Beautiful Cynicism III

In the spring, it’s a different story. Whilst the mice play happily wherever it is mice congregate in cities, the underground railroad in the house’s foundation serves as a kind of highway for a different breed of creature: insects and their cousins, arachnids. Last weekend, as I was camped out on the living room floor, I spied something moving at the other end of the carpet – the season’s first sow bug. The sow bug is an insect I’m very familiar with; they could frequently be found crawling madly along the baseboards in my childhood home, having come in with the wood that was brought in for the wood stove in the rec room downstairs. As a child I was fascinated by these insects, watching them “run” – if you doubt me, just try touching one lightly; one wouldn’t think such tiny legs could move so quickly! I also, for reasons unknown to my adult self, had a penchant for flipping the bugs upside down on their hard shell-like backs, to watch all those tiny legs in action. They’d kick and kick with all their might, and after a minute or two I’d rest some object against their legs – a toothpick, the edge of a flyer, a shoelace – and watch those little legs grasp on to whatever was being offered, allowing their owner to right itself. Then I’d let the bug go on its merry way – or, perhaps more accurately, sprint all the way to its family screaming bloody murder in a language I couldn’t understand. It was only a little later, when I was slightly older, that I started to take the bugs outside rather than leave them be in the house; otherwise, they’d just end up dying of starvation (or getting crushed by one of my parents). So last weekend, as I saw that little guy crawling across the carpet, I did what I almost always do when I see an insect nowadays: I picked up a flyer from the recycling bin, scooped him up, and put him outside. (The tricky part is always getting to the door before the bug ends up crawling on your hand. Because whilst I may be a little fascinated by them, I still don’t fancy having them on *me*.)

A few minutes ago I had an entirely different encounter, though in the end, the finale was the same. As Sophia might say: picture it; I was sitting at the computer, the very computer on which I am typing this story, when in the corner of my eye I saw movement. I looked over to my left, and indeed something was moving, rather slowly, across the floor, but it wasn’t a sow bug this time: it was a spider. About the size of a twoonie, brown, ugly as all get out. Sauntering casually across my floor – the nerve!

You see, my interest in insects does not extend to their eight-legged relatives. I’m with the majority of the population on this one: I hate spiders. I have no idea why. Six legs = no problem. Eight legs = OHMYGODGETITAWAYFROMMEI’MGOINGTODIEARGHHH! However, being of a gentle nature, I still recoil at the idea of actually killing one – though I have been known to commit arachnicide on occasion, but generally only when I have no choice; those cases where it’s either me or the spider. (Sorry, fellas: there may be enough of you to rule the world, but in my house, I still reign supreme.) As a child, the sight of a spider was enough to keep me out of entire rooms or sections of the house until I saw its lifeless corpse with my own eyes. Of course, spiders are notoriously hard to catch. (It’s those two extra legs. Damn evolution.) And they hide in notoriously hard-to-get-to places, like under cupboard overhangs and in ceiling corners.
I’ve had spiders drop off the ceiling and into my hair; I’ve woken up in bed to find myself literally face to face with a spider sitting on my comforter; I’ve stepped, barefoot, into a white, cotton-ballish spider’s nest; I’ve washed a spider down the bathtub drain only to have it miraculously hang on to the pipe and then crawl out of the overflow drain about 10 minutes later while I was having a bath… My horror stories are endless. I have done battle with countless sinister fiends and have lived to tell the tales. Including this morning.

So there he was, taking in the sights on my floor, when I slowly, gently came up to him with the flyer. And that’s when all hell broke loose. He scurried off to the safety of the corner. I chased him with the flyer, all the while saying “nononononono you don’t!” We proceeded to do a sort of demented dance for the next few minutes: he, running flat-out along the baseboard, and I, cutting him off with the flyer, causing him to turn round and run the other way, where I greeted him again with the flyer. So we both were running back and forth along the wall. At one point I thought he had given up, as he curled up in a play-dead ball; but no, seconds later he sprung into action again. I’m sure we looked absolutely ridiculous. Finally, I wrested the monstrous little beastie on to the paper and tossed him out the door (there was no time for niceties, he was moving too quickly). I watched him scurry along the stairs, and I came back inside and flopped in the chair, exhausted. Crisis averted – for now.

As are you,
     as is your neighbour
     as is your cousin
     as is your best friend
     as is your avowed enemy.
Are we not all quilts,
our personas a patchwork of
different colours, patterns, and textures?

To some I am intelligent,
exuding quiet confidence.
To some I am an activist,
principled and opinionated.
To some I am a nurturer,
a smile ready on my lips.
To some I am a writer,
and we share in the power of the written word.
To some I am judge and jury,
hard-hearted and uncompromising.
To some I am childlike,
filled with wonder for simple things.
To some I am invisible,
lacking in drama and extroversion.
To some I am a monster,
selfish and forgetful.
To some I am musical,
delighting in song and dance.
To some I am happy-go-lucky,
always laughing, always pleasant.
To some I am oversensitive,
taking offence at everything in sight.
To some I am a counsellor,
providing advice and a sympathetic ear.
Within,
I am all of these
at once.
Without…

One cannot be everything to everyone,
     and yet we try.

between light and dark
     sun and wind
     word and deed
like hoarfrost on a winter’s morning
like a heart hardened one time too many
firm, yet so delicate
     suspended in time
     and cold to the touch

It never happens in one fell swoop.
Goodness slowly chipped away
     one molecule at a time.
Units of trust and respect, expressed in
     smiles
     laughs
     sighs
     and gentle moans.
Can we ever be aware, truly?
Can we ever comprehend the loss of something
we never knew existed?
That delicate balance of trust and respect,
of hidden and visible,
of knowledge and fears.

Operant conditioning of the soul
Am I so used to the shock
as to have rendered it no longer shocking?

I wade knee-deep into memories
the scent of cilantro
    warmed by afternoon sun
the song of the wind in treetops
    dancing in Mount Arrowsmith’s shadow
A sign of strength, or a sign of
    weakness?
And what if I cannot tell the two apart?
And what if they are one and the same?

My heart aches, my blood boils
my breath catches in my throat
    that familiar feeling of
    hitting my head against a brick wall
    again and again

The moutain, bathed in the
mauvish hues of a sunset,
my curves, soft and supple,
bathed in pleasant but ancient history,
my cloak of bubbles a message
from another time,
    of Molotov cocktails and
    love in every room

I bear witness and feel… nothing.
Well, something.
I can’t forget, as was sung
and, equally,
I forgot to remember to forget
as heard on my mother’s stereo
so many moons ago.
Why does the wisdom of our elders
not prevent us from repeating our mistakes?

Pensive? Perhaps,
and why not?
Have I not lifetimes to conjure,
    memories to deconstruct,
    hopes to nurture?
    … or was that the other way round?

Perhaps I have grown used to the treachery
Perhaps I have grown tired of it all
Perhaps I have grown
    Or
perhaps it matters not, simply because
he is here and so am I

La lune est grande, très grande, enrobée de brouillard, penchée juste en haut des toits des maisons du quartier. Après une nuit remplie d’un sommeil interrompu, elle s’est levée avec difficulté. Pourtant, elle est debout, c’est ça qui compte. Depuis quelques temps, la ville – et la province, vraiment tout le pays – est dans le grand froid, un froid énorme et lourd. Le mercure du thermomètre ne bouge pas beaucoup: il reste piégé en dessous de -31 degrés, la température la plus chaude de ces derniers jours.

Tout d’un coup, la belle du ciel jette sa cape de brume, et toutes les couleurs deviennent clair dans le froid du petit jour: l’ivoire de la lune, le brun sinistre des arbres morts, le blanc de la fumée des cheminées, le bleu-lavande du ciel matinale. Est-ce que la lune sera pleine ce soir? Peut-être un manque d’équilibre ces jours-ci est normale, après tout…

Un moment – rien qu’un instant – bref et sans importance, gravé sur la mémoire d’une personne, totalement oublié par l’autre. C’est ainsi que la vie se vit: on ne peut pas deviner les pensées secrètes des hommes. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Nous vivons une vie semblable mais pas identique; nous croyons savoir ce que nous trouverions au fond des coeurs de nos pairs, mais ce ne sont que des suppositions. Une vie commune mais séparée. Chacun bâtit sa propre réalité.

Dans son monologue intérieur perpétuel, cette bande son à sa vie, ce sont des petits moments – une geste négligente, une odeur, le reflet de la lumière dans une flaque d’eau – qui deviennent importants. Des moments qui
sont peut-être insignifiant, peut-être même pas remarqué par la plupart du monde, mais qui gagnent en importance à elle. Il y a des souvenirs qui sont très clairs, qui se jouent comme un film sur les paupières, qu’on peut revivre si facilement. Elle prend ces petits moments et elle les tricote, soigneusement, à la main; elle les relie à des autres petits moments, pour fabriquer un tissu riche, luxe, majestueux. Une robe de souvenirs, convenable à elle et à elle seule. Divers moments quotidiens, matière brute travaillée et transformée: la substance de la trame de la vie.

La méchanceté, elle ne l’aime pas. Mais c’est l’indifférence qui la tue.

Un de ses grands défauts est sa tendance de comprendre trop tard le vrai sens des choses. Il y a toujours cette instant où tout devient clair, où on voit droit devant soi et on comprend, enfin, le sens d’une geste, d’une parole errante, d’un regard… Peut-être est-elle trop emballée par sa propre histoire, ses souvenirs, son monologue intérieur? Une douce réalisation la frappe, humblement, sans fanfare, just like that. Face à ce qu’elle voit comme une indifférence atroce, enfin elle comprend. Les êtres sensible réfléchissent à n’en plus finir; ils savent que chaque mot porte un poids, qu’un regard simple peut raconter toute une histoire, qu’un sourire peut changer le cours d’une vie. Ils savent également que les gens les plus sensibles peuvent parfois être étonnament insensible. Ceux qui font de leurs souvenirs une belle maison lumineuse, ouverte à tous qui souhaite la visiter, sont condamnés à une déception perpétuelle. L’âme rêveuse connaît bien le compromis qu’elle doit faire.

Another day just like any other day. Alarm clock buzzing, sun streaming in through the window by her bed. She reached over, hit the “snooze” button, and yawned. After composing her daily mental to-do list, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and got up. Morning fog obscured the view of the nearby park, but the sounds coming from the open window told Helen that only crows and seagulls were playing there. It was a beautiful morning. She pulled a ratty pink housecoat over her striped pyjamas and stepped into her fuzzy pink slippers. As she left her bedroom, Helen noticed the red, blinking alarm clock: 7:55.

She could hear Vanessa stirring in the room down the hall. Soon the house would be a flurry of activity as Vanessa was readied for school, but for now, all was quiet. This was Helen’s favourite time of day, the calm before the storm. She put on a pot of coffee, collected the newspaper from the front steps, and fed the cat. “Better make Vanessa’s lunch before she wakes up,” Helen thought to herself. She realised she was too tired to be creative. “Peanut butter and jelly it is,” she declared. The cutting board was kept in a drawer by the sink. Above the sink was a window, overlooking the back yard. As she sliced the bread, Helen watched tiny hummingbirds dart to and from the feeder on her balcony. “Their feathers are so shiny,” thought Helen. “They nearly glow.” She went to the cupboard for the peanut butter and picked up the container: empty. “Damnit!” In the old days, she would have cursed, and yelled to no one in particular, “Can’t anybody replace things when they finish with them?” But that was back when there were other people to blame. Now it was just Vanessa and her. And she couldn’t really yell at an 8-year old for finishing the peanut butter. Helen sighed. “I just hope there’s another jar in the pantry.”

As she walked back to the kitchen, Helen could hear Vanessa moving about down the hall. She waited patiently for her daughter to emerge from her bedroom. The sun continued to rise, warming the whole kitchen. It really was a beautiful morning.

Vanessa appeared in the kitchen doorway about 5 minutes later. She was still in her nightgown, a thin, frilly lace thing given to her by her grandparents last Christmas. It was decorated with tiny embroidered flowers. Vanessa loved it; she insisted on wearing it almost every night, if it wasn’t too cold. “Have some juice,” said Helen, as she offered a glass to her daughter. Vanessa replied with a big yawn, flashing her tiny, perfect white teeth. “But I don’t want juice, Mummy. I want pancakes!” Vanessa never spoke harshly. Instead, she always made her demands in a quiet voice, full of sweetness and innocence. Helen couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, all right. Bring me the mix from the pantry,” she replied. As Vanessa skipped down the hall, her hair reflected the rays of sun coming in through the window. She took her floppy bunny doll with her, one of its legs dragging on the ground. The bunny had been a gift from an aunt, for Vanessa’s third birthday. Vanessa immediately christened it “Sam” and carried it with her ever since. She took it everywhere – grocery shopping, family dinners, walks in the park, and, of course, to bed. The only time Sam was left at home was when Vanessa went to school. Helen had tried to persuade Vanessa to leave Sam alone more often, gently reminding her that she was getting older and was no longer a little girl, but to no avail. Sam was her security blanket, and she wasn’t ready to let go. All Helen could do was throw Sam in the washing machine once a week. “If she insists on being seen with a stupid bunny, at least I can make sure she’s being seen with a clean stupid bunny,” she thought.