Shell.

I am stone, they tell me. I am weather washed, beaten by harsh waters, eyes shut tight at the crash coming down. Flinching permanently, closed like a tomb, my soul shows no outside signs of life. No wisps of joy escape my sealed countenance, my eyes harden unintentionally. What I experience as fearful non-stepping on toes, they only know as my winter silence. I am ice carved, non-melting, living at the poles. Could I but carry a conversation I would surely melt and soak into the carpet, or find I am only crumbling river-slate, soft and nervous.

Not a mask.

How can you say what you're feeling when they're pouring through you so quickly, when you are a sieve? And when the sieve has a hole, and the soft solid fandangled feelings that you were supposed to save are washing down the panel that is your face - slow strawberry sludge settling between the lines of your eye creases, and around the corners of your nose. So obvious, like a grease stain on your clean white shirt, so glaring, so messy, so apparent. How can you say what you're feeling when you're wearing them.

The Laugh. Part Four.

She remembers how it fizzled out slowly, like a can of pop left open in the sun. It was simultaneous with her quitting smoking, the time she quit for good, when she stopped wanting it. After thirteen years. At the very beginning, he had been an exciting shot to the head, but soon became an expensive habit, and what was she paying for this habit? She had the sense of life being dulled, things had become tasteless, numbed. Could she blame it all on a person? Was it all his fault? No. But, at the same time, she knew asking him to leave would be one of the bravest, most important things she could do.

So, it had been four years now, and she felt like a huge goldfish loose in a tiny, backyard pond. There was no one to meet in this little city, in this corner she had chosen. Some afternoons at the restaurant, she would stand by the window and take a big breath, like a smoker, but without the cough to follow. She'd look out across sleepy main street, at the cars parked on angles in front of shops, at the two lone teenagers on the street, skipping school, hand in hand.

The laughing young man had disappeared. She remembered him in a romantic way, but it wasn't that she had been attracted to him. It was more the kind of romance in a children's fairytale, the unreal, glittery kind. Maybe she had dreamed it. Still, she was affected by him - it seemed like yesterday when they met, but she knew it had been months. Three months. Canadian summer was in full bloom now, the huge trees on the streets were green and full. And she couldn't keep down the buzzing in her mind.

Plaster Memories.

I want to write about the light in the room today, how it is a dusty, soft, white light coming through the faded, paper-thin 1960's curtains. My gramma made these curtains, and they used to hang in my mom's room when she was a teenager. We had them in our house growing up, too. In one place we lived, they were hanging in the spare bedroom where my sister slept when she was delirious with pneumonia. She always remembers seeing dad's face in the floral pattern of the curtains, and can't stand to look at the curtains now because they remind her of being so sick. That brain memory happens sometimes, like the way I would see the little worm wearing a hat on the paneled ceilings of different trailers we lived in. Always, I could lay down, look up, and see that friendly little worm.

The house my husband and I are in now has old lath and plaster walls, covered in a texture, too much texture. When we were using the bedroom off the kitchen, my husband slept next to the wall and once found the shape of a boot, right in his line of vision. From then on, his eyes always fell on the boot. He would sometimes mutter about how he couldn't stop staring at the boot.

Our ceilings and a wall are being re-done right now, because of water damage due to ice-dams this winter. As I type, there is a contractor taping and mudding in my kitchen below me. When they took down the ceilings, they found tons of old empty players cigarette packages. Who put those there, and why? I often wonder about the other people who spent the past eighty years in this house. Who were they? I always felt like we kind of rescued this house, as it was in disrepair when we first got it. So many layers of paint cover everything. I get curious when the paint chips to reveal dark, hardwood original baseboards or five panel doors.

For some reason I like to keep as many traces of the original house around as possible. It's like with the curtains, I wish they wouldn't fade, I wish the sun wouldn't do what it always does. I wonder if whoever lived in this house in 1942 could walk through now, and still find their way around, still recognize pieces of the house that their brain has committed to memory. In reality, without continued work, houses fall apart, and when we move on, who knows what will come of this one. The curtains are pretty much useless at keeping light out now, and they don't match my bedding, so I am planning on sewing some new ones soon. These material things come and go. Rust and moths. I can't latch onto them.

On Beekeeping...

Beekeeping takes up all of the senses. It starts on the drive out to the hives - windows rolled down, the sweet scent of beeswax filling up the car. At the hives, your ears are filled with the simultaneous quiet and buzz. Your nose is alert to all the smells – sometimes the scent of the wax is really strong, and you’re always smelling to make sure things are right. There’s also the burning of twigs and burlap in the smoker, which sometimes you accidentally inhale and it chokes you up like you took a big drag of your first cigarette. Then there’s the rush of having thousands of bees humming and buzzing in the hive, flying up and out, and crawling on you.

There’s always lifting involved, too, and honey’s heavy. If it’s hot, lifting a box off the hive can put me into a terrible sweat, and I’m standing there, bees getting louder, and time shortening. My dad, who has been known to wear a veil but forget to close it and therefore get stung on the neck or the face, has taught me to work through the panic I feel sometimes, and basically trust the bees. Last season I was only stung once, at the very beginning of the spring. It’s a wonderful feeling to get through a hive check, or having to do a bunch of cleaning and pulling apart the hives in the spring or something, when the bees are all around you, and to feel calm.

Today's Playlist.

I love to listen to music when I write.

Here's my current playlist:

Anyone's Ghost - The National

This Loneliness - El Perro del Mar

Valerie - Amy Winehouse

Soft Shoulder - Ani Difranco

4th Time Around - Bob Dylan

Let's Break Up - Hayden

Reckoner - Radiohead

Not Fade Away - Buddy Holly

Wild World - Cat Stevens

Sorrow - David Bowie

Bloodbuzz Ohio - The National

Trust in Me - Etta James

Barely Friends - Hayden

Reseraction Fern - Iron & Wine

I Don't Know What I Can Save You From - Kings of Convenience

Twistin Postman - The Marvelettes

Ramblin' on My Mind - Robert Johnson

Travellin' Shoes - Ruth Moody

Come Pick Me Up - Ryan Adams

Size Too Small - Sufjan Stevens

Food.

The fog has been clearing, colours are brightening, and I've been getting back to my creative work. I'm sliding comfortably into some of my previous habits, but I've been opening up new realms in the process, too. After having a brush with cancer, along with other health issues, and making a career decision to pursue further education, it has become clear: music and writing are my lifelines, I must be immersed in them. And not only in the creating part, actually, more in the enjoyment and soaking up part. For, the music and words of others are my food, and only when I am full do I have enough material to spill over into my creating process.

I was reading on this blog that a good rule for writers is to read four times as much as they write. That seems like a lot, but not when I remember my childhood and teen years: I had a book with me wherever I went, and read in the in-between moments, and read myself to sleep every night. It's kind of exciting to think of all the books and authors I haven't read yet, that I will discover. So, I've been getting back into that, and with music, too, getting into new-to-me artists like Robert Johnson, El Perro del Mar, and Edith Piaf, and learning old blues riffs and chord progressions on the guitar.

So, for anyone reading, what are your favourite authors, musicians, films/directors who feed your life, your imagination, and your art?

Face lines.

After the test on Monday, the doctor said I was all clear. I can't explain the feeling - it was relief and hopefulness, yes, but other emotions, too. I go for tests every three months for the first year, so I'm still anxious, but the doctor said there is a very low probability that the cancer will come back. All this is good.

I guess I feel lucky. And just....changed.

The next day I was sitting in my hair salon, and there was a man getting a haircut a couple of chairs over. I heard him talking about his experience with cancer. He was explaining how he recently had a piece of cake, but still couldn't really taste it. Yet, he was so positive, his voice was full of sincerity, happiness. He was saying that the cancer had been a blessing, that it had improved his relationships, his life. I silently felt a connection with him, even though I can't truly imagine what he must have went through, it sounded like he had experienced a long and difficult battle. I looked at his face and could see that he knows how precious life is. I could just see that in the lines on his face in the mirror. And then I felt a peace, and continued to eavesdrop.

Power trip.

I can't find that place anymore. Because you are here now. I no longer own my nights, to be frolicking and not trying hard, to be kept awake by my racing heartbeat. There was a time when I could leaf through ten magazines, when I could settle into hours of gluing, cable tv on. But now, I do not own those times.

You have assured me you want no part in dictating which side of the light I play on.

But I still stand here with my hands out, making a cup shape, holding something invisible.

It's up to me how long I will stay. Only I can extend this offering and keep myself, for so long, from getting back to me.

The Laugh. Part Three.

If circumstances were different, she might have been a cowgirl, crashing up over brown dusty hills, giant blue sky behind her, the scent of leather and straw rope on her hands. But, instead, she had been born here in this little city, to Sam and Judy Carter. Nights after school were spent stocking shelves at the local grocery store, slicing open boxes, and whistling to songs like the irritatingly catchy "Hotel California". It wasn't that working in the store was all bad, but there was no thrill there. Her father had not instilled in her a pleasure for thrills, yet she possessed one.

Sometimes while she was working, she'd let herself imagine about different kinds of adventures - a summer traveling in South America, or becoming a sort of outdoor activity enthusiast. But her dreaming was always tentative. There was no realness to it, nothing tangible. The truth is, she never had a good, clear idea about what she wanted to do or "be". Maybe it never crossed her mind, maybe she didn't measure life in those terms.

She first started shop-lifting at work, because it was so easy. She had a good reputation at her job, and had been there several years before she ever took anything. And she wasn't stupid about it. She didn't take typical things like junk-food or stuff from the sections she worked in. And she didn't steal while she was working, either. It was always on an off-shift, when she was picking up groceries for her mom, or stopping in to get something quick.

Because she knew the layout of the store so well, and where the security cameras were placed, she always planned her route beforehand. She knew who would be working in what section when, and could easily stuff a package of dryer sheets into her jacket as he was reaching for laundry soap, or a package of lunch meat - one for the basket, one for her pocket. There was simply no feeling comparable to standing at the checkout, having a casual conversation with the cashier, and then walking out with something she had not worked for, something that no one may even realize was missing.

Predictably, however, she began seeking bigger thrills, riskier situations. Life was dull unless she was plotting. Soon, she had no more time for vague dreaming, all was taken up with her next score. She liked to "case a joint" now, and skipped ridiculously obvious chances in pursuit of a challenge.

Small.

I have these memories of being outside as a kid. I wonder what it would look like to have it all on film, to look back. I'm sure it wouldn't capture the fullness of what I was feeling. It was not the feeling of being lost, but of being small. And kind of the feeling of being held.

When we lived in Edson, it was my tomboy phase and I had more boys as friends. Sometimes on a summer night, we would play till almost dark. I had this skateboard that my parents bought me for getting on the honour roll list in grade four. So, we would be out in front of the house trying to do fancy stops and turns on the skateboard. Or riding bikes and kicking the soccer ball around. And at the end of the day I would bring my browned and grungy self in reluctantly to have a bath.

I was quite a fearful child, fearful of someone breaking in and robbing the house, or of evil witches from my imagination coming to life. I also had a strong hatred for baths, and the thought of soap getting in my eyes was a real distress. But I didn't fear growing up, or what would happen later in life. I always had great dreams for my life, and assumed that I could be or do whatever I wanted. But honestly, like most children, I'm sure, I didn't give adulthood too much thought.

Now I realize I am craving for that familiar feeling of being held, held by a long summer day spent outside. The feeling of being wild, running around in bare feet with dirty fingernails, innocent and energized, that's what it means to be childlike. Even being afraid of unlikely or imagined events gives the sensation of being small. Small and held.

So I look around myself, and I wonder how to satisfy that craving. I know that, ultimately, people can't do that. Spirituality is a whole other topic for me right now, too. And, when I question the deepest of deep in me, I know that I get that wild, small feeling when I'm doing my work, as in writing, singing, using my hands. So for today, that's my choice. I choose to engage in my tasks, and to even embrace the fear that comes with that, just to let myself feel small again.

Shake.

I go for my test in two days, to find out if the cancer is still gone, or if it has come back. Either way, I'm getting cupcakes. I must admit, I have totally bought into the cupcake craze, and am still loving them. I have been told of a place on Whyte that sounds good. So, after I'm done at the hospital, I am going straight for a cupcake.

After finding out about the cancer this fall, I had this strange visual of myself. I pictured myself as a tree, a Christmas tree, that was given a good shake. All the ornaments and dead needles fell off, and I was left with only what mattered. I had clarity.

It's funny, because I don't know what I could have done to give me this clarity, if not for the circumstances that happened in my life this fall. Actually, I don't think I would have gained this clarity if it weren't for the cancer. I kind of see now why people say cancer can sometimes be a gift, because it has certainly given me much: a completely new way of looking at and experiencing life. And I am also extremely lucky, as it was discovered so early that I only needed minor surgery, no radiation or chemo.

But in addition to giving, it has also taken away my sense of stability, safety, and invincibility. I know that's probably a good thing, but it has also been painful. It's painful to be woken up when it was easier living in an illusion. It's painful to question the very roots of your life and previous beliefs. It's painful to be unsure of your future. It's painful to be afraid.

I don't have any grand conclusions to state, or any eloquent way to end this post. I read in my psych text that courage means having fear and continuing to act. That's kind of the theme of this blog, it's about not letting the fear eat me up. Instead, I will stand on these two quivering legs and keep walking today. Maybe this is a message for my future-self to read, I don't know. But here it is.

The Laugh. Part Two.

It was days later when she remembered that small moment again, and realized how so much had happened within her since that moment of clarity in the street when she and the young man had laughed together. At the thought of it, she held her breath in expectation. She looked around as she walked across the grassy high-school field, crunched frozen puddles down main for three blocks, and up the alley to the back door of the restaurant. Where had he come from? Would she meet him by chance like that again?

Reaching to the hook for her apron, she ties it mindlessly, smoothing down her hair, glancing in the greasy mirror, spying the streak of grey in her bangs. Yet, she feels she looks very fresh this morning. A smile creeps over her face and stays there as she turns on the lights, and sets out Tuesday's lunch menus on each table. Alone, she works quietly to open the restaurant. She is sitting with a coffee when John arrives for the day with some fresh ingredients. She goes to help him chop herbs, something she's only recently been volunteering to do. She takes a deep breath of the earthy, spicy smells as she wields the knife against the greenery, feeling glad to be alive.

All day as she serves customers by the big windows with the light, she talks to them less than usual, and listens more. It's this change that has come over her, and she knows she has less time, less words, less of her... but knowing this somehow offers the sense of more. At the end of the day, her hands are dry and rough against her jacket as she reaches for it from the hook. The wind blows her home, and she can smell spring on its heels.