I'll be home tonight, God willing. Right now I'm at the hotel, third storey, eastern outskirts of Regina looking out over the endless prairies and the highway that we've already traveled. Somehow its all too familiar to me, and I can't wait to be home again preparing to head out to the east coast. How far away Seattle seems to be, and how much more vibrant and exciting for it.

Two days
a fictional memoir
(written Jan. 31/04)
(rewritten today's date)

The headlights swept over the sparse trees and then the road and settled on the gate. Dad stopped and got out to open the gate and I zipped up my parka, preparing for the step out of the warm van to unload the bags from the back. When we stopped at the end of the driveway I opened the sliding door and stepped out. It was cold and dead and black, just as I knew it would be because it always was. My foot nearly slipped on some ice. It was only icy on the old car treads because the snow was packed down underneath them and when the rain froze it was dangerous. The loose, ice-glazed snow gave way for a firm foothold.

Not wanting to stay in the cold any longer than necessary, I opened the back doors of the van. I heard nocturnal rustling and turned to stare into the darkness. I shuddered, and risked a glance at the stars. They were cold and dead like everything else but they winked down at me hypocritically. I thought about Mrs. R, who died just about where I was standing. Actually, I'd been thinking a lot about her for the past while. I thought it might be okay, but now I realized I didn't want to be here at all. Not even for two days, nor another minute.

It didn't matter though, and I knew it, so I brought in the bags. It all smelled and looked exactly the same, nothing had changed in the past year, in fact nothing ever changed in all the years that I'd known this place. Always it was exactly as you left and I hated it. I brought my bags upstairs and it was colder up there. My little brothers were pretty excited and it disgusted me. I made my bed and realized I'd forgotten to pack pajamas, but I didn't really care.

I got into bed in my clothes and read until I was so sleepy that I couldn't concentrate any more, and then I turned out the lights and closed my eyes. I wondered what was the last thing she thought about. I wondered if she wanted a last thing to think about and then held that thought until she couldn't any more or if she just kept thinking. I wondered if her ghost was somewhere here. I thought about that for awhile and I scared myself, so I started to think about other things. I hoped I wouldn't wake up in the night. I said my prayers and I prayed that I'd sleep well. I wasn't feeling sleepy any more, so I thought about writing, but I felt dead and very awake. I thought of some story ideas but not how to tell any of them, because I was dead.

I woke up hearing my brothers talking in the other room. I didn't feel like I'd slept at all, I just felt dull and awake. I got up and read until mother called us for breakfast. I didn't feel hungry, but I walked downstairs and we ate toasted waffles that were cold and dry and I felt a little sick.

After breakfast my father and brother opened their gifts, because it was their birthdays. My dad got slippers, and I remembered Mrs. R. telling us to always wear slippers because it was better for the rugs in the cottage. I had forgotten mine this time. I'd never forgotten them before.

I went for a walk down to the lake. Someone had cleared some snow on the ice to skate on, but no one was here now. No one ever was. There were boat launches that were frozen into the ice and you could see a lot of houses with no one in them and no one was anywhere. I looked out across over the lake and the trees and grey skies, out across the frozen ice that so many people thought was beautiful and comforting and so very serene. My little brothers were sledding on the hill and laughing and having a good time, but it all felt wrong. I turned and went quickly back to the cottage.

I started to read, but I was tired of reading, and when my brothers got back we watched a movie. It was a comedy and I'd seen it before, but it wasn't as funny the second time.

After supper dad wasn't feeling well and he went to bed. I read and read, but my head was always here, in this dead place, and the stink of it pervaded all of my thoughts and I felt sad. I went to sleep finally in the darkness and complete silence.

The next morning we got ready to go and dad wanted to fill the birdfeeder, so I propped the ladder against the tree and took it down. I stood and watched the birds come to the feeder that was still full and I felt happy watching them and happy that we were leaving and I also felt very selfish.

Two months later the widower sold the cottage.

end.

I just heard today that the cottage was sold, so I added the last bit.

Now I'm off to Winnipeg for a week and some so I'll talk to everyone when I get back.

Well I finished "A Farewell to Arms" this week, so maybe I'll change my blog layout again to match For Whom the Bell Tolls, the next Hemingway in line, though I do love this one so. Anyways, since I'm leaving on Monday for a week, and maybe a half, for Winnipeg, it isn't very realistic to say that I'll change before then.

And anyhow, the prose is still captivating my thinking, despite Joyce's Dubliners self-afflicted assaults on my mind, which I can't seem to stop, now that I'm well into it. I really meant to stop after the first story, which left a distinct impression of what is commonly referred to by scholars as "good modern writing" or by me as, "bad writing." I didn't, however, stop there, but continued on to the second story, where I warmed to the book considerably. The next two were awful, but the one after those was quite good. The last one I read was so lame it almost made me puke, but now that I'm over halfway I'm doomed to finish it, taking the bad with the good. At least they're short, which is an admirable quality in any writing. This brings us to the unpleasant subject of Dickens.

Librarius Updaticus:

Dubliners, by James Joyce
The Lord of the Flies, by Whatsisname Goldberg or whatever. I'll check it later.

I didn't smile though. I thought it was gross.

There was a couple kissing near the escalator up to the trains. They were so near to the escalator that everyone going up had to walk around them, and most of the people smiled to themselves as they bustled past them.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Today on her blog, Beth mentioned (under what circumstances I won't mention) a tee shirt that said "Kiss me, I'm Irish! (Add a little tongue, I'm French, too.)" and then later on my Irish-born friend Mark signed onto MSN with the handle "kiss me, im irish........ :D" and I thought of a squat Korean kid at camp who some people were calling "Honeybucket" had a shirt that said "Half of me is 60% Irish". Then I thought of something else, but I won't say what it was, and after that I thought about how un-Irish I was, and I was secretly happy, and I hoarded my Mennonite heritage like an aged, bloated dragon on his worthless piles of inestimable riches.

Why Tacoma?

I'm starting my summer with a week in Montana at camp, where I will celebrate my birthday where I do every year, surrounded by friends and with memories as my most favoured gifts.

After that I reunite with my soul in Tacoma Washington, because it never leaves that place, as much as I claim to love the prairies. All of the smells of the rain, the green, the coffee, begin to come back in anticipation of this reaquaintence with childhood memories, every time driving into Seattle just like last time with the ships and the bridges and the Space Needle looking friendly. Then I'm in a place where time stands still and everything is well, and when I leave my soul is gone again until the next time I see that skyline. Rain, like tin angels falling down. Like a mission and we're half way there from some old dried up fried forgotten town. Why won't they let us be ourselves. With our potential we could tow the line, and show the bastards up with our divine light...

A fictional memoir

We decided to drive over, instead of walk. I think it was because he thought it was too cold out. When we got outside and were walking to the van I realized that it really wasn't cold at all, in fact it was warmer than it had been in a long time, only it looked cold from behind the windows. I didn't say anything as we got into the van though because I didn't feel like walking anyways. I started it up and turned on the radio.
"I like this song," he said.
I didn't like it at all, but I didn't say anything and pulled out.
"Pretty soon we'll be on our own," he said when we got onto the main road. "No ties, no rules, and a lot of responsibility."
"Yeah, that's why I want to travel first. Then I'll take the responsibility."
"Travel?"
"Yeah, I have to get away from this place. See the world before it's too late."
"Where to?"
"Europe. France, Italy, Spain, Britain."
He sort of laughed and I didn't say anything for awhile because I knew he didn't understand about that. It made me a little sick.
"So what about after that? Are you going back to school?"
"I guess so, yeah."
"Just don't do anything stupid."
"Okay."
I was watching the intersection ahead where a truck was pulling up to the yeild sign and I was going a little bit too fast but it didn't matter because I had the right of way but the truck started again and I took my foot off the gas as it smashed into the side of the van with the sound of a gunshot that punched me in the side and then we were tipping, and tipping, and I saw the pavement out of the passenger's window and then I felt it drop hard back onto all four wheels and the back window shattered and we settled in between two trees on someone's front yard. Neither of us said anything, and after a moment I reached over and turned off the radio.

I went to the house of an old friend today. He had changed a lot, but the change was consistent with his childhood personality. In a way it was good to hang out with him, and it was awesome playing puff the magic dragon on his electric and him on the drums. That was seriously awesome. He wishes so badly that he was cool. He never was very easy to talk to

(example a)
"So tell me a story, man."
"A story."
"Yeah, about something crazy you did."
"I don't do crazy things."
"You don't do crazy things? Come on."
"I sit at home. I read. I write. I don't do crazy things."

(example b)
"Man, that's all we did was smoke pot. We got together and smoked, that was the only thing we had in common. It was so fucking stupid."
"Well hey, if you learned something..."
"I guess that's what life is, eh? Learning stuff."
"And then you die."
He laughed. "And then you die."

Well isn't this cozy.

Library Update:

For Whom the Bells Toll by Ernest Hemingway
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
Gilbert: the man who was G.K. Chesterton by Michael Coren

Gosh, these blog vandals are getting out of hand.

I moved some things around, as you may have noticed, and I also added Hannah's unpoedic to the list there, now that she's finally giving signs of life. (Don't hit me)

On a similar note, I was this close to taking off mirrored, having given it up for lost. Now that it's "back" though, check it out.

Okay, that really frickin messed it all up. Anyways, so yeah.

I'm back after a weekend filled with laughter and getting together with friends and lots of anger. I went to a friend's church on Sunday, where they talked about Mel Gibson. And then I went to someone's house where they talked some more about Mel and the wonderful work he did in putting the death of God in glorious technicolour. Blood was also discussed.

"I don't know if I'll see it. It might be too bloody," says someone.
"Oh," I think quietly to myself.

From Luke 23:
26 And as they led him away, they laid hold upon one Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus.
27 And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him.
28 But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.


What is the real passion of Christ?