Les dieux jettent les dés et ne demandent pas si nous avons envie de jouer.
Paulo Coelho
L’esprit est comme un parachute: s’il reste fermé, on s’écrase.
Frank Zappa
La connaissance de la vie est comme le sable: elle ne salit pas.
Elsa Triolet
Au-dessus des nuages, il y a toujours du soleil.
Pierre Dudan
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I woke up a few minutes ago with a sing-song refrain in my head… I had a dream this morning, some time between 8:30 and 9:15. C’était bien étrange. J’étais avec mon chum dans un champ; il y avait des montagnes dans la distance; il faisait beau. Nous étions assis dans l’herbe; plusieurs voitures étaient sur la route tout près de nous. A girl whom I didn’t know, but my boyfriend did, stopped to ask for directions to the Emergency Department of a nearby hospital. We then realised that we would all be late for school – I was a student again, at what level I’m not sure.
Je me souviens que j’ai dû écrire une dissertation sur les dangers de fumer, et aussi de présenter un pub pour Coca-Cola (?!). Nous avion eu nos directives il y avait longtemps, mais personne dans ma class a fait leur devoirs. I rushed into my “locker room” where all my notes and texts and materials were – it was actually my bedroom in my childhood home. The bed was a mess, with the covers all piled up and clothes on the floor, and the curtains were drawn, bathing the room in a soft glow – the light in the room was exactly how I remembered it being when I was younger. I found my textbooks and notepads buried under the blankets; I collected them all in my arms and then rushed to the classroom – a large room on an incline that I’d never been in. Tout mes camarades de classe étaient là.
Chacun était nerveux; nous avons eu nos idées, mais la plupart n’a pas complété les tâches. J’ai rédigée rapidement un manuscrit pour le pub, puis j’ai organisée mes pensées sur le tabagisme. Il y avait une problème – j’avais du mal à décider entre une dissertation, avec de la recherche propre et organisée, et un poème ou une petite histoire littéraire. I finally jotted down a few lines, creating a “smoker’s sonnet”, and put it aside. The TV advert was more complicated; we had all been expected to act it out, but at the last minute the instructor decided we could just show the finished product on film. I don’t know how we all managed to prepare, shoot, and edit our adverts in less than 10 minutes, but it all worked out. I remember having had a basic concept for the ad, then at the last minute switching it to the opposite of what I had been trying to do.
I woke up at the end of my ad, the last few notes of its soundtrack still playing; the lights were coming on in the classroom, and I was feeling so relieved…
Voulez-vous savoir mon idée pour le pub Coke? Tant pis, je ne le révèle pas! 
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Photo: harperchildrens.com
Feeling sick again today. It’s cold and rainy, and my head feels very fuzzy… All I want to do is sleep. This isn’t right! I was sick all last week! This isn’t supposed to happen again, so soon…
So maybe I’ll do some things today that I didn’t do when I was home last week. Such as: read the above book, for which I am in the mood for some reason. The Giving Tree is a wonderful children’s book about a boy and a tree, and their enduring relationship. It speaks to the concepts of unconditional love and sacrifice, and the theme that there’s no place like “home”.
Also on the dock is the film You’ve Got Mail – terrible, I know. But I love it, I can’t help it! Aside from some dodgy scenes that are a tad too soppy or predictable, such as the twirling scene, or the unsatisfying ending (did anyone truly think they wouldn’t end up together?), there is some snappy dialogue and hilarious scenes. And for anyone who’s met someone online or conducted a long-distance relationship mainy via email and IMs, parts of this movie will seem awfully familiar. High art it’s not, but it’s comfortable and funny, and I watch it every time I’m home sick – except last week. So maybe I’ll make up for that today!
But first, I see that it’s 9:24; I got up at 8:30 – I think it’s nearly nap time!
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O pluie égale et froide et lente et taciturne,
Tu tombes comme un flot de larmes dans une urne!
Tu baignes le parterre et l’érable jaunis
Qui ne sont plus, hélas ! par ton eau rajeunis.
J’ai vu partir hier des troupes d’hirondelles;
J’ai vu des feuilles d’or choir comme avec des ailes;
J’ai vu des fleurs qui sont la gloire de l’été,
Pétale par pétale effeuiller leur beauté…
Si tu n’avais parfois ton soleil magnifique,
Que tu me rendrais triste, ô saison nostalgique!
Mais tes jours sont sereins et tes couchants sont beaux,
Quand la lumière douce allume ses flambeaux.
Et quelle paix descend du firmament sans voiles,
Lorsque par millions frissonnent les étoiles!
Heure exquise où soudain l’esprit s’emplit de bleu
Et s’approche, comme un oiseau, du coeur de Dieu!
Mais aujourd’hui l’averse égale et taciturne
Tombe, flot incessant de larmes dans une urne…
Albert Lozeau
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4:05 am. Wrinkly feet after a long bath. Striped pyjamas, tired body. Utter inability to sleep.
Je m’inquiète de ma grand-mère. J’ai écrit dans une note précédente qu’elle ne semblait pas très bien ces derniers jours: aujourd’hui nous avons appris la raison. Elle est malade, infecter avec C. difficile, bactérie assez grave et commun aux hôpitaux. She has a fever, seems to be completely lacking in energy, and is evidently in pain and discomfort most of the time she’s awake. Thankfully, she’s sleeping quite a bit more. While visiting her this evening, she dozed off many times; each time she woke up, she started crying. Each time she cried, I told her that she had a common infection and treatment has already started, and that her current misery is due to the infection, and is completely unrelated to anything else – that the progress she had made hasn’t gone away, that she isn’t regressing, that her actual condition isn’t worsening. That seems to calm her somewhat. Il y a maintenant un placard sur la porte de sa chambre à l’hôpital avec les directives pour les visiteurs: lavez les mains, portez un masque, mettez des gants si vous serez en contact avec la malade… J’ai vu le même placard sur la porte de la chambre voisine. C’est inquiétant.
My boyfriend continues his work in the other room; his gerbils are sleeping in their cage, on the desk beside me. My feet ache and my eyes are dry. Outside, the temperature is dropping and night is well underway. Yet another sleepless night.
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Une menace, une promesse, une insolence, une courtoisie: cette balance est celle des affaires. (Henry de Montherlant)
Je viens de completer un interview pour un nouveau emploi, celui dont j’ai posé ma candidature il n’y a que quelques jours… Je connaissais l’interviewer; il est l’ami de ma mère. D’habitude, je peux présager la décision très tôt dans l’interview; aujourd’hui c’était plus difficile. Je dirai que cette porte n’est pas encore fermé, mais qu’un résultat “en ma faveur” est loin de certain. L’interviewer m’a dit qu’il y avait de nombreuses candidats, plus qu’il avait prévu. On verra…
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Georges Moustaki et Barbara, à voir ici.
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Aujourd’hui j’ai retournée au travail, après prendre toute une semaine pour refaire une santé. Un virus particulièrement méchant a démolit ma santé et a réduit mon corps à une masse toussante et épuisée. Cela m’arrive presque chaque septembre, un tradition importun.
Pendant cette semaine, je n’ai pas visitée l’hôpital du tout, parce que je ne voulais pas infecter ma grand-mère. Je me sentais mal; ça fait 67 jours que ma grand-mère est à l’hôpital, et je l’ai visitée chaque jour (sauf un). Ainsi, une semaine sans visite m’a inquiétée! Et il y a eu des changements pendant mon absence. My grandmother’s progress is evident, if incremental. She’s more mobile, and I had the pleasure of hearing her speak yesterday. All she said was “Hi”, but it was the first time I’d heard her since the day of the accident, which was July 21st. But while her physical condition has improved, her emotional state appears to have reached a plateau, or even regressed slightly. She cries often, and just seems generally displeased with everything. She doesn’t laugh or smile as much as she has been. Just this evening, when I arrived after work, she cried when she saw me. Nous croyons qu’elle est déprimée.
I asked her as much a couple of weeks ago, when she was crying in her bed and refusing to answer my mother’s multitude of questions (“Are you in pain? Where does it hurt? What can I get you? Do you need the nurse?”). I finally asked if she was sad, and frustrated – she said yes. I asked if she just wanted to go home to her own bed – she said yes. Then my mother and I cried with her for awhile. I can only imagine how difficult this is for my Baba. She was always such a proud, dignified woman who personified grace under pressure. She never left the house without her makeup on, her hair perfectly coiffed, and her nails manicured. She loved shopping for new clothes and jewellery and perfumes and lotions. She was always polite, and loved to sing and play practical jokes on her family, and busy herself with lots and lots of cooking and baking. Now she is stuck in a body that won’t move the way she wants it to, with a very limited ability to talk, and is utterly dependent on other people. She has been rendered helpless, and she knows it. Nous faisons ce que nous pouvons pour l’aider, mais l’avenir de ma grand-mère est dans ses mains. C’est à elle de décider ce qu’elle peut faire et ce qu’elle veut faire, et comment réagir à la nouvelle réalité de sa vie. Mon grand espoir pour elle est qu’elle peut dépasser cette période difficile et retrouver sa force, et l’utiliser pour continuer à guérir, et à lutter contre ses difficultés.
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Le baiser est la plus sûre façon de se taire en disant tout.
Guy de Maupassant
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“You can’t pray a lie.” (Mark Twain)
I stopped going to church when I was 13. My father’s side of the family was mostly atheist, adamantly atheist, radically atheist, to the point where they ridiculed people who followed any religious tenets whatsoever. My mother’s side, however, was and remains quite faithful. Thus, I was a born-and-bred Catholic; my mum’s dad was a deacon in the Ukrainian Catholic church for much of his life, and her mum helped him out at funerals and at Sunday mass, singing hymns and greeting people. They believed in the values set out by their church and lived by them, and continue to do so. I, however, had begun questioning (doubting) the whole process by the time I was 10, and once I hit 13 I could no longer stomach the sermons and rituals. When I told my mother I would no longer accompany her to church, she was crushed, and angry. She blamed it on a teenage rebellion, or my father’s influence, or my laziness. But that wasn’t it – I felt like an outsider, an imposter in the church, a non-believer treading on sacred ground. It felt blasphemous, dishonest, wrong. I don’t think she ever really understood that. I couldn’t go because it felt immoral to be there if my heart wasn’t in it.
And yet, today I was party to a healing circle. It was hosted by two very religious people, a deacon and his wife who are good friends of my grandparents. My Baba is, as readers of this blog will know, in the hospital, and they came to pray over her. My grandfather and one aunt were there, too. It is customary for everyone to join in, so when my turn came up, I dutifully took the Bible and read one of the Psalms (I can’t remember which). My Baba opened her eyes and watched me while I read, and when I was done, closed them again. I’m sure the others noticed that I wasn’t crossing myself, praying quietly in Latin or Ukrainian, or uttering “Lord have mercy”s on cue. I could feel their eyes on me. But I could also feel my Baba’s eyes on me. I may not believe in what was said, but I do believe in the sincerity of those who were present, and the love that filled the room. All that positive energy and support has to be good for something. So while the others laid a hand on some part of her body and mumbled prayers under their breath, I simply held her hand, and watched her absorb all the love and encouragement that was being offered to her. Someone said afterward that she looked peaceful; she did.
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“Lambies come from here and there
Pretty soon the room is full
Curly hair is everywhere -
It’s wall-to-wall wool!”
(…) Lamb-baa-baa, lamb-baa-baa, lamb-baa-baa…
This is one of my favourite songs from Sesame Street, the groundbreaking American children’s program that began in the 70s. I grew up on this stuff and can still remember all the lyrics to most of the songs. In the spirit of lifelong curiosity and being young-at-heart, I will be posting some links every now and then to clips of some of my favourite cartoon/muppet moments. Here is the first.
In this clip, a parody of the lambada dance, The Count is counting sheep in an effort to fall asleep, but as usual, gets a little too excited.
Watch the video here.
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Automne canadien. Ardente et transparente agonie des feuillages: le baiser du soleil après la morsure du gel. Puisse notre mort ressembler à celle de ces feuilles d’érables: se laisser successivement briser par la douleur et transfigurer par la grâce…
Gustave Thibon
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I just applied for a job.
The sky is gray; yellow leaves hang motionless on trees, contrasting starkly with the darkening sky. There’s no wind, no rain, no chill in the air: just stillness. And a sense of quiet foreboding.
It’s not a job I particularly want; this was out of necessity. I believe my chances are actually quite good, and yet that knowledge doesn’t please me. I like my current job, it’s just so unstable… I hate doing things “just for the money” – it’s not how I operate. (The shambles that are my finances can attest to that.) But this job would be for the money. The job I do now, while fairly small and obscure, is important. People in the general public don’t know what I do when I tell them my job title. But the people in the community I serve know an awful lot about it, and they appreciate it, and they appreciate me. I provide a service, and it is an important one, and while on some levels it’s just a job, on another level, I can derive from it a sense of satisfaction, a sense of responsibility, a sense of “doing good”. That’s selfish, I know. But it’s important to me to know that I’m doing something that helps people, and doesn’t harm anyone. I can handle being unremarkable and forgettable personally (as can all cynics, I believe 
), but if I’m receiving a paycheque I want to know that what I’m doing means something, to somebody.
The job I do now is interesting; it teaches me things about the world, the society I live in, and the human beings around me; but it doesn’t pay all the bills. The job I applied for is just that – a job. It won’t hurt anybody but it won’t be fulfilling either. I have a big trip coming up in a few months: it’s as simple as that. Maybe I’ll get the job, maybe I won’t; either way, I feel just a little dirty today. (Dramatic, I know )
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L’amour est un rêve pour deux.
Björk
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Helen opened her eyes.
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.
“Do I need to send a search party in there?” Helen called out.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” was the reply. Vanessa came rushing in to the kitchen, pancake mix in one hand, Sam in the other. Vanessa, breathless, exclaimed, “There’s a mouse in the pantry!”
“No!” Helen shrieked. She hated dealing with rodents in the house.
“Yes!” cried Vanessa. “I saw him. He was small and dark brown with cute little pink ears and a really long, kinda pink tail.”
“Oh, damnit!” Helen said.
Vanessa frowned. “It’s not so bad, Mummy. Just catch him and let him outside like you always do.”
“No, it’s not that,” Helen sighed. She had just remembered the new lunch policy at Vanessa’s school: no peanut butter, due to the increasing numbers of kids with allergies to peanuts. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew there was barely time to make a second lunch, nevermind pancakes. “Would you mind having a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich for breakfast, instead of pancakes?” Vanessa rolled her eyes. She put the box of pancake mix down on the counter, and held out her hands. Helen put the freshly-made sandwich on a plate and handed it to her daughter. “How about some hot chocolate instead of juice?” Helen inquired.
“Really?” Vanessa’s eyes were incredulous.
“Yes. A special treat for today.”
“Yay!” Vanessa skipped to the kitchen table, dropping Sam along the way.
As Helen poured the cocoa powder into the steaming milk, with thoughts of mice and shopping lists and laundry dancing in her head, she stood over the sink, looking out the window. It was such a beautiful morning.
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