Tattoo Ru?

does she or doesn’t she?

Playoff pools make mercenaries of us all. Mostly. Even on pain of death, I will not pick from the Bruins, Islanders, Rangers, Devils or Red Wings. If I don’t like ’em in the regular season, I won’t pick from ’em in the post. But I know guys who openly loathe Philadelphia, yet won’t hesitate to name any number of Flyer forwards to their fantasy team.

In the 2010/11 playoff season, I called one of my fellow poolies on this behaviour. Mercenaries don’t try to deny that they’re mercenaries, so he was hardly penitent about it. In fact, for a few months, he was as hardcore a Flyer fan as I am. The deeper they got into the playoffs (it was the year they squared off against Chicago in the final … and %^$#*ing lost), the edgier our banter became. Finally, I openly accused him of being a fake and challenged him to a stupid dare. “If the Flyers win the Cup,” I said, “you have to get a tattoo of their logo.”

He chuckled and said, “Noooo way.”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll get mine retouched at the same time.”

Idle conversation around the cubicle promptly died. A few heads popped up to see where this was going. My poolie chum gave me a long, speculative look, then rocked back on his heels. 

“You don’t have a tattoo,” he said, smugly.

I smirked. “Just because you can’t see it is doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”

He gave me a quick once-over while trying to appear like he wasn’t and I swear I glimpsed a bead of sweat break on his forehead. “Nah,” he said, shaking it off. “No way.” He started to stroll back to his office. I called after him:

“The day after, buddy: you, me, tattoo shop!”

The office manager gaped at me in astonishment. “Ruthie, do you really … ?”

Since the Hawks won the Stanley Cup that year, no one knows for sure.

Within My Means

I quit writing last weekend. Mentally, I quit a week before then, but only last Sunday did I admit to myself that I had no interest in booting the computer. The new story I’d been so fired up about felt stale and stupid, Cristal’s angel story was too hard to sort out, and something’s gone wrong with the novel again. And blog posts? I had a head full of nothing. No inspiration, no inkling, no nuttin. I can’t even call it a block. It was a vacuum; a black hole where my passion used to be. It was—and is—the worst feeling a writer can ever have.

From desperation, I managed to eke out a card tag for Nicole and even that, I fear, ended up a bit whiny(er) compared to my usual “literary snapshot”. At least the card itself was amusing—it featured a quote from dear Oscar Wilde declaring that anyone who lives within their means is suffering from a serious lack of imagination. While writing the tag, it occurred to me that, though Oscar likely meant it literally, the quote applied to my present mental condition.

I have lately been living within my mental means and by so doing, I have suffered from a serious lack of imagination.

My job, and Ter’s, for that matter, sucks up a humungous amount of energy from January 1 to March 31. From the time I return to work from Christmas holidays to sometime around Easter, I lose my personality, my sense of humour, and my ability to create. I am so distracted, so consumed, by day to day reality that everything associated with writing—imagination, passion, joy and desire—deserts me. This past quarter has been particularly rough, and though I generally write to escape, this time around I couldn’t raise the will to think about it, let alone do it. When my mind is in control, it strangles my imagination. Life is colourless, tasteless, flat, and pointless. I go through the motions, trusting that something will change, that this too shall pass, and that I will regain my passion for wordplay.

I can’t name the moment when inspiration stirred once more. It might have been during the first episode of The White Queen—watching a woman step into a world that doesn’t want her suggested a fix for my dilemma with the novel. Then a few things happened to inspire blog posts. The pressure let up at work. The energy calmed down at home. I’m emerging from the fog of fiscal year end, fiscal year start, and too much sugar over Easter. Part of me wants to jump up and down and scream about it, but most of me is so relieved that I just want to lie in the sun and let the images form behind my eyes. I feel like my systems are coming back on line, my fluid levels are rising, and shape and colour are seeping back into a barren landscape.

I am ready once more to live beyond my means.

Live from New York …

… it’s not the Philadelphia Flyers!

Game five went to the Rangers. We’re back to Philly on Tuesday for Game 6, and I wonder if the coach will saddle up Hal Gill again, or will he go with Erik Gustafsson to replace the injured Nick Grossmann on defence? Honestly, dressing Gill was like putting a Percheron on the blue line. I don’t care if he’s played 110 playoff games—he’s scored in none of them, and while he has size on his side, height and breadth are not winning this series. I almost feel bad for the guy, given he’s 39 years old (in hockey years that’s equal to 65) and only played six times in the regular season. Okay, so he’s got great leadership qualities. None of the kids were listening. Geez, &*^%$  ^*&$#!!!

So here’s where my lamenting the old back-to-back playoff model is tested. Say the Flyers win on Tuesday. Game 7 is scheduled for Wednesday in New York, but if there’s momentum going in, chances are good that Philly will carry through to win the seventh game and the series.

Am I putting money on this? Hey, I’ve already donated $15.00 to charity. Nothing in this stupid series is predictable except the frustration level. The Rangers play the boring defensive game typical of Alain Vigneault’s coaching style. They have two guys pretty much all the time on Claude Giroux (who finally managed to score his first goal today) and are shutting down the snipers on Philly’s top two lines. The other problem is Martin St. Louis, who has finally found his groove after being traded from Tampa Bay. He’s little, he’s agile, he’s got great hands and better instincts … sure, Hal Gill can stop him from shooting.

*&$^%

Auto Biography X

“The Power of Mum”

You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but Tiggy, our sweet little SUV, is cursed. He has only required annually scheduled servicing since he was purchased in 2010 and, on the whole, he rocks. Ter and I are madly in love with him. He’s safe, solid, dependable, quick as a lizard, fierce as a tiger, and cute as the proverbial button.

Except after he’s been serviced. Here’s the history:

2011 – Tig’s first scheduled service and I’m sure something happened the next day, but perhaps this is only because something did happen the following year... and the one after that ... and the one after that ...

2012 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s second scheduled service, Ter hears a loud bang! and the steering goes funky. She pulls over immediately to discover the far rear tire is flat as a pancake. When the tow truck arrives, the driver shows her the chunk of metal responsible for the gaping hole in the tire’s tread. Eyes wide, she gasps, “When did I pick that up?”

“Oh, right now,” the guy assures her. The tire is shot but the dealer doesn’t carry that model, so it takes a couple of days (and a couple hundred dollars) to get Tig a new shoe.

2013 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s third scheduled service, Ter is rear-ended when the guy behind her doesn’t see that traffic ahead has stopped. Tiggy weathered it fairly well, but Ter was whiplashed and to this day is still in treatment for it. Tig spent two days in the shop and is sporting a new rear bumper, paid for courtesy of the other guy’s insurance. Needless to say, both Ter and Tiggy are now hyper-nervous about tailgaters. I merely wish that a flame-throwing exhaust pipe was an option, ’cause I’d have ordered one while he was in for repairs.

2014 – on her way to work the day after Tig’s fourth scheduled service (and immediately following a chiropractic adjustment), Ter is merging onto the highway when Tiggy *binks* at her. She’s accustomed to his *bink* – usually he’s signalling that the temperature is ripe for snow, so she’s actually about to say, “Tig, it is not going to snow!” What emerges is a sharp, “Crap, Tiguan! What the hell is this?”

The tire pressure warning light has engaged. Panicked and in pain, she gets him to the dealer, where a technician is corralled to inspect all four tires. The diagnosis is a computer glitch—a fair assessment, since immediately after the tire incident in 2012, the same light went on, Ter had the same panic attack, and it turned out that the computer needed resetting to acknowledge the new tire. Present day mystery solved—but while the car is here, the part they ordered to fix the oil leak has come in, so can she leave it with them for the day?

What oil leak?

Oh, the one that had been discovered during inspection and supposedly fixed the day before. Apparently the service associate thought the fix had been made, but such was not the case. Ter is really steaming now – she has to interview a new finance clerk in the afternoon so she must get to the office. Hand it to the service staff at the shop—they rallied to take care of her and her leaky little SUV. She got a courtesy car and Tiggy got his oil leak fixed. He was also washed twice in two days; more baths than he’s had all winter.

We’re now in the clear … until his next service appointment in 2015.

I’m only superstitious about hockey games, but this after-service curse is getting ridiculous. In a weird way, and perhaps unwittingly but one never knows, I think Mum might be responsible. Years ago, once Ter and I had agreed to replace our beloved Jules, the time came to tell my parents what we were getting. We knew going in that it could cause a ripple because my folks were kids in Scotland during WW II and Tiggy is ...

... a Volkswagen.

Dad took the news pretty well, but my stalwart-rebel-Scottish-nationalist mother was uncommonly reserved. After a while, she quietly confessed, “My dears, I am sorry, but I remember what the Germans did to us during the war.”

Giving the sentiment due consideration, we bought the VW anyway. Gods bless her, Mum says she’s forgiven us (as if we were ever in danger of being disowned—that’s Dad’s gig), but I suspect that deep inside, whenever she looks at our Tiguan, she winces. Ja, he’s German. He nags like a Nazi and makes you sit up straight. He runs like a military machine and thinks he’s superior to every other car on the road … but he’s our little tank and we love him so, Mum, can you please do something about lifting the hex?

Zen and the Art of Playoff Hockey

That’s better, boys! Philly now has home ice advantage, having taken game 2 away from the Rangers. It was close—they won 3-2—but they played more like themselves than in game one. And it only cost me a dollar in poor language penalties! Game three is in Philadelphia on Tuesday. I’ll be leaving work early to catch the opening face off.

Ter observed that I was awfully quiet during the game. Aside from not wanting to incur further financial infractions, I was practicing mindfulness. No easy task when one’s heart is pumping panicked adrenalin: when NY went up 2-0 halfway through the first period, I blew my cool, tossed a loonie in the swear jar, and decided I’d better get control of myself. After all, there were still 50 minutes of game left to play. Too early to go off the rails in despair. Stupid penalties notwithstanding, our PK was way better and one of my favourites, Jakub Voracek, popped one past Henrik Lundqvist before the buzzer rang at the end of twenty minutes. That helped to steady my resolve. The third goal can make or break a game, depending on who pots it. I was immensely grateful that it belonged to the Flyers. Gratitude is a good place to start in the mindfulness department.

So, rather than leap ahead in terror that, if they’re down by 2 in the first, they could blow the game, go down 2-0 in the series and be punted in the first round, I breathed in (calm), breathed out (smile), breathed in (present moment), breathed o—and screamed with glee as the puck sailed past the NY goalie. Once they were on the board, it became a matter of one more, just one more, hold them off, just one more, what the ^&%$, “chink” into the jar, reframe, one more boys, just one more … The officials were relatively fair—the Flyers will always be nabbed for trifles, but the Rangers took their share of penalty minutes, too. A couple of them were cited for embellishment, and while I disagree with the existence of the rule in principle, a) it stood the Flyers in good stead today, and b) it reminded me that the NY coach was too recently in charge of the Vancouver Canucks, who, while under his tutelage, doubled as a dive team depending on the importance of the match.

For years I have heard hockey players say that you must play one shift at a time and focus on getting one goal at a time. I’ve never fully understood the message until lately. Athletes of any ilk must be present in the moment; if one is fully mindful, one can achieve flow and make magic happen. I know, I know—hockey is just a game, but I also wonder if the team that wins is also the team that’s fully “present”.

Of course, being bigger, stronger and meaner helps, too. Just ask the %$&$# Bruins.

*chink*

Bibliography (Part 3)

“The Book Thief” – Markus Zusak

Nicole sent me this book for my birthday last year. From the first page, I understood why she loves it so—it’s written as if by a poet, with a language and symmetry that defies the rules of regular prose. The story is told so beautifully that the sadness in it makes one almost wistful. For there is sadness here, as well as loss and fear and war. There is also love and joy and courage and peace. And death. Heck., Death tells the story, and that creates another facet to this gem. It turns out that the Reaper isn’t such a bad guy. He’s just doing his job, sometimes with resignation, sometimes with wonder, never with joy. He tries to be impartial, but occasionally he encounters a remarkable human and can’t resist following that human’s path. It’s marvelous.

A few weeks after my birthday, Nic zapped me at work: “Look what we have to look forward to!” Attached to her email was a pic of a movie poster for The Book Thief. My response was, “I’d better get reading.” That I would see the movie was apparently a no-brainer, though I missed it at the theatre. I also, after reading the novel, expected it to do something at the Oscars, but it was only nominated in a minor category and lost to its competition.

Ter and I watched it on-demand the other night. I like watching movies with her when I’ve read the book and she hasn’t—since I am cursed to notice where the film strays from the page, she is my gauge for continuity, and she loved this movie. So did I. We both enjoy a good spy or sci-fi flick, but the writer in me and the humanist in Ter truly appreciates a well-told story. This film was so good that I want to read the book again. That it stayed with me after the first reading says something about the power in the story, in the characters, and in their relationships with each other and with the world. It’s a brave book about brave people and I am ever so grateful that Nic opened my eyes to it. Best of all, the movie did it justice.

The one thing we have to learn about each other is how alike we are. Stories like The Book Thief serve as good reminders.

Pool Fodder

Well, that sucked. Game one of the first round went to the Rangers in NY, 4-1 over Philly. Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless. The Flyers came out hitting but couldn’t get a face off in the offensive zone and during the second period, I saw New York starting to pull ahead in the speed/finesse department. After the Flyers took a double minor halfway through the third, I racked up most of my penalty dollars. $7.50 by the end of the game. The final ten minutes killed me. They say the first game isn’t that important, which is probably true, but when the Flyers haven’t won in New York since 2011 and the Rangers have home advantage, some reframing had better be on deck or we’re $%^&*ed.

Looks like we’ll have to hurt Brad Richards. More targeted players to follow.

And while I refused more than one offer, in the end I signed on for the playoff pool at work. My Rogues did so well in the regular season pool, after all. I thought I’d end up in 8^th place except for a mad points rush in the final week that moved me into 7^th. Clearly I am wanted in the playoff pool merely to increase the jackpot. It’s okay, though. Being included with the boys gives me special status around the office—I can talk hockey with the best of them. When Trevor Linden was named President of the Vancouver Canucks this week, one of the guys stopped by to ask what I thought about it. “It’s great,” I said. “I love Trevor!” (No treason here; who doesn’t love Trevor???)

He smirked and surveyed the décor around my room. “So, are you going to start putting the Canucks colours in here?”

“Get out of my office,” I growled.

Boys. Sheesh.

Game two of the Flyers/Rangers from Madison Square Garden on Sunday at 9:00 a.m. PST. I’d better get more coins …

Inner Silence

My father asked me one day if I ever stop talking. He meant it literally, but I was lying when I replied, “Sometimes.” In truth, my internal chatter rarely shuts up and it’s starting to annoy me as much as my external chatter annoys Dad.

I’ve been anticipating the Easter weekend for many reasons, one of which is my intent to slow down and be quiet for an extended period of time. For weeks, my brain has been revving at an unhealthy pace as I try to keep up with office nonsense. On my spare days off, shutting it down has been almost impossible. Today is utterly, completely mine. I’ve planned to write solidly, nonstop except for tea and pee breaks, but do you think my mind has allowed me to focus on anything for more than a heartbeat at a time? A thousand other things, disguised as pleasurable alternatives, have popped up to distract me from my chosen path. Sifting through them has sucked up more time than doing any or all of them likely would.

So this morning, admittedly out of desperation, I tried an experiment. I picked up Ter’s copy of Your True Home—the Everyday Wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh and sat with it for a minute. I laid the book on my knee, folded my hands atop it, closed my eyes, and pushed everything from thought but a single question: What do I need to know for today?

Eyes still closed, I tipped the book onto its spine and ran both thumbs across the edges of the pages. My left thumb “felt” louder, so I concentrated on the pages comprising the first half of the book. My thumb ran over and over until, finally, a break in the pages appeared. I opened the book, eyes still closed, and thought, Don’t look to the right. Look to the left. I turned my head, opened my eyes, and here is the wisdom that greeted me:

Inner Silence

Silence is something that comes from your heart, not from outside. Silence doesn’t mean not talking and not doing things; it means that you are not disturbed inside, there is no talking inside. If you’re truly silent, then no matter what situation you find yourself in, you can enjoy the silence. There are moments when you think you’re silent and all around you is silent, but talking is going on all the time inside your head. That’s not silence. The practice is to find silence in all the activities you do.

Did I need to hear that? You bet your sweet bippy I did. It’s the best advice I could be given, a Zen version of the paternally ubiquitous “Shut up, Ruth!” that has given me focus, something to remember as I move through my day. Achieving inner silence will help me to be here now, to find joy in each moment, and to follow my heart—at least until my hockey game starts at 4:00. After that, all bets are off.

Until then, however … silence.

Playoffs 2014

This year's Swear Jar - I'll be broke before June

Heh. The Flyers are in the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The Canucks and Leafs are not. When one of the office poolies canvassed the rest of us about a playoff pool, one of the others grumbled, “No Canadian teams made it. Who cares?”

Apparently he’s not a Montreal Canadiens fan, ’cause they’re in, but national pride doesn’t extend to the big league. If you don’t cheer for les Habs during the regular season, you’re unlikely to cheer for them as sole Canadian content in the playoffs.

My father never expects the Leafs to have a post-season, so the outcome this year won’t have destroyed him. My younger older brother and co., however, have not been heard from since the Canucks were officially eliminated from contention last week. To them I say … “Pity me, guys. My team made it!”

If I ever develop a substance abuse habit, it will be during the playoffs. If I need sedation, anti-depressants, psychotherapy, or a blend of all three, it’s during the playoffs. I spend more time in the fetal position during the playoffs. Every win is a stay of execution. Every loss is cause for Ter to hide the razors. The further the Flyers get into the post-season, the tighter my springs are wound. Why do I do this? Why do I care? It’s a freaking game, for crying out sideways.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s life or death until the best team wins, and if that team isn’t the Philadelphia Flyers, then my grudge against the winner gets smaller and colder and harder and blacker until it sits like a ball of jagged ice in the very root of my being.

$#&^* Let’s get this ordeal over with …

The Elf in the Room

A weekday evening in the Ocean Room. I’m on the sofa with my blog log, drafting a post about inner peace. After asking if I’m okay with her company and I say “Of course!”, Ter is surfing the internet while the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack plays on iTunes. I have just found my groove when she says, “Come look at this.” Obligingly, I put down my pen and join her at the computer.

What she wants me to see has nothing to do with my present mindset, so I make appropriately supportive noises and return to my writing before I lose track of the theme. A short while later, she announces that her maternal grandmother’s maiden name originates from a village in Finland that translates to “Peter from the village.” Said village has existed for 400 years.

What I was about to write down vanishes from mind without a trace. I make a pseudo-coherent sound of appreciation and go back to seeking inner peace.

I am twice more interrupted with tidbits about her potential relatives. Granny Olga is a family mystery, though my suspicion that she was Russian royalty becomes less likely as her granddaughter uncovers more Finns with her surname scattered all over cyberspace. Twice more, I reclaim the latest broken thought and continue composing my philosophical post. The R&J soundtrack is a perfect complement for the candlelight inside and the rising wind outside. It’s truly a gorgeous album; I fall into it every time I hear it, losing myself in the passion and romance of music inspired by the Shakespearean tragedy.

So when a burst of brass flatulence erupts at increased decibels from the speakers, I lurch out of my skin, the mood shatters, and I lose my cool. “What the hell was that?”

Ter gives me blue Bambi eyes. “Looks like my ‘cousin’ Esa plays the saxophone.”

“Not very well!” I snap, still twitching from the disruption.

“He has a website …”

“Don’t—go—there!”

She assumes the mischievous mien of a preschooler squaring off with the babysitter. I continue to glare daggers. It’s one of those tense moments poised between laughter and murder. After prolonged internal debate and some effort, I choose laughter. Ter, 85% certain that I won’t kill her in a fit of giggles, starts laughing with me. In fact, we laugh until it hurts, and the piece on peace is abandoned for the night.

This is why writers prefer to write alone.

“Be Not Proud”

I think about death more now than I once did. Not with fear or trepidation, but rather a relief similar to the surrender in falling asleep. A release, if you like, from the weight and sluggishness of physical being. I used to be afraid of death. Now I believe I would welcome it.

I am not that old.

* * *

I recently found this blurb in a old notebook. It’s not me; it’s a new character who could end up being the villain in yet another story idea. I found more notes that were doubtless unrelated, being in a different book and jotted down months, if not years, after this one, yet they could all apply to one story. Angels and vampires, perhaps, with a mortal caught in between. My paranormal repertoire seems to be expanding.

Some authors make a detailed outline before they start a project, kind of like writing a business plan before committing to a contract in the real world; alas, such is not the way for Ru. Normally, I am accosted by a character who wants me to be the scribe, but occasionally I will stumble upon the bones of a plot first. In those cases, I’ll still focus primarily on character because what use are the bones without the spirit to animate them? but once a character commits, I’d rather build the story as I write rather than having it all mapped out ahead of time.

Good thing I’m not in construction. Anything I built would look like it belonged in Whoville.

Mindfulness

Whenever you become anxious or stressed, outer purpose has taken over and you have lost sight of your inner purpose. You have forgotten that your state of consciousness is primary, all else secondary. – Eckhart Tolle

This happened to me on Monday. Back at work after a three day weekend and I was a wreck by dinnertime. Admittedly, the cat-herding part of my job has lately been nuttier than usual, but in trying to stay ahead of the nuttery, I lost my mind.

By that I mean I lost my state of awareness, falling prey to the Demon of Mindless Munching and consuming enough sugar to cause a combustible crash at the checkered flag. By sundown, my inner purpose had been trumped by outer purpose and my world felt dark, cold and hollow. Pointles. Joyless. Never hopeless, but certainly less hopeful.

Yes, my diet that day was a factor, but I let the frenzied pace of the office drive me off track. Anxious to stay ahead of the stress (and failing, I may add), I paid no attention to what sort of fuel I put into my coping mechanism. When I start a day fully intending to focus on each moment and that day ends in a smoking pile of rubble, I know I’ve lost consciousness along the way.

The trick is how to get it back.

My good fortune lies in Ter, who, even in her bleakest moments, has the smarts to identify what’s happening. When she is unavailable, however, I have to do the work myself.

Breathe in (calm)

Breathe out (smile)

Breathe in (present moment)

Breathe out (wonderful moment).

Rinse and repeat.

My little voice has also begun asking me what the Sam Hill is going on, whereupon I sit back and go, “Yeah, what is going on?” Since learning the difference between mind and spirit, ego and heart, it’s becoming easier for me to look objectively at my reaction to a situation and figure out where said response originates. If I’m stressed and spooked, then “outer purpose” has invariably out-muscled “inner”. Managing the monster will be a significant challenge until being mindful becomes a habit and so far it’s taken conscious, ongoing effort.

It’s also been worth it.

Hear Me Roar!

There was never any doubt, just a little internal reluctance to commit myself entirely, but as of yesterday, I’ve thrown in completely with House Lannister.

A charming family, as you can see by the write up accompanying my latest acquisition. A Vancouver jeweler called Pyrrha got permission to create a line of sigil bling for the Game of Thrones houses and, well, I just had to scoop the Lannister lion.

Declaring for the Dark Side a) takes more courage than you’d think, and b) prompted me to ponder precisely what has attracted me to this particular family. It started with the Kingslayer, and in truth, after five books and three TV seasons, he and his literally little brother remain the sole objects of my, er, admiration. The rest of the family live by a code that directly opposes my own. If moral values count for anything, I should have signed with Team Stark—they’re the heroes of the piece, but the direwolf in their sigil just doesn’t do it for me. So after much thought, I’ve deduced that the Lannisters have called to me from a previous life. Or lives.

Seriously. It’s not a stretch for someone whose current clan sigil is also a lion, with a motto stating “Royal is My Race”, to accept that, some other place at some other time, I was, or was closely associated with, royalty. Ter razzes me about it all the time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined that I was stolen from the royal nursery to be raised by a lovely middle-class Scottish family, which was to my benefit because I’d not have it any other way.

While wealth alone means little to me, the trappings of royalty seem distantly familiar—crimsons and golds, cavernous halls and luxurious coaches, rich food and fizzy wine, aimless socializing and a stream of servants fussing with hair and clothes and domestic maintenance. Some of these things I’ve replicated in this life, though I resent having to do some of the domestic maintenance myself, and I recognize now, from my middle-class point of view, that wealthy ruling families become wealthy ruling families by being ruthless rat bastards. That’s how kings were made. That’s why the MacGregors ruled the Scottish Highlands until Robert the Bruce listened to our arch rivals and made us into outlaws. Proof that being royal is not the same as being rich, sniff sniff.

I was not spoiled as a child, so my attitude of entitlement must have come from somewhere. And when I reclaim my former majesterial status, I will remember where I came from and try harder to alleviate the common man’s plight. In the meantime, I will wear my lion with pride.

Just don’t call me “princess”.

“The Laird of These Lands”

I am the laird of these lands

he says—and I smile

a patchwork prince

in threadbare clothes

barefoot in the grass

crooked staff in hand

he flings out his arms

to claim his dominion

grinning wider than the sky

he basks in his liberty

beholding to none

and I think

he is the richest lord of all

Happy birthday, Joelique.

With love,

Jocund Day

No misty mountaintops, though – I was lucky to get sun shining on the clouds obscuring them this morning. All week, sunlight on the snowy Olympics has been stunning at 7:30 a.m., but wouldn’t you know, the one morning when I’m not leaving for work … However, sun on cloud can be as stunning, and my day is still a jocund one.

Mostly because it’s a day off (woo hoo) and while sipping my morning tea, I was slam-dunked by a story idea so exciting that I forgot to brew Ter’s second cup. The original plan to contemplate my novel while reverently dusting the furniture morphed into a crazed dust-bunny-bashing session punctuated by blazing bits of witty dialogue, vivid imagery and general creative mayhem. It’s a perfect storm: a good title, a familiar character who fits my new peaches-and-cream tea, David Usher providing musical motivation, and a full day in which to unleash the first draft. Naturally, there are lurking pitfalls but I am determined to make the absolute most of my time today.

On the heels of a crazy-busy fortnight at work, this weekend is merely busy so not much time for writing: three hours in the chair with my hairdresser tomorrow, plus shopping with Ter and afternoon wet-sock-sorting;  a coffee date with friends on Sunday morning; an open house both days for the downstairs condo (Ter cheekily suggested that she wear one of her Def Leppard t-shirts and I wear my Flyers jersey to impress potential buyers); and perhaps the most thrilling of all … Game of Thrones season 4 starts on Sunday night!!!

Life is good.

Sock It To Me

Summer means a lot of things to a lot of people. Two months of school holidays. Road trips. Campfire s’mores. Sailing. Being awakened at 3:30 a.m. by annoyingly cheerful birdsong. A quieter pace at the office. Fresh fruit and outdoor markets. Buskers on street corners. Music festivals and baseball games. Mindless romance over meaty high fantasy. Top 40 radio over CBC 2. Comic book superheroes over true life adaptations at the movies. Long sunny days and short starry nights.

Ice cream.

I decided last laundry day that my favourite summer thing is no socks in the wash. Hand-fluffing those suckers between the washer and dryer is time-consuming, occasionally frustrating and, on a cold rainy afternoon, finger-bone-numbing. It’s worse in winter to be sure, but now that spring has arrived, my hankering for a sock-free summer is as acute as a parched throat anticipating lemonade.

Perhaps I should explain.

In gleeful defiance of my envisioning power, the laundry facility is located downstairs from our suite, in its own room off the back deck, ergo the “cold rainy” … er … I want to say complaint, but Ter spent a year of Sunday mornings at a laundromat because things hadn’t worked to plan where we were, so having a washer/dryer on the property where we are is a bonus by comparison, so let’s just call it an minor inconvenience. In summer, it’s great. I visit with the neighbours and play with the house dog, and catch the sun through the open door while I’m sorting the whites from the colours, but in dodgy weather, it’s a tad more challenging because of the gosh-darned socks. They won’t dry properly if I don’t fluff ’em en route from the washer, so precious time is spent handling each cold and clammy item when I’m sure a wiser individual would simply toss them as is into the drum and add an extra dime to the drying time.

Yes, I’m whining. For some reason, sock-fluffing was a pain last week and I began to think fondly of my sandals. Summer won’t be here for another three months, but I see socks becoming toys for the wee bears in the very near future …

“Nightfall”

It hangs on the clouds at the edge of the world: a town called Nightfall, where the houses have brick roofs and thatched walls, with corkscrew windows and mullioned stairs. No one will find it who doesn’t know where it is, and no one who lives there ever wants to leave. In daylight, nothing makes much sense, but when the locals of Nightfall close their eyes, they are not going to sleep.

They are waking up.

* * *

Another extremely short writing exercise. “Nightfall” is one of my favourite words. It evokes both the mist and mystery that defines my brand of romance. The imagery came to me before I fell asleep the other night and the picture was taken on a particularly odd-weather day last fall. This piece asks a question that has plagued me for some years: when you close your eyes at the end of the day, are you going to sleep or are you waking up?

The townsfolk of Nightfall have the answer.

Pretty Maids

A girl needn’t be a bride to walk beneath a floral canopy in April. A wedding gown would only clash with the lacy froth adorning the trees along the street—garbed in spring finery, they preen in the sun like pretty maids all in a row.

Don’t get me wrong. I love winter. I love stodgy food, long nights, hockey season, Christmas lights and copious cups of sweet milky black tea; however, by the time spring rolls around, I am ready for the break. Though much of the country is still buried in snow while Victoria is counting flowers in February, I never feel like we’re completely free of winter until April arrives. The winter theme on the blog has needed updating, but I had to wait for sun to coax the trees into bloom. They exploded practically overnight! So last weekend, I took the Canon on a photographic flânerie and was captivated by the apple blossoms bursting on most every branch. They look like they’re covered in whipped cream and the fragrance is nothing short of intoxicating.

The effect won’t last long. April tends to bring gusty winds and sideways showers, often while the sun beams between the cotton clouds, so within a few weeks, pink-and-white snow will collect on the street and be sprinkled over fresh-cut lawns—but that just makes the brief spell of candy-scented glory all the more precious.