Mushaboom

Next time I'm feeling shitty I'm gonna play the song Mushaboom and remind myself Fesit wrote it after travelling into the future to life as I know it right now.

woof meow poop

Why have I suddenly taken up blogging? Because a few days ago I realized the most coherent sentence to come out of my mouth all day was to my dog Wellington: "Dodo, you want a kookie?"


A few more tidbits from the transcripts of my daily life with a cat, a dog and a newborn baby:


Me: Bika Bika want a brushie? (to Milo the cat)


***
Me: Dodo, no runned away, dingdong dodo! Go fo a wok dodo?


Wellington: *wags tail* (this being the most coherent thing I hear all day)


Me: "Git the schquirrel dodo."


***
Juniper: Wah wah cooooo wahh Awhooohunn


Me:  Oh daas baybay, you sad? Dawahweeewahwoz.

As you can see the most I get in return is a muttacular wag of the tail, a reassuring feline narrowing of the eyes, or sphinct-orations from a newborn about the robo-calls scandal in the US of eh! aka Canada.

Humour me?

tiny cocoon

I like this photo we took of Juniper right after coming home from the Whitehorse General Hospital/Spa because it makes it look like I gave birth to a multivitamin instead of a human being sized creature.

no running water

It didn't happen on purpose. We didn't seek out housing that lacked something so fundamental as running water because we were trying to save the world or the whales or the whatevers. This is just how things worked out and I am glad it did because it means we don't live downtown, it means our front yard is a field of horses, followed by a line of trees, followed by a slope, followed by another field of horses, followed by more trees and then the river and then, wait for it, MOUNTAINS!

For example: Early this morning I was outside and I noticed a single line of footprints in the snow. On closer inspection, Squanch attributed them to a fox. This fox makes up the bulk of the traffic in front of our cabin for the last week. Of course there are Raven's in our airspace, they heckle us from time to time, but I can deal with that.

Life without running water. RADICAL Eh? Apparently. It's one of the first things that came up when the issue of a certain neglected northern reserve close to a diamond mine was in the daily news. "How do they live? How deplorable for the government to let them live like that!" I have never been to this reserve, and I don't mean to belittle the issue, but whenever I heard mention of the no running water detail my first thought was: "Big deal."

Because it really isn't a big deal for us. Of course this is only because there are many places we can go to acquire free, clean, safe water.

• BLUE JUGS - Drinking, dishwashing, sponge bathing, face washing, teeth brushing. We have about 6 of them and we refill them at a nearby service station (gas / convenience / laundromat / showering place) where many other beardy locals draw water from as well.
• LAUNDROMAT - Laundry and showering facilities for Me (same place as above)
• WORK - showering facilities for Squanch
• RIVER - summer supply of all non-potable watering needs such as: laundry, watering garden, showering in the bathing house equip with a woodstove for warming water, and this spring, will be equip with a paloma for on demand water heating purposes (all those treeplanting camps we lived/worked/ran are coming in handy). 

Let's be clear:

I miss bathtubs. Words cannot express how spectacular baths feel when you can't have one at will. I am getting goose bumps just thinking about it. Today, I'm listening to Greg Brown while making lasagna and trying to keep the baby happy aka alive and there is a line in one of his songs "I want to buy you the biggest bath tub in the world." And to me, right now, those are the most romantic lyrics ever.

living at the cottage

Home right now  (taken before the snow came, forever ago in fall)

I've spent some of the happiest times at cabins and cottages and I've always wanted to live in one, didn't see why people kept them tucked away as sacred weekend and holiday places, when they could have that feeling all the time and live there.


And so when I get the sense from people that they think I am roughing it HUGE - like impossibly HUGE, like "you have no fucking running water? how do you bathe? where do you go to the bathroom? BUT YOU HAVE A NEWBORN BABY!" - I just have to laugh  because our life is so amazing, so steeped and strong with everything good and everything I believe in.

You may have a cottage or a camp. If not you may have been invited to one at some point in your life. How restorative do times spent in these outdoor focused places feel? How warm and calm and gooey do you feel hugged in the arms of logs, of wood, of the stuff the trees made so you could have a roof over your head?

privy to my privy

Open the door, leap down the two steps of the porch, round the cabin, down the path made in the snow by feet on so many similar pilgrimages, hug bare arms against the cold, open the latch, fling open the door, throw your pants down to your knees (not ankles), don't look down, sit on the clever pink foam warm in the place of toilet seat, pee or poo, more than likely poo, and as you do contemplate the constellations of purposeless tacks in the back of the door where copious amounts of "stupid-ass- sayings" used to reside, put there by someone else.

Somebody else's sayings... Eff that. No, thank you. I'd rather this door be blank than full of Oprahesque phrases and witty Bill Cosbyisms. I'm going to put a pen and paper in there so we can add to the sayings  at our leisure. Will keep you posted on new turd-bits of wisdom so the stupid-ass-ness of the saying are kept in check.

Air freshener in the freshest air in the world. What overkill. I love how nature is making fun of the tree smelling thing by hanging it's own little version adjacent. Our hole doesn't stink unless the frozen poo stalagmite that gets formed from the outhouse not being properly centered over the hole has built itself up close to the opening. Then Squanch has to wait until it gets warm enough to budge it with a broken shovel we used for poolagmite removing purposes only. Too much info, perhaps? Well, just be thankful I didn't take a photo of the glorious thing.

Mere (in the winter after planting)

this is a character i have a hard time writing but when i do it ends up being way more authentic than when i try to write any of the male characters.

Fiction Alert!


I am not supposed to be pregnant. No. Especially, I am not supposed to be pregnant and painting. Where is the inspiration coming from now? Cigarettes, drugs and booze were my muse. A lot of people, men people, the ones in bands, think it's the music. No. Music is what I used to smoke during the breaks from cigarettes, drugs and booze. Now all I've got is the music and the emptiness where vice used to be and it occurs to me that music is not that bad and emptiness is okay once you tarnish it somehow with the dirt of life experience.

The attic of the B and B is no longer cold like it used to be. Byron spent the first part of September - after the tourists left and before I returned - insulating my studio. Perhaps to ensure I never leave again like I did last fall. It's too warm now but I can't tell him this. It is stifling. I open the window and the air and the sounds of outside are invited in and a little bit of my soul is allowed out. The music is different somehow now too, not better or worst, just different.

The music is distracting, yes. When you listen to familiar fingers making sounds against the guitar and know you have made similar sounds under similar circumstances, with those exact fingers, and you start to sway with brush in hand and you picture yourself as you once were, mistress-home-wrecker to guitar-wife.. you feel guilty and this guilt becomes shape and colour on canvas. It isn't a bad thing. and when you start to get the impression the music is painting through you and you feel phony for just a second when you paint the sound of his voice orange and wonder if you should worry about offending him, or worst, flattering him.

I place the brush upside down in the jar, wipe my hands down the front of my belly and make an attempt at finding an album of music consisting of a band free of past lovers, real or imagined, and it is a difficult task. I settle for Janice Joplin. Of course it is impossible to not be nostalgic when the future holds nothing but the impossibility of kinetics and the promise of pain. And Janice Joplin reminds me of the summer I just had and the boy who, unbeknown to him, changed everything about my future while fighting hard to forget his own past...