A BAD END

                                   Poor wee mousie.     Poor sweet, unsuspecting thing.

Just a baby, really, swimming frantically, - and hopelessly trying to gain purchase on the slippery walls. Happily, its panic, like itself, was short-lived. But to think of that little bit of furry life just performing the astounding feat of climbing up the outside of the toilet bowl, only to end up as it did.

What might have attracted it, do you think? What irresistible scent? Was it the half-fermented middle-of-the-night pee? – unflushed to keep the peace – a pee resulting from the earlier middle-of-the-night hot toddy of Irish whiskey?

Perhaps the recycled whiskey gave off an inviting aroma – a promise of warmth on the cold, minus 20 degrees Celsius Toronto night. And what a lousy lie was that promise, when, after hours of futile attempts to escape Lake Urea, there he was, underneath me, who was still half-asleep after the whiskey-induced late rising, bombarding him with my morning business very quickly and efficiently (for which, by the way, I give solemn thanks).

There was just one funny little second, right before I dropped the toilet paper in behind me. What was that strange tiny noise? My ears are sharp, and when you’re in the house alone, you notice things. There was a very small “blip” in the water, but it happened before I dropped the paper. So what would do that?, I wondered.

Then I stood up, and even without my glasses, could see that there was one dark bit of product that seemed to have a tail.

That’s when panic, his expressed in mad scurrying to get out of foecal hell, became mine as well, as I flashed back to all the horrible incidents I’d experienced during my country living sojourn. I won’t go into them all – the dead bodies floating in the dishwater; the carcass, still in the trap, inside my boot when I put my foot inside (I’d been looking everywhere for that trap!); the pellets inside the wall logs drilled for electric wires; the green mouse shit everywhere after I laid out those nourishing green ‘poison’ bars; the spaghetti in the typewriter – this after I’d told myself to stop whining about problems and do something positive, like writing, only to find that the keys wouldn’t work. Pasta in the carriage will do that. There was also the pails of water with a tempting bit of peanut butter on a tin can that revolved on a wire above the abyss. Sort of a throwback to the loggers of the county who used to try and stay upright on the river logs, except loggers could do it, and the mice, well…. lots of them spun like crazy and ‘fell’ for that homemade trap; they ended up on ‘dead mouse hill’. And then, the piece de resistance – the day I came home starving – threw a piece of bread in the toaster, ate it, then threw another one in, and had the most revolting smell go through the house. One toasting wasn’t enough, apparently, but two really cooked that greedy guts who crawled right into the electric elements and got caught there.  I had to throw out the toaster, of course.

All these memories in one lightening flash, but my anti-rodent reflexes were even faster, slamming the toilet cover down and flushing before the message even got to my brain of having hovered over the vile creature and having exposed my most vulnerable self to his desperate reaching.    One swoosh, and it was over.

I washed my hands and face, and regained my calm, humming a childhood rhyme: “Here I sit a-sewing, in my little housie; nobody comes to see me, except my little mousie” & saying to myself - really, you'd think the mouse population in the whole of Ontario Would know by now: if you enter my house, you don’t ever get out alive.

COMMUNITY

            I don't have a computer at home, so I have to go to a neighbourhood community centre to get online.  It's a great service to have available, and the staff are very friendly. I go there often.

            I dropped in Monday morning after being out of town on the weekend, and saw a notice on the front door, with a photo of a smiling young man, and words to the effect of “in honour of....”   I went to the front desk to ask what it was about and was horrified to learn that the beautiful smiling man had been murdered on Saturday – shot on a downtown street of Toronto.  A co-worker told me there would be a memorial gathering there on Wednesday evening.

            I went to the centre that night, feeling a little strange and out of place.  I hadn't known the young man, called Nahom (pronounced na-home); I worried that I would seem like some kind of maudlin eavesdropper when I saw the chairs all set out in a circle; a staff member said it was meant to be an opportunity for people to express their feelings about the sad event. I thought of just slipping out before anything got underway. 

            But I stayed there, looking at photos, reading the cards that many people had filled out with comments about 'what I liked about Nahom'.  He was very well-liked, and respected; was involved in many programs; made friends with everyone, but the most common phrase was “His smile!, which apparently was magic, and lit up the world for many. 

             I waited a bit longer to add my name to a book set out in the hall, but the line-up was slow, and eventually the meeting got started.  Sitting on some stairs at the back, I was outside the circle, but was encouraged to move within the group, so I did.

            I had read the notice quoting the newspaper article, about how devoted Nahom was to the work he did, what an effective community worker he was, all the studies he had undertaken to do what he did, all the accolades.  But nothing came close to the raw emotion  that I witnessed over the next hour.  Person after person got up and spoke, with broken English and very broken hearts, telling of all the work he had done with them, the interest he had taken, the efforts he had made to make them comfortable, and the knowledge he shared to help them find their way as newcomers.  And once more....”His smile!”  I felt sorry that I hadn't met him, and at the same time felt I did know him, how bright he was, how much he gave, and how he made people laugh. One woman thanked his family through her tears for the fact that she had had time with him.  One young girl wept uncontrollably, but still managed to say, “Keep believing in him, keep loving him, keep talking to him!  And let him help you, he wants to help us now, and he will, if we listen.” There was a silence after that, a pause for everyone to recover. His sister entreated us to spread love, as he had, to let go animosity from the past. And then a young man got up and spoke of how Nahom had been like a brother to him, unlike his four 'real' brothers, who never spoke to him, or 'went out with' him.  Nahom gave him time and an ear.  He mourned the loss of this brother he loved.

            I left after the speakers were finished.  I didn't stay to hear what the official grieving team had to say.  They were sincere, and no doubt very capable, but I just felt that all their words were unnecessary, that the friends and co-workers and even people who had only met Nahom just recently, had all spoken very eloquently of his impact on them. What is there to say, really, when someone so valued and so promising and generous is simply taken out?

            As I walked along the Danforth, I was sad, and I thought, more sad than I had felt for people or relatives who had died.  I think it was that this young man had so much spirit, so much of the kind of spirit that we cry for.  And I think it was all magnified by the fact that the community who mourned him were made up of people from so many different countries and religions, all coming together with a single heartfelt sorrow and a plea for prayer. The other phrase I heard repeatedly during that sad hour was “I'll never forget you, Nahom, never!”

            You can read more in The Toronto Star, Sept.29, 2014

.  Nahom Berhane

A CONSTANTLY SURPRISING REFRAIN

I have a big unhappiness in my personal life these days, so I can't talk.  No words.
However I'm happy when I sing, so the gig last Wednesday was a good respite, (I'll upload pictures later), and I look forward to these ones coming up:

Friday, Aug. 9, 2013  6:30pm to sunset

Music by the Gull (Minden, Ont.)

Saturday, Aug. 31, 2013  8pm

The Minden Legion, Hwy 35

with the Dance Band 
 
Meanwhile, about a month ago I wrote this piece, called "LIVE THE DREAM".  Courage to those who will.

Ever wonder what you would have been if you'd lived another life, or if the events or circumstances, or people in your life had been different?
I was walking through an upper-middle class neighbourhood in Toronto the other night, on my way to an old-fashioned neighbourhood movie theatre.  I looked at the stucco and flagstone-faced homes - exteriors added on to the original brick buildings.  The lawns were shrubs and flowering bushes rather than grass; the entrances were all distinctively modified and diverse.  As I passed by with my straggly hair and black t-shirt and tights, my keys and Fox 40 whistle jangled on the lariat around my neck.  It was stamped with the logo of the music organization I belong to, and was my only "jewelry".
I walked along the street, and the early summer evening reminded me of times I'd spent in the city before I knew anyone, or anything; before I made any choices.  It made me nostalgic for the awakenings and newness of leaving home.
I looked at the neat, comfortable houses that spoke of achievement and confidence; of worlds foreign to me, and I tried to envision myself as mistress in one of those homes.  I would be married, no doubt - a state I had always studiously avoided - married to a lawyer, perhaps, with three or four lovely children, and a housekeeper.  I'd have a very good executive job with a very profitable company.  We'd have lots of good friends in high places, and we'd entertain below the chandelier and up at the cottage (in the family for years).  I would smile with pleasure and fatigue each night as we curled up with each other and dropped off to sleep.
"Don't forget that political meeting tomorrow night, darling.  It's an early start."
Then one night I'd dream a crazy scenario of myself singing onstage with a group of fun-loving musicians. I'd see me wearing a sparkly stage outfit, my hair long and straight like it was before the kids, and I'd experience this amazing rush of excitement and emotion and power that seems so real that it wakes me up.  I'd lie there looking through the curtain sheers at the full moon, and have a sense of sadness, almost, that the joy I'd felt had simply evaporated.

I'd watch the moon glide in the sky and wonder, thinking what would my life have been if I had gone a completely different route?  What would I be like?
Eventually, I'd get drowsy, and just before falling asleep again, I'd remember my hair appointment the next afternoon.

TO FETCH A PAIL

Here’s a little piece I wrote a little while back, when I arrived up north, and never got around to posting.  Very short summer reading.

TO FETCH A PAIL

Time, sunshine, opportunity – and life, really.  It all seems wasted on me.  I’m here on a beautiful beach, facing the western sun as it splashes itself over the lake and the sand and the other people here on this mid-July day.  Four in the water, six on the small beige stretch – including me.  Other folks may be just finishing their workday here, or in the city.  I shouldn’t have a care in the world, but I’m alternately pissed off or weepy.  Even the toddler running back and forth shouting “I’m gonna getcha” as he chases his parents, doesn’t cheer me up; or the cheer is fleeting.

What is it with me?  Come on, wind.  Blow the smell offa me. Blow me back, back, and back some more to a place in my soul that can breathe.  The sun is hot when the wind dies; the lapping water calls me then.  Come in. come in. Forget your miserable life and feel something real.  I just stare into space.

And then, suddenly, I’m aware they’re all packing up to leave, and it’s just empty beach; quiet; soothing; waves rocking.  I sit, like the abandoned metal pail a few feet from me.  It waits; I wait.  For someone to fill me; to carry me; to carry for them; I wait to be lifted; I wait to swing with movement; to shape a castle; to inspire play.

I finally get up and go to my car. I know from life that waiting for anything or anyone is a waste of time, that i must be my own activator.  I get my bottle of water, my fifty-cent samosa from the city, and my bathing suit.  As usual, I’m motivated by food.  On the way back, I pick up the metal pail, and place it on the sand beside my chair.  I put the water bottle in.  Champagne and hors d’oeuvres lakeside.

the knots of life

Looking inward is dangerous sometimes

Some people are walking on the road behind me, clapping, hooting.  If they’re trying to get my attention, they’re failing – other than having themselves immortalized in words.   I won’t look at them.  They pass, as all things must.  And meanwhile, in front of me, the waves pass.  I watch, and wonder where the thoughts that I brought here are.  I imagine their floating out from my head when I first arrived, and then being carried off by the water far away – perhaps to the next town by this time.  It gives me satisfaction to think that people by some other shore have my problems now.

Around the world they go.  And myself, like an ancient ancestor, wishing them godspeed.

There was a huge dark cloud a few minutes ago, blocking the sun.  That too has passed, and now – hot samosa inside, hot sun out – I’m feelin’ hot, and pressured by my brain urging me to go on! Be spontaneous! (spontaneously contrary to my own lethargy, at least).  Do something today.  Change the channel.

Here comes a speeding boat – silver dart; black silhouette; fading buzz of the motor carried away on the wind and overtaken by the sound of a car stopping on the road.  Voices get closer to me, and then the two of them come into sight as they walk, mother and daughter, circling a small area, searching.  My hand drops over the side of my chair, protectively hovering over the metal pail.  “Did you lose something?” I ask, standing up.  I play with my bathing suit, as if I was going to put it on.  “Her shoes.  Pink crocs,” said the mother.  “Haven’t seen them,” I say, “and I’ve been here for over an hour.”  They leave.  “Maybe some of your friends took them for you,” mom says to her dejected child.  A metal pail wouldn’t make her happy, I think.

 And then, honestly, I can’t explain.  One minute I’m watching them walk away, and the next, my nose is skimming stones and I’m watching the waves’ shadows on the lake’s bottom.  And I’m pushing my way to the surface, and backstroking along the shoreline, watching the tall pines of “Tall Pines Road” against the white clouds and blue sky.  The universal solvent dissolves; resolves.

I lie face down on my towel, and let the sun dry me, panting a little and letting my shoulders sink into the sand.  Those problems must be well on into the southern lakes by now.

Go on, fly, little birds

WHAT'S LUCK GOT TO DO WITH IT?

What would I say now? I want a brief escape from the road of life. Music is my focus - sometimes, but not always.  I am driven to write, have been driven all my life.  Life itself is too vast and demands its many needs be met.  Today I need to find a place in myself - to let myself wander through the unknown landscapes of my own heart and mind.  I need to be free of all my own conventions and habits, and go, or at least imagine myself going, to a world of possibility and potential, a place where the natural instincts of joy, trust and creativity are not sullied by the crap - whoops, did I say crap?  - I mean, by the distractions and limited visions and neuroses that a person so often meets.  Let me go to a more natural state of love.  Let me at least believe it's out there.  Let me meander through space and time until I happen upon it - accidentally, on purpose.
As Piaf once sang: "Non, je ne regrette rien."  All that's past is past, and now "je repars a zero." (sorry, francophones, don't have the accents on this computer).  I'm always starting at zero, it seems, but I don't see that as a negative, rather as an important element, and necessary for the prevention of bad habits or comfortable ruts.  We have an unhealthy attachment to our own selves, at times, and to our own points of view.  I rather like the feeling of being a nobody - an unknown traveller in strange new lands,-

and of meeting the world afresh. Of course, I would always carry my MasterCard or VISA with me, and psychologically speaking, I am likewise always armed.  I never leave home without the insurance of my own internal sense:  brains to see, hear, process; mouth to speak; guts to warn; and heart to love.  "And the greatest of these is....."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I eat whole, natural, non-GMO, and organic-as-much-as-possible food. (except for french fries once in a while, of course.) And I try to keep to the same healthy regimen with things that enter my mind.  'Mens sana in corpore sano', n'est-ce pas?  da vero?  nach bhfuil?  Protecting the environment - one's own up-close and personal space, - is job one, physically and mentally.  And so, I will away.  I'll write, I promise.