Harvest Season

We are on a rickety wagon in a field of pumpkins. I don't know how old I am, or the city, province, country. My parents, brother and myself huddle together. It's chilly. My father is wearing a grey jacket, the one that he now uses only to barbecue, since he doesn't want to get his other jackets to smell of steaks and beer. It was brighter then, must have been almost new.

The wagon is stopped, because it is the end of the ride. Flashbacks are funny in the way that there is no context, no beginning or end. My parents disembark first, quickly hopping down to the ground, the way grown-ups effortlessly do. I stand on the wagon, anticipating. Only after my father motions me to follow his lead does it become apparent that those guiding hands were not helping me this time. Only while looking back at the past do I realize that this is the first time I would have to do something by myself.

"Bend your knees when you land, or else you'll break your legs!"

He is joking, of course (I hope).

I practice bending my knees on the spot, to make sure I don't forget how in the critical moment. My dad is eyeing for my attention by pantomiming the same action. For an outsider, this probably looked like some sort of invisible see-saw.

As I hit the ground, I bend my knees to excess and my bum touches the dirt. I'm relieved, empowered.

Sleeping

It began with a tickle on the uppermost crest of my ear.

Not too much of a tickle to cause a disturbance, I thought, but enough to make me think about it--and enter into the vicious cycle of tickly ears. The more emphasis the brain places on the tickle, the more I realize that the ear has iterated itself into the bane of my sleep. My pillow is too warm, my room is too warm.

I went hiking yesterday. The Crowsnest Pass was not too difficult, but it did amount to 6 hours in the gawking sun. In typical Albertan fashion, those brief moments of relief when the Sun passes behind a ball of white fluff were not applicable; yesterday, there was not one cloud in the wide sky. Did I remember to apply sunscreen that day? Sure I did (I hope), but if not, I'm not one that burns too easily. It was foolish of me to believe that I am immune. I did get singed on the uppermost crest of my ear, not too much to cause a disturbance, but enough to make me think about it.

Back to my bed: I can still hear the wall clock tick-tocking away. He laughs at my inability to sleep. Tick--my eyes are heavy. Tock--Wait, I wonder what time it is? Does it matter? Yes, yes, I have to get up at six tomorrow morning. Why did I leave the noisy clock on my wall? It's nights like these that remind me that I should switch the clock in my bedroom with the silent one in the kitchen. In the morning I will forget. These sleepy moments are not exactly conducive to memory formation.

I am not a back sleeper, but will try it for tonight. Tomorrow I will rise at six, and examine my ear in the mirror.

Sunday Dreams

Sometimes I imagine myself dancing. In my head, I'm much better at it. I mean I have fun when I actually dance, pure fun, and I don't hold back and if I look funny I laugh. I think it's an essential part of life, the occasional release of a body from the body-shaped box made from everyday things that it's kept in. Everyday things like restaurants or gas stations, because we don't dance there, or in line-ups, or while on the phone with our employers. But in my head, where there is a gorgeous and impossible freedom, I choreograph and star in entire productions. I am not limited by energy, strength, flexibility, time, location, passers by, or anything else. I am an Amazon. And that goes for everything I do in my head. I frequently hop fences and run through dusty wheat fields in the last hour of sunlight with twenty or so friends and family members and all of us are so fast, and none of us have debilitating knee pain. But in real life, as it's called, I'm just riding a bus.

I work as a bartender. I've done this before, it's a thing I do for money and because I genuinely like people. It's less than thrilling, but I have rent to pay, and debts, and decisions that are taking longer and longer to make. Here is a snapshot: I'm using a fork to sift out the lumps in the celery salt. There's more where that came from. My shifts are generally the least busy ones; weekdays, Tuesday nights. I clean things, and happily volunteer as a guinea pig for the

equally unoccupied cook who experiments with new menu items. Think mashed potatoes made with ranch dressing then grilled on a flat top to make little potato pancakes. If you have occasion to try this, do.

And, as ever, I keep my mind occupied. I try to picture myself with a career. Sometimes I imagine being a flight attendant, with a crisp, clean uniform and perfect hair, always smiling, speaking French, and coming home with pictures from various glamourous places every week or so. Last Tuesday I left the front door of the restaurant unlocked. We closed early, around midnight by the time the stragglers trickled out. The room was swept, chairs put up, bar shut down, lights off. I set the alarm and locked the back door behind me, forgetting entirely to check the front. It is a miracle that no passing thief discovered my mistake.

I came to work Wednesday morning to discover this alongside my boss, and cried a little while I was mopping. I never enjoy this. In my head I am not a crier, and when faced with my own failures or other challenges, I am steely and rational, rolling up my sleeves, saying and doing only what must be said and done. But the little body-shaped box I live in insists on the absurdity of opening the flood gates in my eyes and reducing my hands to useless, quivering pincers at the first sign of trouble. Such is life. Or real life, as it's called.

So, I spent Wednesday morning roaming the Scottish hills. In my head, I am this indulgent, yes. I imagined myself wearing wooly sweaters and gumboots, rosy-cheeked and dewy from the fog and when that grew tiresome I got myself an apartment in Italy, and leaning out my window with the sun in my hair I could smell fish cooking in the cafe downstairs. On the ride home I was Peggy Lee in a dark nightclub singing 'Black Coffee'.  

Well fuck, I don’t want to imagine myself sifting salt.

I wonder if you know of this feeling, that of half-lives, daydreams, and the maudlin, flickering halt they come to when the bus lurches.

I'm hanging out on Monday

My Sunday dreams to dry

What's in my pockets, What's in my pack.

Clockwise, starting at Top Left: Tank design cost calculations, folded once; Wallet, with $50 in bills and an upside down student ID; Keychain comprised of a key-less entry chip, LED flashlight, mailbox key, house key, laboratory key, bike lock key, room key, cupboard key; USB key sponsored by Suncor with a Suncor video saved; iPhone 3G, Quarter; Quarter; Quarter; Toonie.

Starting at Top Left: Beat-up clipboard folder with too much looseleaf and not enough organization; Photocopied textbook; Black blank-sheet notebook with Materials Engineering notes; Beige blank-sheet notebook with Process Control notes; Beige calendar + notes, slightly crooked; Clear pencil case containing a few pens, pencils, two erasers and 0.5 mm pencil lead; Engineering Faculty-Standard Calculator; USB key that was found on the ground and who is still trying to find its rightful owner; Moleskine reporter-style notebook with 4 postage stamps, half-filled; The pack itself.

If only these walls could talk, what would they say?
Would they boast: we've seen great men pass through here, in the prime of their youth? Heroes who laughed here, slept here, learned here, just yesterday.
Or would the walls see the worst of us? The crying and screaming, the politics and wasted hours, the flung mashed potatoes and spilt mugs of beer.
If they could talk, if only.