writing

I have so much nostalgia and glimpses of beautiful images in my mind, you'd think the writing would come easy but it comes hard. That is just how it goes. Half the battle is getting the butt in the chair and that is hard enough. The rest is full of agony and self loathing and fear and anxiety. And you choke out words and it doesn't get any easier. Ick. I feel so scowl ridden.

The biggest problem for me is point of view. And then there is the problem of weaving all the fragments together, all the different decisions I have to make for all the made up people in my mind. There are a billion different versions of the lives of people who don't actually exist. Infinite. My job is to pick one version, the most interesting, I guess. But how do you know? How does god know? Is he a puppet master god or an armchair god? A helicopter parent or a deadbeat? Shall I observe or sculpt, how much pressure can you put on the pot while it spins until it collapses? And how much clay gets on your hands, the front of your shirt, in your mouth?

a-DORA-ble

bittersweet yukon quest this year

 Juni at 2months old watching a musher arrive at the finish line. Jon is pissed. Lol.

I'm back to waking when Juni wakes. 6am-730amish. Still not horrible but my writing time is 0.

Today I meant to wake around 4am and check the tracker on Allen Moore, the musher who was set to win the Yukon Quest. I was hoping to hop in the truck and head out to the Takhini Hotsprings (where the finish line is this year). But I didn't end up checking it until 6am and his little doggy icon was showing that he was at the High Country Hotel lol. So I missed watching the champ arrive. 

I was shocked and saddened yesterday when I found out my fav musher Brent Sass, who was neck and neck with Moore the entire race, was injured and taken out of the race. Reports are vague, but he apparently fell and hit his head. Not sure what is going on. He's an awesome dude. Super passionate about what he does. I had the privilege of interviewing him when I was the communication officer for the Yukon Quest a few summers ago. I called him up and got to chat about his summer training set up. He had just received an Artis Cart, which is basically a sweet-ass-sled on wheels, and was waking up in the middle of the night -when it is cool enough for his deedles- and taking his dogs out along the river bank where he lives in Alaska. He is just the chillest, most positive dude I have ever talked to. And he and his lead dog Silver (now retired) are known for heroic feats of sportsmanship on the trail. Silver even has an award named after him and it is given to a dog that shows the same spirit of heroism. I hope he is okay. I really thought it was his year this year. 

There are still 14 or so mushers heading towards the finish line. They are finishing a 1000 MILE journey across alaska and yukon over mountains and overflow and rivers and lakes and insane amounts of lack of sleep, all while caring for 14 amazing athletes: their dogs. I hope to take Juni out to see at least one of the team arriving at the end. 

an incident in the night

The last few days I slept in. My back up clock is broken. And I didn't even hear my phone go off this morning and it was right next to my pillow! I was dead asleep after an incident in the night.

I have night terrors. In short, I "wake up" and see things and I scream Bloody Goddamn Murder. The most traumatic hallucinations have caused me to attempt to escape by trying to jump out a window. The only good thing about having them all my life is that by now I can usually wade through the hallucinatory horror and convince myself that the shit I am seeing isn't real. One of the scariest incidents I've ever had was the night I started reading Truman Capote's real life crime "novel" In Cold Blood. I fell asleep after devouring the first 1/4 of the book and "woke up" with one of the murderers sitting next to my bed. Needless to say I screamed and pleaded and all the stuff one does when they believe their live is about to end. Sometimes, I scream until my throat feels like it is going to bleed. It's crazy, absolute bonkers, and it obviously ruins the night and the next day and throws off my sleep for days and days to come.

Last night I had a terror. Someone tall walked into my room and when I "realized" it wasn't Jon I freaked, throwing back the covers and telling tall creature to get the fuck out. Then I actually woke up and went downstairs to get something to drink and to see if Jon heard me. It was 10:20 and Jon was none the wiser, with earbuds in watching netflix no the futon in the study.

So yeah, I took it easy on myself. I will return to my glorious mornings when I can. Tomorrow.

Yuck:

Guy on the top. Scary as all Hell. Capote wrote like a mofo. I will never again pick up that book.

I'm 

selfie in honour of raymi

 So my favourite blogger in the whole world wished me happy birthday yesterday. She is an absolute machine genious of the selfie and so I washed the bathroom mirror (obsessive close up flossing took place earlier) and gave it a try. There I am last night and this morning. That purple thing on my head is my new hair. I wear it night and day.

I did not want to get up this morning.

But I did.
And then I ate mini eggs.

groundhog day

Operation early riser is going great. I decided yesterday I would let myself sleep in, but that only lasted until Juni woke up and I felt terribly sour all day. So I'm tinkering with the idea of making my early mornings an everyday thing. Also, I have come to the realization that my own sleep doesn't matter, only that of my partner who is a paramedic, which might as well be the most important job in the world. Grrr. I'll give him that. How would you feel if the person you lived with had that to hold over your head? Oh, you want to sleep in? Well, I'm a paramedic, so...

Basically, I want my mornings to be like the movie Groundhog Day, except I will be happy to wake up in the same way every single day. Actually, it would probably give me a chuckle to wake up to the same sonny and cher song like bill murray does in the movie. Plus Feb 2nd is my birthday, so I can pretend it is the first day of my life every day. woot. 

Here is a quote from the movie:

"When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

So I will try to have a positive attitude, and if I don't, I will try to enjoy the sensation of whatever else kind of attitude I have. Yesterday I was grumpy, but I found it refreshing and a bit comical and went with that flow. I think that is what groundhog day is about, surrendering to life the way it is and not trying to force things, noticing the beauty in things, or just noticing. The movie has Buddhist sensibilities, I would say. I have to watch it again!

listen

My goal for today is to listen. I get so riled up with human interaction because I am alone so often (by choice and destiny) that I talk and talk and talk. Today I am going to listen.

file it under G y'all

I won't bore you today with more self adulation on becoming a morning person. It was difficult today and I am far from as productive as I would like to be, anyway. So here is some advice on getting your living space under control.

My day job is as a house cleaner and i have a few insights on keeping up a house as I see about 15 houses in a given month all at varying stages of chaos.

One thing I notice is CLUTTER. 

Holy eff people, you are keeping way to much shit that is crowding out your life. Deep down, I think we have been brainwashed to think that throwing things out is bad. Whatever the reason: recycling propaganda (which isn't necessarily a bad thing), depression era cellular memories passed down through the generations, etc. Either way we are afraid to throw shit out. And when I mean throw out, I don't necessarily mean capital G garbage, but also capital G goodbye: recycling, composting, donating all apply. 

Of course desperate times call for desperate measures and the easiest way to get a bit of zen going in your house is to sit down and watch a couple episode of a hoarders type show then go through your house with a big black garbage bag. Put everything in this bag, even stuff that can be composted or recycled. if you have the time, separate it, if you don't, throw it in the trash bin outside and forget about it, that crap already existed in the world and it can either be sitting cluttering up your home or sitting with its friends in the landfill. 

Things to throw out:

• dead plants (deserve to cross over)
• food that's bad or you won't eat (your fridge is a goldmine for garbage!)
• broken items (you ain't never gonna fit it)
• worn out items (socks with holes, anything you can't donate honourably)
• wire hangers (get wood... i will elaborate on clothing purging and storage in a later post)
• papers! (o my hell the papers. i will also devote a post to this)
• expired everything (makeup, food...go back to your fridge and i guarantee there will be an expired salad dressing. i once found 5 in my da's fridge)
• failed attempts at crafting or art (i'm looking at you other bloggers)

Liberate yourselves from the crap! Once life is a bit less cluttered you can worry about getting back to your ideal, earth friendly self. But for now, be relentless. If it ain't adding value to your life, toss it. "File it under G" for Garbage aka GOODBYE!

hello

Third day in a row, yo!

old photo of jon's from the cabin at north fork

I've switched up my wake up time from 5am to 4:30am because I want more time to write. I'm greedy like that. Things are good, still following the routine of the first day. I've found it hard to get out of bed all my life, unless I'm excited about something huge like an airplane ride or an extra special occasion, so it is high time I started to look at my writing as something this important. And it's hard to get out of bed for me no matter what time it is so why not wake up early? 

What I've noticed is I can enjoy being cozy in bed at night much more now because I'm not anxious about letting the opportunity to write slip by. Knowing I've dedicated some time to my own creative work in the morning gives me a sense of accomplishment and eases my mind. Energy is gained because I'm not wasting it feeling bad about myself. 

  

i write mornings

I'm up again. The sleep cycle app "SleepBot" seems to work well, supposed to wake me up gently. And then the fear of the loud alarm I've set across the room going off and waking up Juni gets me out of bed. Then I stand there groggy like a stunned cunt. (Jon's vocabulary has infiltrated my brain). Then I go downstairs and splash cold water on my face and it helps a lot. Then it is tea time. I make a pot for myself and set up at the desk with the whole pot, milk, honey and a particular cup I'm fond of. I'm wrapped in a blanket and just about as cozy as I can be.

Today I've doddled a bit checking email and quickly facebook and now blogging. I find if I check social media at night before I go to bed, it's the same feed in the morning so it bores me and I can get to work, so I didn't check it for long. Blogging I will allow because it keeps me honest about waking up and it is almost like I'm writing creativity guru Julia Cameron's "morning pages." I will put a time limit on it.

Yesterday was dee-vine. Knowing I had written that morning made all the difference in my outlook on life. I felt good about myself and it glowed to everyone around me. I was more present for my daughter and partner.  Oh, another thing that energized me was send a friend a note via facebook, nothing too long, just a quick sentence saying how she was an inspiration to me. This has to have helped my energy! I'm going to do this more often!

Morning Times

I turn 32 on Groundhog Day and my life is almost complete. I have the partner of my dreams, a 2-year-old daughter, a house, the perfect dog, my own business. The only thing missing is writing. It’s always been there, floating around in my mind. There are scraps, attempts at novels, stories, poems, but I have nothing to show for the continent size flotsam of ideas knocking against the shores of my mind.

My days are spent caring for our little girl, tending to household chores and working. By the time the evening rolls around and Buggy is in bed I read and then fall asleep. Why the heck can’t I wake up in the morning?

It’s not so much that I don’t wake up; it is that I don’t GET UP. Take this am: I woke up and looked at the clock and it was 5am, a reasonable time for someone to get up and write for a few hours, but I was so cozy and warm in bed that I just cuddled back into the covers and went back to sleep!

A few ideas I’ve gathered from internet, magazines, friends:

• Coffee beans in bedside table. Sniff upon waking.

• Nap during the day (tried, ruins ability to fall asleep at night)

• Go to sleep early  (I do this already)

• Reward myself with chocolate when I do wake up

• Get Jon to pour water on me

• Daylight simulator alarm clock

• Two alarm clocks, loud one across room a minute after the first quiet one

• Use an app that wakes me up at optimum point in sleep cycle

• Make bed less comfy

• Have everything ready to go for the morning

This morning I did the two alarms. I think this will be helpful because I will want to shut the loud one before I wake the baby. It also helped that I told Jon my desire. I didn't want to be a failure in his eyes, lol.

Okay, off to drink tea and write:) 

Confession

I made Juni some Gluten free play-dough because I know myself too well. Old habits die hard.

Funny to find myself amongst mountains. The wilderness here is huge, and impossible to know. Even with the spring surges of water, carving out new designs in the hillside, I always knew where everything was back home at my grandparent's house(now my sister's) in Jordan Station, Ontario. Wine country with the outlaw vines climbing up the trees. It was as if the moving mud simply displayed parts of the land I already knew. I feel as if every single grain of dirt - on the surface of the forest, or buried deep within the land, or pushed by the creek - I've touched with the bottom of my boot, with my eye, with my mind. And is it ok to know I will never know this place like that? 

"It's Gypsy"

(This is my take on what happened. I wasn't there. My imagination fills in where facts are lacking. I wrote this and put it on hold because I wasn't sure it was my story to tell. I've come to the realization that it is my story. As Nick relayed the events of her death to me I experienced it and was traumatized by what I could see in my mind, and I was traumatized by his grief, and I grieve still).


     I answered the phone. It was our good friend Nick from treeplanting. The one who convinced me to come back for another season after my premature "tree-tirement." My crewboss, and Jon’s right hand man. Our very own Zorba the Greek; an accidental wise man who often muddles the words of common sayings in such a way as to make them less cliché and more true to life.  I was so happy he was calling. It's always great to hear his voice. I wanted to hear about their plans, when he and Carrie would finally be done the berry-pick, finished with the season so they could join us in the Yukon.

I must have joked to him about something. It was always jokes between us. Then silence.
“This isn’t a happy call,” His voice broke. He inhaled and a raw choking, guttural weeping noise came over the phone. “It’s Gypsy.” And instantly my heart was pounding. I was begging him to say she was ok. The words flew out of his mouth. I saw it happen. I witnessed everything through his words. I choked and wailed. Looking back, I have never cried so freely, with such lack of self consciousness. OFten I have cried and become wrapped up in the romance of it and when the sensation of sorrow passes I make an attempt at keeping the tears flowing. This time I did not have to try. The sorrow did not pass. We were in the car, parked outside the ambulance station where Jon works and I didn't care who saw or heard me. I was saying no! No. No. No. The whole time. I was seeing it. Nick is a storyteller. I was there.

They pull up at the side of the dirt road and let the dogs out of the truck. Spade and Gypo run off to do their thing. The four veteran treeplanters amble around to the tailgate. Sit and light cigarettes, and drink strong coffee from dented travel mugs as a sparse rain falls. It's early September and all of the trees are in the ground. These four have paid their dues and so they are granted a few extra weeks work at a decent day-wage for picking berries that will later be processed for the seed, grown in a green house, and replanted as part of forest reclamation projects. It is meticulous, though easy work. There is no quota and the day rate allows lots of time for breaks, making it an ideal cool down to the hardcore pace of the planting season.

There are fresh truck tracks in the mud of the road and the planters don’t think anything of it. The dogs run free, happy to be out of the motel for a day of work. Spade darts into the bush, Gypo  up the road to check things out. 

A few days before Nick came upon Gypsy with a discarded deer head. He took a video. “Here’s my little dog, my little girl," He says affectionately. "I don’t know if you can see what she is doing, but she is eating the brains out of a deer head.” She was not one to frolic with the other dogs, she commanded respect. Not aloof, just damn majestic, a husky-greyhound hybrid plucked as a puppy from the kennel of a legendary Dawson City musher to live the nomadic life of the dog of two treeplanters. I once saw this dog chase a black bear through a clear-cut and bite it in the ass. At the time, terrified, I screamed out her name. She ignored me. She knew what she was doing. At a plant north of Fort MacMurray she flew with us in a helicopter, sitting tall and peering out the window in wonder as we commuted from our remote camp site. Carrie said Gypsy had realized her life long dream of flying like the birds. 
Throughout my time as a planter, I wouldn’t see her for a year and then I would, and I would call to her and she would run towards me at dog-race speed, smiling, teeth barred, she would say a quick hi, take a pat, then go off and do her own thing. She didn’t like to be fawned over.

On this particular day last fall, the group climbs back into the truck and  they continue up the dirt road, looking for a good work site for the day. They round a bend. A pick-up truck appears up ahead in the drizzle and Gypsy is running along beside it on the other side of the ditch. She is getting old but still has an elegance to her stride, her waist tucked in dramatically behind her deep chest, betraying the greyhound genes within her. The planters gain on the truck. (I’m watching it all in slow motion as Nick speaks). Perhaps the occupants of the truck yell out to her, because Gypsy bends her neck ever so slightly, looking over at them. There are two of them. It’s somewhere in Northern Alberta. Lake La fucking Biche or some shit hole. And this beautiful creature is running along side this strange truck. Her strong, graceful neck arched towards them. The group of four berry-pickers get closer and closer. And then they see it. A gun. Pointed at their beautiful dog. There is nothing they can do. They hear it. A single shot. Those red-neck fuckers fucking shoot her. A deafening bang and she falls hard to the ground, her neck twisting back, her bright orange collar visible amongst the luscious wet greyness of her fur. She is heaving in the wet grass of the shallow ditch. The truck drives off. I can hear the incredulous screaming. "You fucking shot my dog!" 
They carry her bleeding into the truck and Carrie holds her. The love of their lives. Their entire universe. They want to follow the truck but are scared of the gun, scared to go anywhere but towards help for Gypsy, bleeding and moaning. They wrap her up and Carrie holds her as they drive to town, her rain gear sopping red with blood. Just blood everywhere and she is in so much pain and she is dying and she does die. She turns cold in Carrie’s arms. And Spade is never the same dog after that. And no one is the same. And I am not the same. I saw it all through Nick’s words. I felt it all through Nick’s grief, as well as through my own.

Tidy Sapling

My business is picking up. I am almost at the point where I can work completely for myself. A few more clients and I am there. What I do is I clean houses. I am good at it and I charge a fair price. A few of my clients say I am a marriage saver. lol. I believe them. They are telling their friends about me and I am growing by word of mouth alone. The best, most sustainable way in my opinion. And I like cleaning. It is exercise and satisfying work. Buddhist, almost.

Of course this isn't my "PASSION" but it is what will pay the bills. (on top of my part-time job at Starbucks, my sporadic freelancing gigs, and my occasional stints as a supply teacher)

My hope is, when life has been simplified, and all I have to worry about is my business, I will have time for the writing and painting I have been putting off (and sharing this writing and painting on the blog).

When I look at all of this, no wonder life feels scattered. I basically have four jobs and I am a mom and partner and dog owner.

Fwig.

My Kind of Yukon Gold

Sometimes the world is so bursting with inspiration it hits me over the head. That's what happened today. I was tucking some clothes away in the crawl space and letters and photographs rained down from the walls. 

Of course I read them. They were over 20 years old and written from various women, all to the same man, all within the same 3 year period, all about how much they long for him, love him, culminating in a 14 page letter written by the jilted woman who was carrying this mans child!

And so I am crackling with fictive energy, pregnant with poetry!

cursive hearts hidden 

still beat, fatherless

children still breath

Am I a terrible person for finding these letters? For reading them? For sharing some of the most poignant excerpts on my blog?

(Names have been changed)

 

Mary:   I just got one of my sculptures fired (actually 2 of them) but one I'm really pleased with. It broke and I    

                           need to repair it but I think I can do it so it won't be obvious.

Cath:  P.S. I left the earring on your dresser so it should be there if you found the        

                  other in your truck.

Josie:  (expect me when you least expect me

              with the baby in me or in my arms)

I ache for these women. I too have attempted to repair beautiful broken things, left talismans behind,  worn our child like a wedding ring.

We got a house!

I still can't believe it. I didn't want to talk about it because I was afraid our dreams would be dashed. It was a multiple offer situation, but it was the house we wanted so we went for it, intuition and balls out. And we got it! And we moved in a month later. It happened so quickly but we are now all moved to our new house and things are great. 

All I want to do is read and write and make art looking paintings. And snuggle in our very own respective rooms. In our very own little house.

 Just snuck in and got this while she was sleeping:)

 As you can see we are still waiting on furniture but Welli doesn't mind.

The old cabin above had a loft that housed our bed and Juni's crib all together. I can't believe we lived like this for so long. Sleep was scarce. Juni would wake and see us and start to cry to get our attention. Often, because I have night terrors, I would be the one inadvertently waking her up. And Jon, with his shifts and us waking him up at all hours, probably got the brunt of it, as was evident with his grumpy middle of the night rages that he probably can't remember lol.

Oh, whatever. It is over and we have a beautiful little house with rooms that have doors. And it likes us. And we like it. A lot.

Wisers Whisky

There is a place under the oats, under the sky, where you buried treasure for your future children. To make them strong. They would dig not knowing how deep. Not knowing if they were in the right place, until they were, or until they gave up. 

If I were to talk about it, you wouldn't remember the time you bled the walls red. Your blood Josef. Painted the walls. I made you believe you were asleep. Cleaned you and put you to bed. Alone I scrubbed away the traces. Rung the towels until the water ran clear.

It was the car I loved if not you. Volkswagen Jetta. Sheep skin seats. Filthy as fuck but well built. It was the same colour as your skin exposed to the sun all those hours working outdoors. 

Most saw the smile lines and freckles, the arms, large and brown. They thought you were simple. And you were. Except your simplicity was a distillation of great wisdom. There is something to be said about brawn gained stacking bales of hay, and brains nourished on fresh air and open spaces. You were dazed and rugged to everyone else, but pristine in private as I read you to sleep.

Do you remember the night I screamed? Everyone heard. You woke and it was real and you were scared too. The bear breathing inches from our heads. Huffing and sniffing. And then terror. The huge paw pressed against the wall of the tent. And I was wrapped up in it, suffocating and so I screamed bloody goddam murder. So loud Saskatchewan heard me. But then it wasn't real. It was just nighttime and I was just dreaming and you said "What the Shit" in the stoned-surfer way you had of speaking sometimes when you were half asleep, and the people camped around us who thought I was dying laughed when they heard you because they knew I was okay, you were there. 

I'm convinced you knew I was begging the universe. Chanting, chanting, chanting. Taking the Whisky like it was communion. But it wasn't time. They found your car abandoned in the airport parking lot. Your tin of weed wrapped in a bread bag, wedged in haste under the seat, 4 joints expertly rolled.  

You were gone. They'd tease me and tell me you were coming back to dig us out of the mess we were in. You'd bring a flat bed truck loaded with dirt bikes for everyone and we wouldn't have to walk for hours through the mud anymore. I believed them. Time trudged on, knee deep. And gradually your absence became so real and everywhere felt so empty. I stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped and savoured how completely free I was to remember the straw of your hair, the lines of your face, and the smooth white skin underneath it all.

ride it through

i watch the clouds

make believe themselves

mountains 

and shiver behind the wheel

for months and months

drive too fast 

find myself on ice 

at a turn

and ride it through

 and never learn

Where's Woody?