Puckin’ Around

In all the excitement of my working holiday, I forgot to mention the results of the regular season hockey pool. Ever the groundbreaker, I was part of the first-ever tie for second place, which entitles me to half of the runner-up prize money. In all fairness, I tried to get the pool administrator to list my fellow second placer ahead of me in the archival list, since his team had more goals than mine, but the response surprised me. My team won as many points in fewer games, so my name precedes Craig’s for all posterity, and I get half the cash. I’m amazed to have got that far; between January and March, I seemed doomed to stay in fifth place, but in true “gotta make the playoffs” fashion, my guys made a mad dash to the finish and suddenly I owned the second spot by one point. It literally took the last game of the season to determine the final pool placements. The office pool was a wilder ride than the league standings this year.

I doubt I’ll do so well in the playoff pool.

I became a temporary Canuck fan for the first round of post-season. They pushed their series to six games and lost in Calgary on the weekend—I hope no one loses their job over it, since they exceeded all expectation after last year’s atomic coaching failure. The players themselves seemed surprised to have made the playoffs.

Which may have been their undoing.

It was acutely evident to me that the primary difference between the Flames and Canucks was their attitude. The Flames played like they were thinking, “We made it here; we can do this!” and the Canucks were, “We made it here? Can we do this?” In the end, they couldn’t. They blew a three goal lead and lost 7-4 in game six. But I, a proud Canadian, am rooting for Anaheim in the conference semi-final, and here’s why:

Calgary was in the lead, 5-4. The Canucks pulled their goalie with a minute left. With thirty seconds left, the Flames scored in the empty net. Vancouver was obviously done, gone, kaput, and the kids from Calgary were on their way to the next round. So they didn’t have to score a second empty-netter with nine seconds left. But they did. And they celebrated like it was a major coup. It wasn’t. It was just rude. No class at all. Shame, shame, shame, little boys.

They’ll have their hands full with the Ducks, though. Anaheim grounded the Jets in four, and with Ryan Kesler heating up, the Flames may be the ones who get roasted.

Blackout in Effect

A chilly spring morning, the mercury sitting at nine degrees with clouds and showers expected later today. Right now, it’s sunny … and I’m dawdling.

Ter dropped me in the village and I treated myself to a “real” Asian Mist—all milk despite my recent dairy-free status, a risk I’m willing to take with three days of vacation left. I can afford a flare if that’s my fate.

Re-work on the novel has been slow, due in part to my dawdling but mostly because I’m rewriting more than I’d imagined I would. And it’s daunting. So I let myself be distracted by F***book and Youtube (lots of Lep stuff there!) to the detriment of the project, and every day I become increasingly anxious that I’ll get nothing accomplished before heading back to the mill.

Well, not nothing. I’ve laundered the bedding and taken long walks. I’ve learned (happily) that Rick Savage is partial to Maseratis—my kind of man—and Joe Elliott likes a 4x4 because there’s loads of room in one. I’m brewing more kombucha and will have another batch of pfefferneuse in the freezer before Friday. Most importantly, I’ve learned how to answer my phone. But where actual writing is concerned, there’s not much to show for my working holiday.

So I’m going dark for a couple of days, to focus on the re-write and get some momentum going. I want to wake up thinking about the story instead of what witty remark I can post on F***book. I get than an author should be interactive with her audience, but she’s only an author if she’s writing offline and I’ll kick myself if this week passes without some significant progress on the novel. Part of me thinks I should blow it up and start from scratch, but three hundred pages in and I’m reluctant to dump any of it. Much of it is good. I’ve loaded the files into a separate folder and am rebuilding one chapter at a time, but the deeper I go, the more detours are taken from the original draft, so who knows? Maybe a complete bust up is the best thing!

Won’t know unless I quit dawdling and get down to it. Apricot tea and Sarah Brightman are in place and ready to go. Time for Ru to get disciplined.

*sigh*

The Concert Experience

Ru, wee sis, Boy Sis, and the matching purses
(the pic is as fuzzy as our hearing)

I suppose it may be gleaned from yesterday’s review that I didn’t enjoy myself at Def Leppard. That the gig was too loud, too garish, and too predictable.

Actually, that was the audience.

The flipside of a rock concert is the crowd. It matters not who is on stage; the same players are always in the stands. The flailing dancer in the seat next to you. The staggering drunk in perilous heels trying to navigate the stairs. The bombed macho buddies who throw their arms around each other while bellowing, “I love you, man!” in the row ahead of you. The parade of trailer trash fashion on the concourse. The cigarette lighters that spark in the arena when yours was confiscated at the door. The beer balancing act as the alcohol max is purchased on the first concession stop. The inevitable cloud of pot smoke wafting from the seat behind you. The giggling groupies. Their biker boyfriends. The twentysomethings who don’t care who’s playing, let’s get tickets and go embarrass ourselves while annoying the real fans during the show.

It is possible to be fed up before the band takes the stage. In some cases, it may even be probable.

Most of the concerts I’ve attended in the past couple of years have had no opening act. The artist starts on time, takes a brief intermission halfway through, then finishes the show. Alas, Def Leppard adheres to the template of hiring an opening act that no one wants to see, then coming onstage at bedtime and blasting through the standard hour-plus set that includes a two-song encore. This makes for a true test of endurance, so it’s better to have a friend along for the ride.

Ter and I lucked out on Friday. My wee sister and Boy Sister met us for dinner early, then headed to the arena well in advance of the show to ensure that we got parking (a quick getaway is impossible, but a smooth exit isn’t, if you get there in time to nab the best space). That left us with a couple—nay, a few—hours to kill, as we had no interest in the opening act and were unwilling to risk our hearing for anything less than the headliner.

Regrettably, Victoria shuts down at six on a Friday night, hence no shops of interest were open. So we trekked to the arena and hung around outside, enjoying the mild spring evening and watching the streaming humanity form a line at the door. People-watching with my sister is a riot. BS is even funnier with his observations, but nothing was more entertaining than the people we were watching. Lots of leopard spots in evidence, in tights, shoes, jackets, shirts, scarves and purses. Ridiculous heels trip-trapped across the pavement. Big blonde hair was snaring bugs everywhere. Dark glasses were firmly in place despite the twilight. Tall boots, short boots, and why in the world would a girl wear kitten-heeled mules in a milling crowd of inebriated headbangers? She wasn’t going anywhere fast, not when she had to clench her toes to keep her shoes on. Mundane jeans and sneakers were peppered with sequins, studs and chains. BS asked Ter and me if we hadn’t dressed that way in the 80s? To which I replied, “We were Miami Vice cool, not Madonna tramp trash.” Heck, we weren’t even Lep fans until Hysteria came out, and by then Vice was done and Madonna had brushed her hair.

The four of us sat on the fringe of this crowd because we did not belong in this crowd. The notion occurred to me that this was the modern day equivalent of going to the opera, when the aristos of old dressed up to attend the theatre. Too scary a thought to maintain, however. This was more like the Roman mob filing into the Coliseum to watch grown men beat each other to a bloody death.

And we were here, why?

Oh, yeah. The Leppard King. Well, he wasn’t due for a couple of hours yet. With roughly half an hour until the opener, we joined the lineup and got through security with the merest pat-down and bag search. Checked out our seats in the stands. Four in a row of eight, second row up in the bowl, with one of us on the aisle. Sweet. Wee sis and I sat together for a while, comparing the length of our femurs (hers is longer) and me showing her how to shorten the strap on her purse—which, we had discovered at dinner, is the exact twin of mine. She’d been trying the trick she uses on a horse’s halter (her daughter has a horse) and remarked, “Horses are my life, Ruthie.”

“That’s weird,” I replied, “since I was the one who wanted horses.”

“You wanted kids, too,” she reminded me.

“So how did you end up living my life?”

“I dunno, but now I’ve even got the arthritis!”

At which we both fell about laughing.

To avoid the opening act—which we would hear well enough from the concourse—we retraced our steps to check out the merchandise. Once again, the Leps have no program, which is the only thing we would have bought. I was wearing the hoodie I got at the Edmonton gig in 2007 (75 bucks at the show, 35 online, to which wee sis observed, “Yeah, but you got a free concert.”) and if we bought a t-shirt at every Lep concert we’ve been to, that’s all we’d be wearing.

Time for water and popcorn. Ter and BS vanished into the concession swarm; wee sis and I hung out by a pillar to keep clear of the current and continue to people-watch. She says she can’t do it with her daughter because my niece gets embarrassed. “Are you two in the lineup?” somebody asked.

“No,” sis said, waving them on by, “we’re just holding up the pillar.”

We hadn’t noticed it was the pillar behind the line for alcohol service. We’d just thought everyone wanted pizza.

Finally, our elves emerged with the goods and we took up position just inside the main entrance, where security continued to pat down newcomers though the opening act was by now well into their set. More big hair. More leopard print. More leather jackets. Gads, even a pair of fishnets in red hotpants. Stiletto pumps, stiletto boots, stiletto sandals. Canuck jerseys in abundance. Canuck jerseys? Well, the playoffs are on, and one of those jerseys gave me the best laugh of the night: an old Luongo sweater with the name taped over, inscribed with LACK (for Eddie Lack, the now-goalie) and the numeral 1 preceded by a handmade 3.

At last, the first act ends, the lights come up, what audience was present for them returns to fuel up with more booze, and we make our way to our most excellent seats. Some dickering with our phone cameras so we can get them to work during the concert. Then, the show, complete with the surrounding distractions as mentioned at the top of this post. I had a blast anyway, situated between Ter on the aisle and BS on my right (wee sis took the flailing neighbour for the team), and by the end of it, we were done. Not a perfect evening, as BS said later, but how can it be bad when it’s spent with people you love?

Amen, brother.

Leapin’ Leppards!

Three of them, anyway - Rick Allen on drums.
Sav on bass, and shirtless (as usual) Phil Collen

What do you get when you take a vintage muscle car, tune up the carburetor, spiff up the paint, and re-chrome the hardware?

Fast, loud and flashy.

This was Friday night’s Def Leppard show in three words.

Fast – they powered through ninety minutes of their heyday radio hits with nary a pause for breath. With their catalogue, I thought they could have gone longer, but Ter pointed out that Viv Campbell is recently out of cancer treatment and they have to be mindful of him. Good point. Though the perennial “new guy” guitarist gave no sign of flagging, he wasn’t racing all over the stage, either. That said, I expected ninety minutes and I got ninety minutes. They play so many festivals and double-bills that they don’t give any more than that. Sucks, but really, my hearing wouldn’t survive a longer set. Which brings me to …

Loud – everyone asks if I bring earplugs and I always say no. I don’t wear them. It’s stupid, but my byline is that if I’m going to lose my hearing, I want it to be by a rock band. The loudest band I have ever heard live is the Leppard. The Police were close, Aerosmith was so long ago that I don’t remember if my ears buzzed afterward though they must have done, and everyone else either has a better sound crew or cares more that every note be heard. With the Leps, I’m fuzzy right out of the gate. They don’t need to crank it up so high, except that they are a rock band, dammit and if the concert can’t be heard pounding halfway across town (which this one apparently was), they’re not the genuine article. This makes it an unlikely bonus that they play no new material, since if I can’t hear the riff through the fuzz, I won’t know what they’re playing and will be entirely lost. The hits are part of my mental muscle; I can sing along – at the top of my lungs, by the way – and know where I am because the beat is a well-worn one.

Flashy – their time in Vegas has served them well. The boys were fans of 70s glam bands as well as the industrial rockers of their youth, so they’ve always been glitzy in a fashionably rough manner. Their light shows have been pretty standard, but this time out was dazzling. Loads of track, spot and whatever lights in every colour of the rainbow. Add the three big video screens and you’ve got visual pandemonium in support of the aural assault. The band themselves are lookers who know how to dress, but you have got to love Rick Savage. Ever the stylish one, he showed up for the encore in a shirt that proclaimed I Am So Fucking Disco and I doubt anyone would challenge him on it. He’s no tough guy, but he’ll stand his ground with conviction. Word is that he’s even gone head to head with the King and won his way.

As for the King himself, thank the gods that Joe will never change. He struts like a conquering hero. He can silence the crowd with one gesture and make it roar with another. He’s a warrior of the finest caliber, the last man standing, the green-eyed god with the Viking stance and big cat charisma. He was hitting those notes, too. Still has the pipes, the moves, and that mystical air of majesty that came with him from—where? No matter. It was good to see him again, to see once more the man who inspired a legend and be assured that nothing was imagined. He truly is that strong, that powerful, and that mesmerizing.

But he’s not my favourite Leppard. Never has been. That honour goes to the dishy disco-loving bass player with the moppy blond mane and sleepy blue eyes. My crappy camera phone snapped more shots of him than of anyone else, including Joe, so while I may be accused of a less than glowing review of Friday night’s show, I was un abashedly delighted to see Sav and his band. Good fun, good show … good night.

The Return of the Leppard King

I thought I’d fallen out of love with them. Last December, I heard that the former producer of the Q Morning Show had died in a car crash on snowy roads and I was looking up further info on the station’s website. I was so intent my mission that notice of the Leps’ concert date on the coming events list gleaned naught but a huh? Then my wee sister IM’d me: “Def Leppard is coming to town. Are you guys going?”

“I dunno,” I wrote back, feeling uncomfortably lukewarm about what had once sent my temperature to thermonuclear heights. Joe and the boys had fallen off my radar. The world he had inspired was in a holding pattern while my passion for vampires raged anew. Neither Ter nor I listened to their albums anymore; we didn’t follow them on F***book and hadn’t visited their website in years. In fact, we were living in fear of the band turning up to play the River Rock Casino or, worse, on PBS as part of the “Rock of 80s” nostalgia pledge drive package that you just know is coming down the road.

My email pinged. The Q Crew newsletter arrived in my inbox, letting me know that the Leps were coming and tix were going on sale that Friday. I flipped it to Ter with a feeble: “What do you think?”

My phone immediately rang. “Of course!” she practically yelled when I picked up. I hadn’t heard her so pumped about anything in a long while.

“Really? I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “He’s coming to me!” Which, roughly translated, means that she’s done with traveling to see the Leppard King, but if Victoria is on their itinerary, us going is a no-brainer.

Of the Joes we know, Elliott is to Ter what Perry is to me—that mysterious memory of a previous life where he played a role so important that the effect has lingered through dimensions. Crazy, yes. Improbable, maybe. Possible, definitely. Why not? No matter what you believe, something about his current incarnation sparked the birth of our mutual hero, Lucius Aurelius, and the world of Fixed Fire. For that, I am eternally grateful to him, to Ter, and to the band who played the soundtrack for Treason.

So, yeah, she’s right. Of course we must go to the gig. Of course we must pay homage. Of course he’s come for a particular reason at a particular time, and isn’t it funny that I’ve gone back to Castasia once more? His Royal Leppardness has no idea, but it truly is a homecoming for him.

Four of us are going—Ter, my wee sister, my boy sister, and me. The kids are fans for a different reason; they just like to rock, and if you wanna get rocked, then the Leps are DEFinitely the band for the job.

More to come …

Working Holiday

Spring in the pagan days was the beginning of a new year. Same applies to the workplace fiscal year, which starts on April Fool’s Day and don’t let the irony of that escape you. Perhaps because April begins the first annual quarter at work, it heralds a beginning for me. By the end of March, my creativity has been suppressed for almost three months and I’m dyin’. Fortunately (is it?), I have accumulated enough years of service to enable a full five day week of vacation without making a big dent in my annual allocation.

I’m taking such a break next week. I like to have a project in mind before I book vacation, usually something I can finish, like a short story that’s been in progress for months or something new, like The King’s Man, which was written on the fly over four days straight. This time out, I’m admitting defeat before I begin. I will not get this holiday’s project done before I have to go back to work … but I intend on getting my teeth into it nonetheless.

It’s the novel, also known as Reijo’s romance. Having committed to finishing the first draft before tackling something newer and shinier, I’ve been tapping away at it of late and have discovered some wondrous things about my mysterious heroine. I knew very little of her when I started. Four years later, she was still baffling. It’s true what they say – creativity feeds on itself. Only by focusing intently on Jannika’s part of the story have I discovered who she truly is. A general idea has evolved into a complex but very real young woman who is struggling to understand …

No spoilers allowed, especially as the series preceding this volume remains unpublished. Learning what I’ve learned about Nika, however, has given my writing holiday a greater purpose than simply not going to work. Now I have something to accomplish and I’m excited about it. Yup, rewriting a bunch of already written stuff has never looked so inviting. So, first thing on Monday morning, I’ll be camped at the Moka House with an Asian Mist and my scribbly journal, making helter-skelter notes to help with my mission of tightening up weaker scenes and revisiting the ones that work to ensure continuity. Once I’ve cleaned up the preliminaries, I should be able to write nonstop to a happy ending.

Me, write a happy ending? Hey, everything is possible.

Dumber Than My Phone

What with navigating around F***book (I’m still a bit … okay, a lot boggled) and surviving fiscal year end, I’ve not done much writing of late. I miss it, but that’s okay – I have a week’s vacation coming soon and a project in mind. That, however, is another post.

As part of my ongoing plan to become a social media savvy celebrity author, I turned in the old flip phone and bought a Smartphone last weekend. It’s a basic model compared to the iPhones and Samsung Galaxies floating around out there, but I have a pre-paid mobile account and didn’t want to commit (there’s that fear again) to a contract with my upgrade. So this little fellow is a Motorola E (or something), powered by Google Android, which freaks me out because the androids on Star Trek thought they were better than humans and, if not for JT Kirk and Co., would have taken over the world … I digress. Mr. Moto is less a phone than it is a tiny computer. Once I figure out how to drive it, it will check my email, keep my appointments, snap photos, upload said photos to FB, send and receive text messages, reflect my scintillating personality by way of varied ringtones and desktop wallpaper, stash any apps I accidentally download, and probably cost me way more than the thirty dollars per month I’ve budgeted for the privilege of ownership.

Yes, I’m totally lost. Well, not totally. Ter found the user’s guide online – via the big computer rather than the “mobile device” – so between us we deduced how to answer an incoming call after the first experiment failed. The device started ringing … actually, it started to play a boogie tune that had me grooving until I saw our landline number on the screen. Whoa, call display! How cool is that? But once startled into action, I couldn’t figure out how to connect to the call! So off it went to voice mail, and off I went to consult the manual.

Handy things, those manuals. Too bad hard copies don’t come with the product; switching from the computer screen to the phone screen can start a migraine faster than cheezies with a chocolate chaser. I’ve yet to delve much deeper into it than skimming the basics, but at least I can answer a call or choose to ignore it and then retrieve the voice mail. I was able to record an outgoing message by remembering which buttons to push once I call my own number; it helps to have a similar VM system at work. And the camera … let’s be truthful here. I bought it for the camera, for spontaneous pics and fast uploads; again, part of Ru’s cunning Media Savvy Plan. I adore my little digital Canon, but I don’t carry it with me every day and I have missed golden weekday photo ops, like the streetlamp lying on the boulevard. It looked like the eye of the Martian spaceship in the Gene Barry version of War of the Worlds and I would have taken a picture if only. So I guess I’ve really bought a camera that has a phone rather than a phone that has a camera, so does it matter if I can’t get Mr. Moto to play Darth Vader’s Imperial March when my father calls?

In this intellectual game of chicken with my phone, you bet it does.

A Literary Feast

Since the Flyers didn’t make the playoffs, HBO has given me a reason to live through the next two months: season 5 of Game of Thrones premieres tonight at 8:00 p.m. Hats and horns! I hear rumours that the plot diverts from the novels this year, which it pretty well must, as the fifth book was published in 2011, the show has been roaring along, and the sixth book is still pending. I’ve also heard that GRRM has stepped away from the TV series to focus more intently on getting the darned novel done, and has blessed the show’s producers to take the story where they will.

Ter and I are planning our annual Thrones feast for the first episode. This year it’s honeyed chicken and buttered veggies, with frozen blueberries with sweet cream for afters. The recipes are taken from A Feast of Ice and Fire, a way cool book even if you don’t cook because it features quotes from the written series. The cookbook’s authors – foodies and chefs themselves – pored through the first four volumes (Dance with Dragons hadn’t been published yet) in search of meal descriptions and set out to create “real” versions of the fantasy food. Turned out that much of the fare in GRRM’s books has reasonable facsimiles in history, so the cookbook includes both the historical and modernized versions of each recipe. Lazy bum that I am, I find many of the modern versions too labour intensive, so the sweet cream for the blueberries is actually a medieval custard known as crème batard, or “bastard cream”, which is ironic considering that it’s a dish served at the Wall, where Ned Stark’s illegitimate son is in residence.

Okay, this post may be too specific for a non-Thrones reader. To recap, one of my favourite shows, based on my favourite work of one of my favourite authors, resumes tonight and I am there. Oh, and the Wall I mentioned? In the novels, it stands seven hundred feet tall, built of ice and snow to keep the terrors of the northern wilds at bay (a fantasy version of Hadrian’s Wall), but believe it or not, there is also a Wall here in Victoria. It stands about seven inches tall and is made of brick. It’s where I have coffee with my wee sister and my boy sister every week; last Thursday, the wee ’un emailed BS and me: “I might be a bit late today; can I just meet you guys at the Wall?”

Playing for Pride

So said number 93 after the Flyers were mathematically eliminated from the post season while the regular season was still underway. At that point, even if they'd won every remaining game, there was absolutely no way in which they could claw themselves into a playoff appearance this year. So, for the last eight or nine games, they were “playing for pride.”

At first I growled at them for being lame. “ ‘Playing for pride’, grrr.” Come on, guys, where was pride when the games counted? Sure, we were injured. Our blue line was more of a blue thread because of those injuries. Our starter goalie was out with various and sundry issues over the winter. We also have two of the best players and a host of snipers on the top two lines, yet a good chunk of our scoring came from the grinders. They were the guys playing for pride. Playing for ice time. Playing to get noticed, sure, for bigger contracts, but really, boys, play for the love of the game and you’ll win even when you lose.

Then I caught three of their final five games. Home and home against Pittsburgh (they won both penalty-ridden games), and one hosting the dreaded devil spawn Islanders. They won that one, too, with two seconds to spare after the Isles tied the score at 19:30 of the third period. I was getting ready to bawl when Schenn the Younger took a random shot and, miraculously, the puck trickled past Jaro Halak and into the net. I admit, I expected little to no effort; after all, the team was done, out, their season kaput. I also admit that they surprised me. Surprised and delighted, in fact. They played like their lives depended on it, taking their rivalries and their roles as spoilers seriously. They made me proud, so I guess they really did play for pride.

Thus endeth the Flyers’ season. All told, it was a good year for them, better than the numbers tell. By the end of the year, they played as a team, trusting each other, fighting for each other, and having a pretty good time doing it. I’m so glad I saw those last few games. They gave me hope for 2015/16.

In the meantime, the Canucks have made it to the playoffs, so guess who is cheering for pride?

Elevenses

It’s the best time of the morning. Midway between breakfast and lunch is the hallowed moment when fresh tea is brewed and some form of sustenance is consumed. It’s been in sync with our biological rhythm for ages. It goes by many names. My favourite figures in the Paddington Bear stories by Michael Bond:

Elevenses.

Every day, Paddington visits the old guy down the road for hot chocolate and a sticky bun. In my world, it’s tea and a muffin or a slice of Ter’s killer ginger/pumpkin/date loaf. At work I often have company for it, but on days off, it’s just me and my tea tumbler. It’s also proof that working straight through can be detrimental to the project; as a writer, I have found that getting away from the computer for a few minutes often unravels the knots in a scene. Stalled dialogue almost always gets traction the instant I leave, as if the characters are waiting for me to go away so they can continue without my interference.

I could “do coffee” for a living. I spent a lot of time hanging out in cafés with artists, poets and musicians during a previous life, and the love of socializing over hot milky drinks and pastries has remained with me. My workweek is populated by pals with whom I take such breaks, usually in the afternoon as I tend to pound through the morning without pause. Elevenses seems specifically reserved for downtime or a writing day.

Which reminds me … it’s time for a break.

Bird Signs

This fellow showed up in our ’hood a few days ago. There be eagles in the park, but the park is a kilometer west of our house so this guy is either lost or come to tell us something. He appeared in the tree across the street while I was out on a cliffside flânerie last week. Ter met me at the top of the stairs when I got home later than expected. “I have to show you something,” she blurted, already darting down the hall. “Oh, I hope he’s still there!”

I followed her to the Ocean Room. She was on the couch and pointing. “See that? My eagle is back! You have to take a picture!”

I surely did. This eagle is special for more reasons than simply being an eagle. For one thing, I believe implicitly that he hung around for a photo op because Ter asked it of him. She’d seen him a half hour earlier—no, heard him, as she was at the back of the house and only saw him because he made such a ruckus out front that she was prompted to investigate. Birds of prey make the shrillest, most alarming sounds when they put their minds to it, and the alien shriek that alerted Ter sounded, she says, like the raptor equivalent of “Hel-lo, is anybody home?” When she spotted him, she immediately set about fretting that he’d be gone before I returned. Never mind that my cliffside flânerie had become a short bus ride to the cemetery so I could get some peace while I walked (that’s another post), which made me later than I’d planned, but each time Ter checked, he was still there, still waiting patiently out of his element and still, apparently, willing to oblige when she begged him to stick around.

I grabbed the Canon, ran back outside, and took up position on the water side of the road, angling to get a clear view of him through the leaves. My camera has a terrific zoom capacity; I can’t quite believe the clarity of the few shots I took. I may as well have been in the tree with him!

Back indoors, I showed Ter the pictures. In the next minute, we went to see if he was still there … and he was gone. He had taken off as soon as I came inside.

So. Ter had seen this same bird a fortnight earlier, while leaving for work on a particularly bad hair morning. She heard a whistle, looked up, and met the eye of an eagle in the tree by the sidewalk. They held each other’s gaze for a minute, then respectfully parted ways. That’s why I say he belongs to her.

In native lore, the eagle is the spirit keeper of spring who symbolizes illumination, spirit power and creation. Native cultures believe that spirits bring messages in animal form; every critter means something specific, so if you ever find yourself toe to toe with a creature outside his environment, the Universe may be trying to tell you something.

“Forever in His Eyes”

Nature boy

authentic, organic

at one with the earth

Lullaby lyric

velvet in his voice

healing in his hands

Pure power

used for good of others

used against himself

Dark angel

caught internal conflict

pushing love away

Infinite soul

mortal, immortal

luminous and loving

Light essence

stars and space

forever in his eyes

“Katie” (Conclusion)

She took his hands and placed them over her breasts, pressing his fingers to make them close on her flesh. They did—a little harder than she had expected. She flinched but stood her ground and his hair fell around her as he bent his head to her neck. His lips moved softly once, twice, then he licked her throat and dropped a third kiss on her wet skin.

She turned in his arms. He kissed her mouth then, sliding his tongue past her teeth with the cool expertise of a practiced lover. He tasted clean, like glacier water. He tasted good. She opened wide to grant him access, her heart hammering so crazily that she could barely breathe. The wool of his sweater rasped against her swollen nipples, urging them to stand taut should he decide to suckle. She hoped he would; it might relieve their keening ache while she cradled his handsome head in her arms. “I lied,” she gasped when he broke the kiss. “I do want to make love with you.”

“You don’t know what you are asking,” he told her.

“I do,” she insisted. “Oh, yes, I do. Oh, please, make love to me.”

He kissed her again and she felt a disorienting rush like a hot wind blowing through her. It had been some years since she had last felt it, but she remembered it well: it meant she was aroused and hungry for a man.

She yanked on his sweater, freeing it from his jeans. His chest was hairless beneath it, the muscles sculpted and firm. Her hands roamed over the pectorals and abdominals, then slid around his waist to crawl up his back. He was big and strong and beautiful; the most beautiful man she had ever met. And she wanted him. Badly.

This came clear when he stopped her from unzipping his jeans. The hand that clamped onto her wrist actually hurt her. Startled, she looked up. “What?”

His face was severe in the shadow of his hair. “No,” he said, quietly. Firmly.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“It won’t work this way,” he said.

Bewildered, she glanced down. His splendid, flawless body showed absolutely no sign of arousal. She hadn’t noticed the fact and was suddenly embarrassed at having to be told. “You mean—you—that you—” she stammered, flushing hot.

His hands landed on her shoulders again, holding her steady while he made her meet his eyes. “I mean that I am not what you think I am.”

“I know what you are,” she said stupidly.

He smiled slightly. “Then tell me.”

“You’re—I—You’re the one who—I don’t—” She faltered helplessly, unsure what he wanted her to say. She had been about to label him her husband’s murderer but, true though it was, she doubted that he needed to be reminded.

“Do you want me, Katherine?” he asked.

She was no longer sure but fear born of habit kept her mute.

“Because I do want you,” he added softly. He slipped his hand up her neck, under her damp hair to cup the back of her head in his palm. His thumb left a tingling trail along the path of her jugular.

“But, you don’t have a—”

“I don’t need one,” he whispered. “Do you still want me?”

She shook her head, struck dumb by fright and unable to wrench free from his darkening gaze. It didn’t matter what she wanted anymore; he would have his way with or without her consent. Dale had taught her so. She wouldn’t be pregnant now if what she wanted had mattered. “The baby,” she whimpered.

“I won’t hurt the baby and I won’t hurt you.”

“Wh—What are you going to do?”

He gently kissed her lips. She obediently parted them and let him slide his tongue under hers. Her body began to shake in defiance but she forced herself to submit, suddenly, desperately afraid that resisting would end in death. He was trying to suck her tongue into his mouth and she was unconsciously fighting him. Coming aware of the fact, she over-compensated in a rush and hastily shoved her tongue past his teeth. She was rewarded with a searing pain that brought a strangled cry from the back of her throat. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

She jerked back and wheeled toward the mirror. Her tongue was cut and bleeding. “What in God’s name did you do?” she screamed at him. She turned on the cold water and ripped the paper film from one of the glasses on the counter.

Her blood in his mouth had done something to him as well, but not the same as it had done to her. He stood eerily, impossibly still, staring at her with a feral gleam bright in his eyes as she downed a glass of water and went for a refill. The most bizarre thought she had ever entertained crossed her mind when she met those eyes. The glass hit the floor and shattered.

He grabbed her and lifted her bare feet clear of the shards. “Listen to me,” he snapped, shaking her by the shoulders. “I will not hurt you.”

She started to cry, hysterically this time, no longer able to tell what was real and what was a nightmare. She tried to struggle but was no match for his strength. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly to his chest. She could neither stand nor fall in such a powerful grip and so she went limp, forcing him to bear her weight on his forearms.

“I could have taken you there,” the angel’s voice declared fiercely from somewhere over her head. “I could have killed you and left you with the body but I did not.”

“Why?” she wailed, her anguish muffled by his solid bulk.

“Because, Katherine, you must live, do you hear? You must live.”

She coughed, half-strangled by unshed tears, and shook her head once, violently. “You’ll kill me,” she sobbed. “You have to. I saw your face. I saw your—them!” She put her hand to her mouth and felt between her lips. Her teeth were all blunt, all straight. No points. No razor edges. Not like his. Oh, God, not like his!

He dragged her to the bed and made her sit down. Her bag lay open on one chair and he went to it, rummaging through her clothes until he found her Garfield nightshirt. He brought it to her. “Put it on,” he commanded.

She obeyed.

He stood in front of her, arms folded across his chest, cloaked in his magnificent black hair. She started to slide onto her knees. He caught her before she landed at his feet and replaced her on the bed. “I’m not going to kill you,” he said.

She nodded. When she raised her eyes to his, she quickly lowered them again. He looked like he hated her. She couldn’t blame him. She had bungled this too.

“The child is a girl,” he said.

Her head came up with a start. “How do you know?”

“I tasted her in your blood.”

She placed her hands on her belly and watched her fingers spread wide to cover as much of the cotton nightshirt as they could. “You—tasted her?” She glanced up again. “But it was only a drop.”

“It was enough.”

“Wha—What else could you tell?”

He didn’t exactly soften, but he didn’t speak so harshly this time. “I saw that you deserve to live.”

Her brow furrowed and she blinked back fresh tears. “How can you say that? How do you know?”

“Believe me, I know.”

She shook her head, letting her matted hair fall forward to hide her face. This was too much. He could not be what she thought he was, but he was not denying it. She decided she must be losing her mind—and that frightened her more than anything that had happened so far.

He knelt before her and took her hands in his. His long fingers were fragile skin and delicate bone, not unlike hers. Her eyes traced the tendon from his wrist to his elbow and from there to his shoulder. She saw her hand reach out to touch his biceps. She squeezed it, felt it yield only slightly in the manner of toned muscle. And he let her do it.

Surprised, she met his eyes. The irises were bottle green rimmed with charcoal. The pupils were dilated to accommodate the weak light and the whites were so white they were almost blue. But his lashes were black, like his hair. He stared straight into her face with no emotion at all reflected in his. He might have been carved from stone—except for the living, breathing warmth of his flesh.

She leaned forward and kissed him. His mouth was cooler than hers, his lips smooth and soft. She ran her hands along his shoulders and up his neck, holding his head while she savoured his glacial sweetness in a long, exploratory kiss. Again, he let her do it. He let her stroke his hair. He let her touch his breast to feel the heart beating behind his ribs. He let her grow familiar with the pleasure of physical contact when all she had known was pain. And he did it quietly, calmly. When she slid down into his lap, he embraced her; cradled her to his chest. His coarse dark hair brushed like raw silk against her cheek. It smelled of spring rain. Everything about him was clean and pure and intoxicating; even without the physical evidence of desire, she knew that he wanted her. She knew by the way his hands moved over her body; stroking her breasts and her belly, slipping down between her thighs. He was so gentle that it almost hurt and she shifted restlessly in his lap, willing him to probe further.

He kissed her, holding his mouth open in invitation over hers. She was careful not to cut herself on the tips of his incisors but she was brave enough to lick at the surface. There were no jagged edges, no chips or gouges like those her own teeth had suffered. They were as smooth as glazed porcelain and as perfect as the rest of him. Then he was kissing her again, everywhere. Her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her shoulders—her neck. She instinctively stiffened and he instantly lifted his head until she relaxed once more, lulled from conscious thought by the rhythmic working of his fingers between her legs.

She lay back and stretched her spine, arching her neck over his forearm. She felt his mouth on her breast, teasing the nipple through the thin cotton of her nightshirt. His hair hung, black and gleaming, in front of her and she buried both hands in it, knotting it in her fists as the pulsating throb below her belly surged toward a rare and violent climax. She saw his face above her, his green eyes glittering. She saw the pronounced curve of his fangs and she screamed.

A piercing pain lanced her from shoulder to groin, colliding with the orgasmic burst of energy that blazed through her. She bucked, writhing, crying, jerking on the hair in her hands; then she fainted.

Or thought she did. Later she would wonder. It seemed that the lights went out and that she was floating in a sparkling darkness unlike any darkness she had ever known. She was keenly aware of his body melded to hers, of his mouth locked to her throat, but stronger still was the ebb and flow of life coursing through her. She saw the baby somersaulting in her womb, safe and healthy within the confines of the amniotic sac. She saw herself lying across his lap, lax and hazy, eyes closed above the crown of his dark head. She heard the drumming of her heart beating in time with his, and the thinner, staccato skipping of the baby’s trying to keep up. She fed them both, him and the babe, from the font of her being; and when it was over, she wept.

She lay in the bed, too blissfully weary to do more than watch him pull his sweater on over his head and toss his magnificent mane free of the collar. Weak as she was, she felt stronger than she had ever felt and knew without a doubt that she would be all right. It was as if he had drained her of all fear and pain, and had left her with the courage and passion to live. The baby slept beneath her protecting hands, truly at peace for the first time in its—her—brief existence.

“Sleep,” he said.

“Do you have to go?”

He glanced toward the window. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. “I can’t stay.”

She understood. She watched him pick up his jacket from the chair. Scuffed, dark brown leather. She didn’t like the brown. It didn’t suit his raven splendour. She boldly told him so.

Her newfound confidence seemed to please him. “I’ll keep it in mind.” But she knew he wouldn’t. He did as he liked, beholden to no one, free to live on his own terms by his own rules. Such freedom had its price, though. He had not admitted it, but she knew he would not have stayed if he had not been lonely.

“Will I see you again?”

He shook his head, shrugging into the brown leather.

“Don’t you want to know when the baby is born?”

“She shall be born healthy and perfect at six-thirty-one in the morning of the twenty-fifth day of June,” he said. He looked straight into her astonished eyes and almost smiled. “You’ll do fine.”

“How do you know?” she whispered.

“She told me.” He dug into his pocket and produced the keys to the Mercedes. They hung on a ring modelled after the vehicle’s hood ornament. “I must go.”

She swallowed, fighting tears, and nodded. She did not ask where he was going. She did not beg him to linger long enough to see her off to sleep. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”

He really did smile then. It reached his eyes. Then he was gone.

She lay against the pillows in the motel bed and listened to the car door close. She heard the engine turn over and the transmission clunk as he put it in reverse. The tires crunched on loose gravel. It took a full five minutes before she finally accepted that the engine had faded from earshot.

Her belly rippled under her hands as the baby stretched and turned over. She patted the bulge to soothe the occupant, who responded with a petulant blow from either hand or foot. Katherine smiled. “Did you tell him your name as well?” she asked.

She was so glad the bus had been late.

May 13, 1999

Throw Your Beam

The purpose of life, I have recently heard, is to express yourself through whatever means you have to hand. Be it painting or performing, cooking or quilting, coaching or counseling, playing hockey or playing the tuba, designing gardens or digging graves, it is within every single one of us to be great.

Albert Einstein said that everyone is a genius. He then added, “If a fish is judged by its ability to climb trees, that fish will live its entire life believing that it’s stupid.” That quote struck such a deep chord that my ears are still ringing. Must be because I’ve spent a good chunk of my life believing that I’m stupid.

Not in everything, of course. I’m actually very smart in many areas. I am capable in others, and gosh-darned-excellent in a few. But so are you. And you. And you. Everyone has something unique to offer the world. And the world needs what you have to give. Even if you’re an arch villain, you’re providing the necessary contrast that enables heroes to be heroes. So if you’re a bad guy, be the baddest guy you can be, you miserable sod. Bring out the best in others and make the world a better place.

I might be joking around a bit here, but my meaning is serious. Everyone has something at which they can excel. Find your best and let it rip. Be that little candle. Throw your beam as far as you can fling it. Touch as many people as you can; be a teacher, but be a student as well. Give love, but love yourself, too. After all, the flame burns brightest at the wick. Only then does the rest of the room benefit from its light.