

So, I give myself a bit of extra time and I walk, leisurely. Normally, I walk to work, but in the summer time, all I do is walk around and explore my surroundings. Walks become more difficult in autumn and winter, when the days are shorter, but I usually get one or two in on my days off. I don't like to walk after dark quite as much, mostly because it's harder to see your surroundings and pick out those neat little details that you could see more easily in the daytime. Occasionally, though, something special will happen during a nighttime walk. One time, I saw a friendly cat with a scratchy voice, running toward me on only three legs. She let me pat her for a moment, but then I heard a door across the road open, and a woman calling softly to her. I don't remember the name, but it was a cute, feminine name, like Amelia, or Annabelle. The cat went running back across the street and I thought to myself that she was probably well-loved and well-taken care of.

While on my walks, I have a number of notebooks that I keep close at hand in case of sudden, inexplicable inspiration. This happens fairly often. One of these books is a little brown Moleskine that I use to write poetry.

It's a bit faded now, but it features a design that I put on to decorate it. Inside is poetry that I've been writing since 2010. My father gave it to me one day when we were on a little excursion together in Sackville. He bought a little three-pack and handed one to me for use on my travels, and I've been using it ever since. It's an interesting assortment of poems, because they were written during various periods of self-evolution. One of them, for example, was inspired by how excited I was to try and find a new job. One was written when I really didn't want to go to work. I wrote one while visiting a graveyard in the town of Charlbury, England, based on the idea of walking with the dead. I have a page dedicated to haiku. All of these poems I can look back on and associate with a time in my life.

I will, now, share with you the final poem I wrote in this little book. I wrote it yesterday, pausing on my walk to work. It needs editing, but perhaps publishing this unfinished version of it will force me to finish it! It is currently without a title.

Head filled with numbers--
Crammed full of stupid little things that, years from now,
Will not matter to me
Nor, really, to anyone.
How is it that we humans are able to fill the blanks in our lives
With such useless information
That we end up becoming defined by it?
Our society corrupt,
Driven by cars spewing pollution of one kind
And the media spewing pollution of a whole different kind.
How can I write poetry
When I'm too busy worrying about
Today's sales, or
What hairstyle to wear tomorrow, or
What to think of the woman who walked by alone, having an animated discussion with herself?
How can I focus on someone else's personality, their mind,
And the creative jewel within
When I can't stop thinking about how stupid she looks in that outfit?
Society has trained us all to be mindless and shallow.
The defining moment comes when we are able to break free of those restrictions.
- Sept 28, 2012

I wouldn't call it a positive poem by any stretch, but more of a "catching myself in the act" poem. Have you ever caught yourself thinking something about a certain topic that, under normal circumstances, you would be embarrassed of yourself? That is, essentially, what this poem is about. On more than one occasion of late, I have caught myself doing just that and feeling ashamed of myself. Instead of beating myself up over it, I turned it into something creative. And, here we are. It's a little reminder to go back to former ways of thinking while I still know that the current way of thinking, really, is not who I am at all!

Tomorrow, I will go out and find a new little pocket book for poetry, and begin another chapter in my everyday-inspired poetry.

The Nostalgia of the Infinite

The Nostalgia of the Infinite, Giorgio de Chirico

Do you ever spend time thinking about the past? Most of us do. I tend to spend more time in my head than I do in reality, so sometimes I spend more time thinking about random details than I do focusing on the task ahead of me. It can be difficult when there's always some form of trigger to bring the waves of nostalgia into being. Smells, sounds, songs and albums, and sometimes places will lead me to different places in time.

For example, the smell of some of the winter teas we sell at work reminds me of sitting in the back room, writing numbers on bags during a 12-hour work day. Watching any episode of the Walking Dead reminds me of New Year's Day, when my husband and I pulled an all-nighter marathon-ing the second season then went out for breakfast at 6:30 AM. We went to bed at 8 and slept until 1, making it one of the most awesome days we've had together. The song "Keep on Galloping" by Korpiklaani reminds me of walking to my job (which I hated at the time--waitressing, yeuch!) in the snow, daydreaming about a log cabin in the woods with a warm fire. The smell of the peppermint vanilla candle in the bathroom reminds me of playing FEAR 3 with my husband before Christmas, with that same candle lit. Not exactly festive, but a fond memory nevertheless.

This post is named after a painting by Giorgio de Chirico of the same name. I found it appropriate, because of the name and the certain lonely feeling I get when looking at the picture, even if there are two people. To me, the two people in the picture represent one person. One person is in the present, while the other is in the past, and they're walking together on the same path. It could be said that one walks with oneself whenever reminiscing about the past.

While it doesn't always do to dwell on the past, our past experiences have helped make us all what we are today. I always find it interesting to listen to new albums, or to frequently drink a certain tea, and see later what those things remind me of a few months down the road.

How about you, readers? What reminds you guys of certain things? Any tastes, smells, songs? I'd be interested to know!

Dream drawing

Today, someone asked me if I still drew, and I told him "I try". I realised that couldn't be further from the truth. I haven't sat down and completely finished a drawing in a about two years.

I used to draw often. I would be inspired by games I played, books I read, shows I watched, and things I saw in nature. I would create and draw pictures of characters I had invented--some from roleplaying, some from my own writing. Some things I drew would just be people who popped into my imagination: fairies, sprites, nymphs, outfits that I'd like to wear. I would always have a sketchbook with me.

For some reason, that changed. I stopped drawing frequently, only stopping to pick up my pencil once in awhile. I lost interest, apart from doodling on paper while taking notes at work or on place mats in restaurants.

This afternoon, well after the aforementioned question was asked of me, I took a little nap. Okay, I admit, that's an understatement: it was a two and a half hour nap. During that time, I had a dream of relatively epic proportions. A man in his late twenties was given a gift of magical transformation, giving him the ability to become a superhero. He was navigating a politically corrupt landscape, with spies watching people's movements and tapping wires to listen in on conversations. A young woman appeared, having witnessed the man's heroics, and offered to be a spy for him as a double agent. Between the two of them, they were gathering followers to try and eradicate these political issues.

When I woke up, I was compelled to draw these two. I didn't draw the man in his superhero suit (because, quite frankly, I'm not sure what it looked like), so here he is, extending a hand to the girl. They don't have names yet.

The style is a bit more angular than what I usually draw, but I think I like it. Except his hand. Always need more practice with hands.

I've always worked to develop a style and I've never really had one of my own. I'm not sure I know how to begin developing one. As always, my artwork is a work in progress. I'm sure it always will be.

I have too many stories to tell. It seems like my subconcious helps me think of new ones, too. One day, I'll get them all on paper in one way or another. I think this one would make a better comic than anything.

The growing autumn

I had a beautiful dream this morning, just before I woke up.

The dream's setting was a spot that my friends and I used to visit when we were in high school. It would usually be three of us--me and two others--but sometimes another would join us, too. We would spend full days up there, climbing trees, talking, playing games. It was a special spot only we knew about.

Years later, one of those friends is now my husband. Just this past week, he and I took a visit to this spot to see if it was still there. While a large quarry has formed nearby, disturbing some of the peace and removing a large part of the path to the spot, the spot itself remained completely in tact. A circle of stones rested perfectly at its entrance, almost undisturbed by time, save for a few fallen branches. A staff from years before was sitting by a tree, the only hint of time being the light moss that had begun to cover it. One of the biggest differences from before was a collection of multicoloured mushrooms that had popped up here and there--some of them were bright orange, though we also found a few black-purple ones.

In this dream, I was alone, walking through the area and gazing up at the trees and sky. For some reason, I could see the sky a little better than I could if I were really there. It was the bright blue of a clear day, with only a few white, fluffy clouds. A large spruce tree heavy with cones towered over me. In my dream, I thought to myself that I should go there alone more often. It was cut short when I woke up, but it lasted long enough to leave me with a pleasant mental image.

Maybe it was the pure blue of the sky, but something made me think of summer. When I woke up, I was met with the jarring darkness that comes from the end of August: the sunrise coming later in the morning--the orange-gold morning light that comes from a waning existence. Seeing light of that colour reminds me of a section of Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead:

GUIL: It's autumnal.
ROS: (examining the ground) No leaves.
GUIL: Autumnal -- nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day... Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it... Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses... deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth -- reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

The last days of summer are melting away, but 21 days of September remain before the equinox hits and the summer is considered truly over.  Those 21 days still have a remaining possibility to them, as though there is still so much left to accomplish. Though it's all but officially over, I'm still not ready to give the summer up. I didn't always (or, really, ever) like summer as a child, but now that I'm an adult I have grown to really love it. I'm not even sure why. Maybe I just need a good winter hobby to get me through the rougher months.

Do you have any plans while it's still warm? Maybe you enjoy the fall and winter months and you're looking forward to the cooler weather. I went canoeing and hiking with the hubby earlier on this week, and I'm hoping we can squeeze in one last full beach visit before.

I also wouldn't mind having another pretty dream like last night's, but  I suppose I could do that any time of year.

An open letter to the guy who almost ran me over this morning

Dear Sir,

This morning, as I was walking to work, I stopped at a busy intersection to press the walk light and wait for my turn to cross. It came on immediately, and so I started crossing.

About half way there, I turned to see you suddenly veering around the corner. I know that you also had the right of way, but I'm afraid you weren't really paying any attention, even as I stood there (I had to stop for you) and pointed at the walk light! As you passed you seemed to be having a particularly animated conversation with the lady beside you. I'm sure you didn't even see me in your rear view mirror--did you look in your rear view mirror?--as you sped away.

I'm glad one of us was paying attention. I just wish it had been the one operating the 1 ton piece of machinery.

The unfortunate part of this is that it happens all too often. I'm not talking about distracted driving, though that's certainly an issue. I'm talking about utter disregard for anyone traveling on foot. Here in Moncton, the pedestrian's rights are few and far between, and when we do get the right of way, our time is either short or interrupted by drivers who also have the right of way. Even if we push a button on one of the many non-intersection crosswalks in the city, it's hard to say if we'll make it to the other side of the road without having to stop and let a car go by. Yes, it's the driver's fault if we're hit, but how many people honestly want to play chicken with a motor vehicle?

I'm not saying the pedestrians should retaliate by walking in the middle of the road at any given time, though some do. I'm saying that the time has come for pedestrians to be a priority for drivers. We all lead very busy lives, but that extra 30 seconds that could be getting you to work a little earlier could also save someone's life.

Sir, you were not on your phone, and you weren't texting, but you certainly weren't watching the road. Please have a bit more consideration for the world around you.

Not-so-fond regards,
The blue-haired pedestrian you somehow missed this morning.

...Like an airy spirit go...

Was it all just a dream?

Last week, I had the opportunity to take part in another of Hubcity Theatre's performances. This year, we did A Midsummer Night's Dream for our yearly Shakespeare in the Park staging, and I took on the role of Puck, Oberon's jester. Funnily enough, my husband, Brad, assumed the roles of Theseus and Oberon, meaning that he was the one I had the most personal interaction with--and sometimes it got a little violent!

For a little while, this play was less like an airy dream and more like a nightmare, and I'll tell you why.

We had a condensed rehearsal schedule. And by this, I mean that in early July we were having about 5 rehearsals a week, on top of what we all do in our normal lives. I rope myself into doing this every summer, even though I value my free time more than most. This year was a little more strenuous that previous years, since we had to be in rehearsal so much more leading up to it. All of my free evenings were taken by rehearsal and, more often than not, I would go straight home from rehearsal, go to bed, and then get up the next morning to start all over again.

Somewhere, in the shuffle of losing free time, frustration over various play-related things and extreme physical exhaustion, I managed to completely lose myself. Around dress rehearsal time, I started having fun. When opening night in Sackville came, I was back to enjoying the process. When opening night in Moncton came, and 215 people showed up to watch the show, that's when the dreamlike quality of the experience started to kick in.

At closing night, we removed our (considerably sweat-laden) costumes for the final time and let out a collective cheer. We had done it. It had been a roaring success. Long, late rehearsals in mosquito-filled parks had paved the way for what was truly a fantastic show. The cast and crew ushered their way to our house for the cast party, where we ate ourselves into a stupor and reminisced about some of our favourite parts of the play. We talked late into the night, and when we went to bed, we woke up the next morning, finding it suddenly over.

I'm an introvert. I don't really like hanging out with people. I like my space. But if you expose me to a situation long enough, I will gradually warm up to it, to the point of enjoying it. I become, for a brief week or so, an extrovert. And right now, I find myself missing the people I met and spent so many hours with this summer. I've even had dreams about this play, and I'm left wondering if it really happened. I find myself liking posts on Facebook and staring longingly at pictures, and looking in every direction for a chance at stumbling across some of these people when I'm out in public.

When I'm exposed to a situation like that, I go from resisting it to embracing it. I'll spend the week thereafter in a fog induced by the glory that was the performance week. I'll randomlyrealise little things, like "hey, a week ago was our closing night in Sackville" (it was!). The days will slip on and the reminiscing will finally disappear for now, to hopefully be brought up again next year.

I had a dream ("past the wit of man to say what dream it was") that I spoke some of my lines, then flew into the air. It was a brief dream, but its magical qualities reminded me, in waking, of the week that had passed so quickly. A week of adventures in Sackville, moving on to Moncton and praying for good weather. And then, it was back to reality, and back to work, for me. That fleeting, beautiful, dreamlike week.

In the retail world, we're suddenly hearing talk of "back to school" and "fall collections". But it's only August! We still have about a month and a half of summer left! Just in the past few weeks, the heat has reached its peak. It seems sad that we spend our remaining summer days wishing the summer away, especially since it's such a short season in this part of the world. We are but in midsummer, meaning we have the rest of the summer ahead of us yet. Embrace it and find that lingering flicker of magic. It's not over.

Photo by Albert Arseneau. For more information about Hubcity Theatre, check out their Facebook page.

A moment to myself

I just need a few minutes to myself.

This happens, sometimes. I'm at home alone but I need to be out, among the world but not communicating with it. Just being. A person, watching people who are watching back.

My backyard is my sanctuary, with its fragrant yellow roses and towering purple irises. But it's not what I need now. Instead, I lock the door--leaving my cell phone behind--and walk to the park down the road. All the swings are vacant, inviting. I sit down, heedless of the fact I'm wearing a skirt. I had put on a pair of shorts underneath for just such a purpose, anyway.

Already, my legs have settled into the familiar rhythm of pumping, then pushing back. I have to spread my ankles apart because my legs are so long, they risk brushing the gravel below and breaking that rhythm. Already, I seem to be matching height with a tree across the field.

A man and a woman cross the path in front of me, watching me as the swing's chains creak in protest. I momentarily wonder how old they think I am. I'm 26, but I've been told I look closer to 19 or 20. Would a normal 26-year old come out to a swing set? Why do I care?

Suddenly, a woman about my Mom's age appears from the sidewalk, walks behind me and takes a seat on the swing set next to mine. We exchange a brief moment of silent acknowledgement through a smile, and she starts to swing as well. I notice earbuds in her ears and can't help but wonder what she's listening to. I also notice that she and I are both wearing turquoise. For some reason, it seems significant; we're two bluejays in a neighboring tree, both aware of each other's presence but not really doing anything about it.

My legs continue the same rhythm, never faltering or changing. I see them rise up before me with every pump and laugh inwardly to think of how pale I am. The wind rushes through my hair, sending it into my mouth. I think about how much I will enjoy cutting it before long. I grew it out so I could have something to work with for the wedding, but that was back in October. Time for a change.

When I snap out of my reverie, I notice my swing-mate and I are swinging in perfect tandem like the pendulums of two grandfather clocks standing side by side. I wonder if she notices, too, or if she's still off in her own world. The lack of eye contact on her part confirms the latter. That's all right. I didn't come out here for company.

My time for reflection seems to have ended, for I feel myself slowing, and my legs stopping to allow the momentum to catch itself. Any extra motion from my legs may start my progress over, so I just sit and let the swing gradually stop. I try to stand and walk away with dignity, but my legs wobble beneath me. It seems ironic that, after using them so extensively for the past fifteen minutes, my legs no longer seem as though they want to carry me. I force them to, and I head back home.