Ugger It

Three days of writing ahead and one letter of my keyoard craps out. Not a vital key in the ig picture – not a vowel, for instance, and if I was writing in Hawaiian I wouldn’t miss it at all … ut as with most things taken for granted, I miss it when it’s gone.

I’m not telling which letter it is, either. I’m just not correcting the gaffes (the key works if I strike it three times—WTF??) And when I get my allowance next Friday, I’m getting a new keyoard!

No More FGTs

Erin Morgenstern’s final Flax-Golden Tale was posted today, five years almost to the day from when she posted her first one. She says she started them when her blog was “newish and I wanted to show I was a proper writer who wrote things.”

She also wanted to do something inspired by the Mysteries of Harold Burdick—I had no idea what the Mysteries of Harold Burdick are, so I clicked on the link in her post and found myself at Chris Van Allsburg’s website. I don’t know who he is, either (I reckon he’s a writer, there are so darned many of us, mostly unknown to each other), but the history of the Mysteries is there, and wow, is it a creepy/cool story.

Read it here. Me paraphrasing would do it no justice anyway. The point of this piece is that, after July 11, there will be no more FGTs at erinmorgenstern.com.

Rats.

Her weekly ten-sentence stories have been a staple in my routine since I first read The Night Circus. Just as she was inspired by the Harold Burdick story, so have I been inspired by her Flax-Golden Tales. They are primarily why I decided to do my writing exercises, those odd little pieces attached to a photograph and often left dangling for the reader to finish in his/her imagination. I haven’t set myself the same parameters, though I try to draft something wonderful in twenty minutes or less. Some hit, some miss, all are me stretching my skill and imagination beyond my comfort level. Almost all of my writing is inspired by pictures, other writers’ works, music, lyrics, poetry, movies—if someone else has produced it, I can springboard from it. I can even do some things better, though at present I am no longer sure (if I ever was) what my preference really is. Is it personal non-fiction? Fantasy? Urban fantasy? Short fiction? Serial work? The never-ending novel? I know what I like to write, but I don’t want to be locked into a genre, either.

I am just a writer who wants to write things.

“Popcorn”

Grandma said to pick the plump ones near the bottom of the stalk, and not to pull too hard. “If you have to pull,” she said, “they’re not ready for eating and you’ll break a tooth for sure.”

“That’s not real popcorn,” Aiden argued, certain that she was funning him. Everyone knew that popcorn came from a bag in the microwave.

“It is, too,” Grandma insisted. “It’s the real deal, nothing at all like that farmed junk they sell at the movies or the grocery store. Go on, go and try one. You’ll never crave crap popcorn again.”

He laughed at his grandmother saying “crap”, but that’s how Grandma was. He wondered sometimes how Mom had turned out so proper with a mother like that, though he had way more fun at Grandma’s place that he had at home. Grandma’s place was magical.

So he ventured into the tall grass growing on the cliff and sighted a bunch of stalks covered with mostly fat yellow morsels. The ones at the top were small and kind of green, and so hard when he pinched one that it made a dent in his fingertips. The ones in between were fluffier, but probably had toenails that would stick in his teeth and make his gums bleed. Grandma called out when he eyeballed the lower third of the stalk:

“Bring a handful, Aiden, and we’ll have a snack.”

It looked like popcorn, all right. The biggest blossoms practically fell into his hand when he touched them, just like Grandma said. And if she was willing to eat it with him, then she couldn’t be funning him like he thought she was.

He made an apron from his t-shirt and filled it up with fluffy yellow flowers, then tromped back to where she sat waiting for him on a big rock. “I dunno, Grandma,” he said dubiously, giving her one last chance to hoot and come clean.

She plucked a beauty from the pile in his makeshift bowl. Aiden watched her toss it into her mouth, chew it, and swallow. “Yum,” she said. She reached for another one, not bothering to invite him to try one himself.

That made up his mind. He chose a big one that looked buttery (but how could it be when there was no butter around?) and put it carefully on his tongue.

It was the best popcorn he’d ever eaten. Drenched in hot butter sun and salted from the sea air, every single piece was perfection. Aiden crammed it by the handful into his mouth and went back for two t-shirts more. “Don’t tell anyone,” Grandma cautioned afterward, walking home with his hand in hers. “If word gets out, they’ll come and harvest every stalk ’til the cliffs are bare and only twigs remain.”

“Can’t they grow it as good on a farm, Grandma?”

“Farms are where the crap they sell at the movies and the grocery store comes from, son. Some things are best left where they belong. Nature knows the right conditions to get the best results. You remember that when you grow up, and you’ll do fine.”

Aiden did remember. When he grew up and had a son of his own, he took the boy to the oceanside cliffs and pointed out the cheerful sunny stalks waving gently in the breeze. “See the yellow flowers, Ty? That’s wild popcorn. You pick ’em from the bottom, but don’t pull too hard. If you have to pull, they’re not ready for eating and you’ll break a tooth for sure.”

Rock ’n’ Roll

I live in a world where people my age play golf on weekends and go someplace warm for vacation. What do Ter and I do for fun?

We go to rock concerts. Even now, in our fifties, we’re doomed fools for arena shows headlined by the artists/bands who figure prominently in our CD libraries. We have averaged one to two shows a year over the course of our adventure, starting with The Jacksons’ Victory tour in 1985. Actually, I started in 1979 with April Wine and Ter saw the Osmonds in Seattle before we knew each other, but since we became a team, yikes, have we set ourselves up for hearing aids in the nursing home.

Some bands we’ve seen more than once. Some more than twice, three times, do I hear six? That would be Sting … or Def Leppard … or is it Duran Duran, and do we count the Power Station show in their tally? Between the clusters, we’ve seen any number of acts but once, including some as opening acts—the Cranberries, for instance, when they opened for DD on their Wedding Album tour, kd lang ahead of Sting in 1998, and Hedley when they warmed up the crowd for Bon Jovi in 2007. (Okay, we heard Hedley from the concourse ’cause a Canucks/Oilers game was on and the show was at then-GM Place, but still.)

There was David Bowie, and Aerosmith, and Heart, and Rob Thomas, and Sheryl Crow. Then the PBS shows like Celtic Thunder, Andrea Bocelli, and Sarah Brightman—easier on the ears than the rock bands by far, and alarming evidence that we are becoming our parents. Back in the 80s, we caught Can-con acts like Glass Tiger, Kim Mitchell, and Corey Hart, but missed Platinum Blonde and Strange Advance. Corey retired from performing this year, but hey, if we really want, we can catch the retro-tour on just about everyone else.

Er, no, thanks.

Truly, a lot of the live arena shows are too loud and attended by really annoying individuals who invariably get tickets close to where we are positioned, but who make for dandy Darwinian reminiscing. The cokehead who somersaulted down the stairs at Def Leppard in 1992. The cokehead who nearly flipped over the railing at Aerosmith in 1993. The little dancing man at Sting in 1998. More shenanigans at Leppard and Duran gigs because we’ve seen them more than once—flailing arms and boogying butts in our faces, not to mention the rank stench of marijuana wafting over from somewhere we’re not. Oh, and the guy who was so smashed at yet another Lep concert that he lost his glasses and Security had to help him find them. That was rich. Ter has been beaned by bags at the swag stall and boots from the row behind, I’ve been elbowed aside and done some sharp elbowing back, and for what, you ask? Well, for the memories, of course.

We have also been privileged. Peter Frampton played guitar when he still had his hair (with Bowie in 1986). Roland Orzabal of Tears For Fears sang, and his voice was as deep and resonant live as on tape. Stewart Copeland stole The Police show from Sting by drumming like a madman with absolutely surgical precision. Discovering guitarist Dominic Miller when he joined der Stingle’s band. Sarah Brightman … geez, angels weep for lacking her purity of pitch. Most recently, Heart’s Ann Wilson loosed a kickass vocal on a bunch of Led Zeppelin tunes and my skin still hasn’t stopped prickling from the sonic waves. Later this year, we’ve got tickets for Sarah McLachlan when she comes to town.

Next year, who knows? We each have a David yet on our wannasee list—Garrett for Ter, Usher for me, and both acts are going strong so there’s a good chance we’ll check the boxes on them before we’re completely deaf. On the last Duran tour, I asked Ter how much longer she thought we could keep this going. She shook the sweat from her eyes and said something like, “When they stop, we’ll stop.”

That pretty well says it all.

“The King’s Man” (Part 2)

He didn’t belong. His blood was not blue, his pedigree was uncertain. His manners were impeccable because he had learned his lessons at Andrei’s side, boys in the schoolroom with Yuri and the sons of the court. He had shared their riding and fencing masters, showing more grace than some and more skill than others, and dissolving into the scenery when it became clear that he was not to better any of them. He remembered nothing of his life before the Imperial nursery, but reminders had been so constant that he had been unable to forget what he could not recall.

Andrei had loved him on sight. Andrei had loved everyone on sight, but Viktor had been proclaimed as special, so Andrei had responded with utter devotion. Neither boy had grasped precisely how special he was until the Tsesarevich had misbehaved and Viktor had been punished for it. The shock had bewildered both boys. Andrei alone had received an explanation.

“You’re my dumb brute,” he had told Viktor, repeating what had been said without fully understanding it.

Viktor had protested. “I’m not dumb.”

Andrei’s face had been pinched with dismay. At six years old, he had set his mouth in a determined line and vowed to protect his friend. He had done his best to honor his word as they grew up, but boys were boys and frail though Andrei had been, he had also longed to prove himself as strong as his fellows. Viktor had been thumped more than once as a result of Andrei’s reckless action; perhaps more upsetting had been his role as proxy for the Tsesarevich in the schoolyard. Forbidden to goad the heir to the throne, they had goaded Viktor instead, driving Andrei to endanger himself by intervening and thus subjecting Viktor to further consequence. The strain had frayed their friendship to the limit of comprehension. Andrei had wanted him to defend himself and Viktor had continually refused. Incensed, the Tsesarevich had demanded to know why.

“It’s my place,” Viktor had replied. Then he had added, “Calm down, Andrei, before you hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself? Hurt myself? How can I be more hurt than by you taking my lumps? I should hurt myself; that would teach them!” He had spun a circle on one heel, scanning wildly for an object to do the most damage. In the end, he had thrown himself at the wall and Viktor had tackled him before he struck the plaster, twisting in midair to take the fall on his own back. Andrei had sprawled on top of him and burst into tears. Viktor had lain gasping, his arms locked around his sobbing prince, terrified that something had been ruptured by his rash act of deterrence.

“I hate it when they hurt you. I hate it!”

Viktor had tried to hush him, half-aware as he stroked Andrei’s hair that their argument had been overheard and trouble was imminent if he could not settle the Tsesarevich before it arrived. “Stop crying,” he had hissed. “You are not to die for me.”

“But I would! I would die for you, Viktor, I would …”

An eerie stillness had come over him at Andrei’s muffled confession. The blond head had come up, pure eyes sparkling and swollen, dripping tears onto his skin. Viktor had calmly met those eyes and known what came next, what was inevitable when he thought of the distress Andrei always displayed on his behalf. His heart had dropped a beat. What was he supposed to do? How could he avoid what he had known for years?

While he was distracted, Andrei had kissed him. Sweet, soft, tremulous, afraid of rejection but more afraid of an opportunity missed, his mouth had been warm and tasted of apples. Viktor had accepted the kiss with his eyes wide open, watching Andrei’s close and listening to the pulse deepen in his belly. The resonance had stirred between them and he had considered resisting, but it was just a kiss, and probably Andrei’s first, and when it was over, the love in those blue, blue eyes had threatened to crush him.

“You’re a bleeder,” he had croaked, fighting tears of his own.

“The cost would be worth it.”

“Not to me, my prince.”

“I hate them for this.”

“You hate nobody, Andrei.”

“You’re wrong.” Gentle fingers, long and poetic, had caressed Viktor’s hair where it fell away from his brow; dark hair with a cinnamon tint to complement the apples in Andrei’s kiss. Viktor had tasted them once more before a shift in the silence had made him turn his head to see Yuri standing in the doorway.

* * *

Andrei’s daughters, six and ten, whom he had called his little darlings, curtsied for Viktor in the white salon. “We’ve been practicing,” Tatiana solemnly informed him, repeating the motion with a wider fan of her skirts. Susanna emulated her sister with less success, wobbling frightfully as she dipped. Viktor steadied her with one hand in the guise of delivering praise.

“Well done, my ladies. You’ll have men lined up to claim the first waltz.”

“Mama says we can each have one dance before bed.”

Did they remember dancing in their father’s arms, clasped to his chest, whirling and spinning as he hummed a melody? Susanna was too young, but Tatiana would have memories for life.

“I want you, Viktor.”

He looked down at the tug on his coat. Susanna gazed adoringly from eyes as clear and blue as her sire’s, beneath hair as thick and fair as his had been, and as her brother’s was. He smiled. “You don’t want to waste your one dance on me, my lady.”

“Yes, I do.”

He laughed without committing either way. Tsar Nikolai had done submitting to further fussing, this time at his mother’s hand, and was growing impatient. “Go on ahead, Viktor,” he commanded. “Clear the way for the prize bullock.”

“I told you, my king, you’re the buyer.”

“Just get on with it.”

Perhaps Yuri was right. Despite his physical resemblance to Andrei, Nicky’s moods called to mind his uncle more often than his father. Viktor risked a glance at Stacia, found her fixed on adjusting Tatiana’s pearl choker, and briskly obeyed his king.

The ballroom looked the same, but rather than being sucked into a vortex of dark silk and darker velvet, the light from a dozen chandeliers laughed and played over a glittering pastel palette. This was the first occasion in a year when the court could shine in rainbow colour, and every one of them had shed their mourning to burst like butterflies from their shadow cocoons. Musicians played a waltz in the gallery and footmen in royal livery balanced silver trays of crystal flutes as they circulated seamlessly among the guests. And such guests! Foreign envoys in their chains of office, Cabinet members in their ostentatious best, military officers in full dress uniform, and the nobility themselves had turned out to see and be seen at Tsar Nikolai’s first public showing. Viktor had a brief word with the herald and stepped into the corridor to await the family’s arrival.

His heart always beat too fast at these damned things. Large gatherings annoyed him and relentless exposure had failed to alter the fact. Before he had married, Andrei had hosted balls for political reasons as well as holidays and historical anniversaries. After he had wed, he had invented reasons to host them, but his deeper purpose had always been to show off his bride. True to his romantic nature, Andrei had loved his imported princess on sight.

So had Viktor. The marriage had been arranged by ambassadors when Andrei survived childhood to become a viable prospect for continuing the bloodline. He had protested at first, citing Yuri as a worthier candidate, but when Stacia’s sledge had arrived at the Ice Palace and an anonymous bundle of brindled furs had been unwrapped before him, he had promptly abandoned his argument.

She had not changed in fifteen years. She walked the corridor on her son’s arm and was as beautiful tonight as she had been on the arm of another fourteen-year-old boy. Viktor felt as young looking at her now as he had been then, spellbound by a beauty he had not imagined in his dreams. She had looked at him then, and smiled as she passed; just as she looked at him now, and smiled as she passed, but the smile tonight held a different meaning despite its singular radiance.

She had danced with him once, at her wedding ball, when they had been strangers and neither had known what to say. Her eyes had continually strayed to Andrei anyway, so Viktor had not minded being mute. It was meet that she be in love with her husband; how could she not be in love with him when he all but worshipped her before witnesses? He had been so proud of her, so pleased to be the prince of a storybook princess. She had wanted for nothing, and when she had borne him a son, she had surpassed the Deity Himself in Andrei’s pantheon.

“He liked to look at me,” she said later, lying tangled in the sheets with sweat drying on her skin. “Not the way you do,” she added, dryly.

Viktor smiled. “How is that?”

“Like you want to devour me. It makes me skittish and shy, and sets me afire at the same time. Andrei wasn’t like that. To him, I was a work of art, a sculpture of marble and flame. That’s what he used to say. ‘Marble and flame’.” She swallowed hard and her eyes filled with tears. “Am I betraying him by being here with you?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor replied, truthfully. His voice was husky in the snug confines of the bed.

Stacia laid a hand on his arm, following the curve of his bicep with her fingers. “I loved him so much, Viktor. I loved him and yet I wanted you.”

Viktor waited. He had waited fifteen years to be with her; waiting a few minutes while she gathered her thoughts was no hardship. He wondered, though, if Andrei had known. Nothing had been said, but nothing said meant nothing. He did know that Andrei, despite his inclination, had been faithful to her. To them both, if one dared to look closely enough.

“When we made the girls,” she said, “he was driven by something more than desire. I felt that he was reaching for something beyond me, something beyond himself, and I just wanted him to break me, to shatter me into a thousand little pieces, and put me back together one bit at a time until I was whole again, and safe in his arms. In his arms, Viktor. I wanted to be flesh with him—but I never was. I loved him and he loved me, but we were never truly flesh.”

“You mean ‘merely’,” Viktor said.

Her eyes flicked briefly to his and away again. “I suppose so.”

“He couldn’t,” Viktor said. “You know that. The risk was too great.”

Stacia made a sound between laughter and despair. “He wouldn’t bruise me like a man, yet he risked it all to play football with his son.”

Viktor was silent. They hadn’t known he was injured until it was too late. He had seemed fine, completely normal, and Nicky had been so happy that Papa had taken time to practice penalty kicks with him. What had he been thinking? What madness had possessed him?

“I want you to hurt me,” she said. “Punish me, Viktor. Use me, ride me, make me feel something mortal.”

Viktor refused.

She stared at him from dark, haunted eyes. “Then I have no use for you.”

to be continued …

Zeppelin Heart

The Sisters Wilson

Some people don’t know when to quit.

That sentence could apply to the continuing carousel of classic rock bands churning out the same set list of archaic hits night after night on tour after tour year after year (are you listening, Def Leppard?) It could also apply to the hordes of silver-mullet males whose female counterparts can’t quite accept that their black spandex pants and stiletto heels aren’t as sleek on now as they were a quarter-century ago. It could also apply to Ter and me—who always dressed to be comfortable and paid attention to the stage.

Yep, we did it again. We bought tickets to see a bass-thumping, guitar-crunching rock band who were hot back when we were hot … and I would not have missed it for the world.

The Wilson sisters—Ann and Nancy, collectively known as Heart—ended their “Rockin Heaven Canada” tour in Victoria last weekend and we were there. So were a few next-generation brats whose parents must have been fans because, idiotic as they were, the pair behind us knew the words to most of the songs and neither of them had been alive when the Dreamboat Annie LP was released in the 1970s. Crabbing is now complete on that score, except to add that they were still alive at the end of the show only because it was illegal to kill them.

Though Heart albums were played while I was growing up, none of them were mine. I wasn’t a fan at all, though my older sister played the debut album thin and my wee sister sang a beautiful “Dog and Butterfly” when she thought no one was listening. Ter, while unbeknownst to me, was also a fan; after we teamed up, she would occasionally play their greatest hits in our apartment at the bug palace in 1986. (The band is old enough, and successful enough, to have had a greatest hits compilation in the mid-80s.) I knew the songs and I acknowledged Ann’s rich smoke-and-whiskey voice, but I never, repeat never, listened to their stuff myself.

Until Julian. I was working on a modern-day story with him in which he frankly stated that he hunts to Heart. Um, er, ah … okaaaaaaaay … My vampire is in love with Ann Wilson. Didn’t see that coming, but what’s a scribe to do? In my case, I started listening. I had to get a feel for what Jules was saying so I could do right by him in the narrative and, through him, I discovered a genuine appreciation for her gift. I mean, that voice is a gift.

She proved it last Sunday, first by belting out a trove from her own band’s catalogue, then by ripping through a handful of Led Zeppelin songs that ended with a spine-chilling rendition of “Stairway to Heaven”. Oh—my—God! Overall the band was tight and loud and did their job easily given the treasure they support. Nancy is still a wicked guitarist. She’s also the vocal on one of my favourite tracks, “These Dreams”, the lyric of which was written by Bernie Taupin. Alas, her voice isn’t exactly what it was back when, but the star of the show—her older sister’s—is as limber and powerful as it was 40 years ago. She hit everything she aimed at and held on until the audience was gasping for breath. Because the band was so loud, some distortion interfered, but in softer moments, she was pristine. Absolutely, garment-rendingly, pristine.

I’m not a big Zep fan, either, but again, I know their songs and I know that the Wilsons idolized them, so it makes sense for Heart to drop a few Zep gems into their set. Devoting half of the whole show to them, however, and featuring Jason Bonham on big drums, made me a believer. It was so good, I’m hoping they release an album version of the Zeppelin set … though Julian just winced.

Hm. Guess he’s no Led Zep fan.

Anniversaries

where the adventure began - July 1, 1984

Ter and I moved into our current abode on August 1, so our residential fiscal year ends on July 31. That means our final rent cheque for the 13/14 cycle will be cashed after today’s stat holiday. I wouldn’t mention it except it so happens that our very first mutual rent cheque was cashed on the same day thirty years ago.

Thirty years.

Yep, Ter and I became roommates on July 1, 1984. Who could have predicted that we’d still be together three decades after we signed the lease on suite 408 at the Landmark building in Sidney-by-the-Sea?

Not us. The plan—in my mind, anyway—had been to share expenses until one of us (probably Ter, who was blonde and beautiful and so freaking pulled together) found Mr. Right. The universe obviously had other ideas, since that paragon of priesthood perfection never materialized, and after all this time, I can honestly say, THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!

I should also thank my father, because it was his idea. Faced with the terror of acquiring another twentysomething daughter when the one he had was showing no sign of leaving the nest, he quietly suggested to me that, “Perhaps you two should think of getting an apartment together.”

Well, duh. Therein lies the danger of parents making their home too comfortable for the children—I was twenty-two, had a fulltime government job, and no inclination at all to get my own place. Ter had come back from Edmonton and was living with her folks in their ground floor apartment. She, by comparison, had been on her own since she was seventeen, so when I told her what Dad had said, she was all for it. Thus began “The Ongoing Adventures of Ru and Ter”.

Her childhood experience was in direct contrast to mine, so we each brought unique neuroses and phobias to the party. As we have grown together into adulthood, we’ve sorted through our mutual crap and found our singular magic. We have helped each other to become who we truly are. We’re not done yet, either. There is so much more growing and nurturing and sharing to accomplish, feats that couldn’t be achieved by either of us in company with anyone else. And when we operate as a team? Don’t ask questions, just get out of our way.

A popular (and horribly romantic) misconception is that a girl will marry her soul mate. This is not always so. In fact, it may be less frequently so. Soul mates come in many forms. We travel through time together and take on different roles in each phase of our progress. Whatever she has been and whatever she will be, this time out, Ter is my sistah. My teacher. My yardstick. My cool inspector. My house elf. My guru. My heavy-lifter. My bodyguard. My reality check. She says I never drive her crazy, so I’m unsure how she perceives the condition, but when we argue, we argue from ego, never from spirit. The square root of our relationship is love. Pure, positive, unconditional love.

Could either of us have survived the past thirty years with Mr. Right? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Maybe. But it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.