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.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Cajun Seafood Gumbo
Flipping through the Index of my Chemical Reactions textbook, my eyes are drawn to the "C" section where the top item listed reads "Cajun Seafood Gumbo, 954". Now being a hungry student in a food-free environment (i.e., library), my stomach got the best of me, and sure enough, there's a recipe for 10 quarts of traditional seafood gumbo hidden in Appendix H. I'm gonna photocopy this page and make some ol' Louisiana specialties for my next potluck. To add to the weirdness of the situation here are the previous entries in the appendix:
...
H.4 Underground Wet Oxidation
H.5 Hydrodesulfurization Reactor Design
H.6 Continuous Bioprocessing
H.7 Methanol Synthesis
H.8 Cajun Seafood Gumbo
...
H.4 Underground Wet Oxidation
H.5 Hydrodesulfurization Reactor Design
H.6 Continuous Bioprocessing
H.7 Methanol Synthesis
H.8 Cajun Seafood Gumbo
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Elusive Sasquatch - True Events
This is possibly my favourite written effort. It was written over a year ago, but I met a man today who writes and is refreshingly less committed than the average blogger to staying current, an obsession which might have a place in the world of media but which does not govern it. I mean we are here to write, to celebrate writing, and to read, are we not? He also makes beautiful furniture. I thank him for the advice.
Hundreds of dollars are spent preparing for the trip. I buy new shorts. Levin buys a small folding table. We make countless lists. A master list, then one for each of us, items we are specifically responsible for. A driving itinerary. A grocery list. A To Do list. These couple days before takeoff are full of so many things. I find waterproof matches in the garage. How could we not have thought of this? We need this. Levin finds a vinyl poncho in his storage unit. Perfect. We are boy scouts. We are always prepared. We have a map. No, not a map, an Atlas. Important pages are dog-eared. I will be the greatest co-pilot the world has ever seen.
We are organized.
Five hundred dollars Canadian is 430 and change in American.
We are ready.
We are driving from Calgary to Washington State for three days of camping and one glorious night of music. Kings of Leon are playing. It will be legend. It will be history. It will be documented. After careful consideration I pack only five cameras.
It is maybe ten o'clock Thursday night and we're at Safeway with Claire, who is examining our grocery list and meal plans. She doesn't say so but we know she sees the sheer genius of meal plans. This is brilliant, guys, she is thinking. We know, Claire. But thank you. We are getting everything but milk here; they don't have the plastic 1 litre jugs, and the carton will get soggy in the ice. Sheer genius. We deserve this.
Levin: Six eggs should be good right?
Me: I don't think so, if we have two each for breakfast Saturday, that leaves only two for our omelet Sunday.
Levin: Couldn't we just have one each on Saturday?
Me: Yeah you're right six.
We buy twelve eggs and Levin packs the cooler in the Brentwood Safeway parking lot. I am conveniently on the phone. There are things to be said, last minute details to be clarified. We drop Claire off. I feel sad for her, that she will miss this. It is closer now. My bones are shaking, shouting at me. LET'S GO LET'S DO THIS ANYWHERE BUT HERE NOW ON THE ROAD NOW MOVEMENT NOW PROGRESS NOW.
We stop at my house to pick up the last of my stuff. I have to wake my mum up to get in, I have forgotten my key. Of course I have. How could I spare one thought for our return? She hugs me for a long time. She knows I will come back a different person. Me, but more worldly, more alive, more certain, more tanned. And with a commemorative t-shirt of some sort I can only hope.
Sasquatch is calling.
We have to remember the milk. We stop at a gas station; fill the tank, buy heavily caffeinated beverages. M&M's. These are crucial. We forget the milk. It is just after eleven pm when we leave Calgary. This takes several tries to get right (Star Trek character references are considered, and I have to be taught the terminology):
Levin: (KSSHH)Houston this is Passat, we are ready for takeoff.
Me: (KSSHH)Roger that Passat, you are clear for takeoff, please approach the runway.
Levin: (KSSHH)Roger Roger, counting down to liftoff. Liftoff in 10, 9, 8...
Me: 7, 6, 5, 4...
Levin: 3, 2, 1. Houston we have have liftoff.
We are golden.
We are brave adventurers.
We are on fire.
There will be plenty of opportunities to buy milk along the way. We play Kings of Leon loudly to stay awake. It is important to be awake, to remember as much as possible.
It is somewhere between midnight and one when 193 km outside Calgary, the car breaks down.
Levin is saying I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Emily, that's it. That's our trip. Are you joking around Levin? He does this. He jokes. But he is serious, and kind of shaking. I know it is selfish and stupid but I wish it were more dramatic. A crash landing. A blaze of glory. At least some air time. Something. But it doesn't even sputter, just sort of coasts dreamily to a stop. Oh, were you guys headed somewhere? I'm sorry, I'm just not really feeling it. This is my frustration speaking, really I know the Passat is sorry, so sorry Emily. The Passat speaks with a voice like Levin's, but quieter, slightly ashamed. Very soon Levin is calmer, in control again, and I break my silence and start being positive. But within these few minutes a part of both of us dies.
There is no service here. Or it is elusive. Levin gets out an emergency kit, one of those things you're supposed to never actually need. A little bag that says in this very cavalier italic font: Justin Case. Justin finds himself amusing. Ahaha! Wordplay in your desperate circumstances will lighten the mood! There is an S.O.S. banner with adhesive edges for the back window, but it is too cold and it doesn't stick. It is very cold. It is freezing. Save Our Souls Justin! We hang it out the back passenger window. Levin imagines a gang of adventurous youths stopping to help us. Your car broke down? That is a tragedy. Sasquatch Fest? We're on our way there now as a matter of fact. Say, we have some room, and you packed so efficiently, join us! We are even more powerful in numbers! The first two cars to stop have no room. They promise to get us a tow truck in the next town. We get out our sleeping bags and blankets and try to sleep.
Levin: Emily? Are you awake?
Me: Yes.
He is apologizing again. The noise of the banner in the wind woke him up, he thought it was wildlife. Bears. Levin has a healthy fear of bears. He will later tell me that for a few moments, he genuinely thought we were both going to die. I am glad he kept this to himself at the time. We drift in and out of sleep until about six. Levin decides we need a trucker, and they take a while to stop, so he gets out to go down the road a little way and flag one down. He is doing everything, I am too cold to move. He is a saint. I'm looking ahead and see Lev running to meet the truck that is pulling to a stop. I'm watching this interaction, thinking how funny it looks, tiny Levin looking way up at this enormous truck and talking, gesturing, like the truck is a live entity, with no need for a driver. See, it's like this truck. It is suddenly very quiet in the car except for a rustling noise. I am alone and scared and I slowly turn my head. It's the S.O.S. sign again. You have been of no use Justin. The truck has a driver, his name is Rick, and after some confusion we are both riding in his truck the one or two hours to Radium. It is now the opposite direction we need. Finally on the move again, and it's pointless; a ghost of a road trip. But Rick has a heater. I cherish Rick for this. Slowly the chill wears off and I fold up the blanket I brought. We arrive in Radium, and it's daylight now. I am instantly cold again. The slightest gust of wind rattles me. I wander into a coffee shop with the blanket wrapped around me while Levin calls his mum. He comes in and says, Will you take that blanket off? You look like a crazy person. He is right. My hair is messy and my eyes are tired and I am wearing a very old and worn light blue blanket. I am sketchy. We get coffee and Lev calls a tow truck. We wait for hours in the coffee shop. I fall asleep. Then Levin kicks me and we go outside to wait. Blanket on. A man walks by in shorts, talking on a cell phone. What is wrong with you sir? Can't you feel that soul crushing cold?
The tow truck driver is a large man with various items hanging from the holes in the neck of his t-shirt. He is at first all over the road. He actually says, it can be hard on this job, you get so sleepy. Then he begins making frequent stops for the washroom, smoking, energy drinks. He comes back sniffing and rubbing his nose. He is a better driver now. Over the long trip he talks about his son, his rebellious days, being in trouble with the law, his diabetes, the best energy drinks, his company and previous jobs. For the first hour or so his Ipod is playing all country. I think I might have gone my whole life without hearing 'Jukebox Junkie' were it not for this man. At one point when he is stopped for something or other, Levin says, we have to listen to this music for hours. Almost as if he heard this the driver, his name is Doug, eventually says you guys can go through there if you want, or if you want to put your own Ipod on, I like anything really, except the rap. I can't stand the rap. We play Kings of Leon of course. One side of me sees this as a small comfort. My negative side is quieter, but makes a solid point. It is almost a cruel joke.
At last there's a record that I love to play
Dreamin' 'bout a place I'll never see
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
BA-LUE-HUUUES
Hey what do you guys think so far?? Why am I doing this??
So we get back to the car, Levin gets to ride in it while Doug loads it. This makes Lev smile a little which is nice. En route to Banff to drop off the car. By this point he has arranged for Jack to pick us up there. Jack who would not loan us his car for this trip. A completely understandable and wise decision. We hated him for a moment when we needed to hate someone. But Jack is a good guy. This is not his fault.
Then there is a new development. Something wonderful. A miracle. Can we salvage this? How crazy would that be if we could salvage this??
Levin: My mom says she'll meet us in Canmore after work and drive us to Washington. We can't camp the whole time, she doesn't want to hang around, but we can go for the one night, see the show! What do you think? I know it won't be the same but should we go?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Obviously. We can save this. This is great.
We are golden again.
Or tarnished brass.
In Canmore we see a Volkswagen specialist. I'm in the cab watching his face. He listens to Levin's explanation, takes one look at our broke down spaceship, shakes his head. There is no hope for the Passat, he is saying. You were fools to think the Passat could manage this, he is saying. You were fools to think you could manage this, he is saying. Give up. Go home. I will not be your savior.
Levin is without a car now. Being a bus taker / cab payer I cannot pretend to understand this feeling. I wonder if it is like losing a pet. Or a sudden eviction from a kind of second home.
Doug takes us to Boston Pizza. The three of us are sitting at a table in a Boston Pizza in Canmore eating lunch like old friends. Levin makes conversation, but I can't help being quiet. I don't understand where I am. I am processing. Doug offers to pay. So nice. No really, you don't have to do that. It is decided that the car will be left in the parking lot of a Husky in Dead Man's Flats. Because Canmore isn't small enough. I don't know. But I must contend this town's name is appropriately depressing for the long wait ahead of us after Doug unloads the car, shakes our hands, asks our names, and goes on his way. It is midday and Holly (Levin's mum) can't leave Calgary until five. We are getting fresh clothes out of the car.
Me: I'll be right back.
Levin: Just change here.
Me: I'm a girl.
Levin: Go behind something.
Me: I want to wash my face.
Levin: Use the wipes.
Me: I just want to go to the washroom. We have been in some sort of vehicle for so long. We have been in transit so long. I want my dignity back. I want a moment to myself.
Me (really): I'll be right back.
We get out our cameras and wander, finding different places to sit. Over to a playground. I lie on a bench, Levin naps in a little play hut, then gets bored and throws pebbles at me. We sit on the teeter totter. What was that rhyme? Something about helicopters and a Mrs. Brown? On to the swing. This is a good decision. Swings are movement. Swings are not 'We are wasting every minute of what should have been a fast paced adventure in this tiny town waiting for a ride' . Swings are ' Higher and higher I'm flying I'm doing this I'm propelling this operation and I control it'.
MOVEMENT NOW.
The swings are a temporary solution.
PROGRESS NOW.
The best I can do under the circumstances.
There is a creek. We look for places to cross. I remove my flip flops for this. I have wandered away from Lev and am halfway across a log with the sun on my face and water rushing over my bare feet and I shout urgently, Levin! He comes running, and I feel guilty immediately. I am clumsy and he knows this. He probably thought I needed help and here I am standing on a log grinning like an idiot.
Levin: What?
Me: I don't remember.
I am a child.
We been running barefoot through the stream
We ain't even been to the ocean
We head back and stop in a little general store. There is a cat lounging on the shelves in the sun. I pet the cat then look up to see the owner with a veritable scowl on her face. The store has camping gear. We don't need this anymore. We are not boy scouts. We have nothing to prepare for. We are lost. Rambling, aimless. The store has second hand tapes for a dollar. They are all homemade mixes. I consider something titled 'R&B and others'. I wonder what was happening in the first owner's life at the time of this tape's creation. In the Husky parking lot we try to sleep again. I start to read, and the book I brought is too perfect for the trip this was supposed to be, full of travel, events, revelations, adventure. I give up and try for sleep. Levin is cranky so I sleep outside, in the grass. Then a honk wakes me up and Holly is here. We transfer necessary items to her car, but the passenger count has increased by one and we can't fit everything. Levin packs. I am torn between wanting to be of use and not wanting to ruin his efficiency. Levin is systematic, meticulous, logical. I can easily picture him moving whatever I put in the car to a more sensible location. He is separating the dishes, weeding out anything other than the essential. At one point he says, pick one pair of shoes to bring. I have a Safeway bag with my runners and other flip flops in it. I know it is small and could easily be stowed away just about anywhere, for my shoe choice convenience, but I comply. I think because he is making a point. Yes, we are doing this, yes, we will try to salvage whatever we can, but this is not the same journey we set out on. We have been dealt a crushing blow. Sacrifices must be made. Some shoes must be left behind. The results of this trip will be bittersweet at best.
We are in the car and moving again. My sense of direction and purpose is muddled, but I say to myself, this is good. This will get better. Somewhere along the way we stop at a roadside tourist shop with snacks and such to go to the washroom. There is a sign on the door, saying something like, please respect the proprietors of this store by not using the washroom if you are not a customer. There is a public washroom across the highway. We use the the washroom anyway. Holly buys a coffee but Levin does not, out of spite for the rule. He will not support this business if they are going to be so irrational. There is a playground we wander over to, until we see the sign posted, with several bullet points. After one bullet point: Children ages 2 - 11 only. We return to the bench.
Levin: This place has too many rules.
In the car, I try to read again. I look at it in a new way; the book is an escape, like it's always been. Stop trying to relate this to yourself, Emily, ignore the similarities, you will never do anything this amazing. Levin is in the back, on his laptop. This is not the same journey we set out on. We are broken and divided.
Around 60 km outside Canmore, this happens very fast:
Levin: SHIT!
Holly: (Swerves)
Grey Blurry Object (cement?): (Impact with the front of the car, on the passenger side, a heavy thud, then gone in an instant)
Me (incoherent): What... what was that? What just happened? (And quietly: Was that cement?)
Holly: (Still driving, begins hysterical laughter, then pulls over, still laughing)
The trucker behind us pulls over at the same time, as though we are a synchronized driving team.
Levin: We just hit a deer.
The trucker is climbing out of his truck. Our team mate. Maybe he knows what just happened. Wait, did Levin say...
Me: We hit a deer?
Levin: We just hit a deer.
Me: A deer?
Levin: You didn't see it?
We are out of the car, the trucker is coming towards us. We stand around in silence, staring at what used to be the headlight. It looks like someone broke several mirrors and threw the shards into the cavity in front of the bulbs. The fender is dented and broken. There is fecal matter sprayed in a graceful arc across the hood, the windshield, and the back door on the passenger side. As a final reminder of his existence, the deer has left two hairs emerging from the crud on the hood, sticking straight up, in a perfect 'v'. This deer, he is an artist. All this in an instant. Incredible. What a talent. The trucker has reached us now, he is youngish, in torn jeans and a hoodie. His belt buckle appears to be a set of brass knuckles. After a moment, he breaks the silence.
Trucker: Fuckin' deer, eh?
Too right, my friend.
Holly: Thanks for stopping.
Trucker: Yeah I just saw him doing cartwheels through the air into the ditch there... You guys alright?
What? You are telling me, you. Are. Telling. Me. Somewhere in the second or two that it took the deer to make a tragic canvas of our last hope, he somehow made time for gymnastics??
Fuckin' deer, eh?
Un.
Be.
Lievable.
There is more conversation, it is agreed that it is a good thing Levin shouted, because this is what caused Holly to swerve, and had she not done that we would have hit the deer head on. Holly's amusement at the (irony?) of this situation fades as she begins to consider damage, accident reports, insurance, etc. She gets the trucker's information in case she needs a witness. We are gathering ourselves, we have made our play. Good work team. Hands in.
Me: Are we still going to Sasquatch Fest?
Levin: We're not going to Sasquatch Fest.
We can't drive at night without a headlight. I'm an idiot. And slightly relieved.
Levin: I'm kind of at peace with it. With not going to Sasquatch Fest. We are not supposed to go.
Me: Yes.
We will drive to Cranbrook. We will stay the night in a hotel. We will drink. In a legion in the basement of the hotel. We will be told, live music! This will be two men on the small stage trying to remember the chords to various country songs for an audience of us three and the bartender. We will shower. And tomorrow we will gather all remaining scraps of our pride, whatever is left of our faded glory, our last reserves of youthful optimism, (Did you get everything? Check behind the bed) and we will go home.
We are defeated.
In the car.
Levin: Next year.
Me: Yeah.
Levin: But what if every time... What if it's like a curse?
Me: No way. It will be a challenge.
Levin: Good.
It will be history.
It will be legend.
Later we are looking at the positives:
We only bought concert tickets for the one night.
We didn't use any of our American money.
We will see Kings of Leon when they come to Calgary in August.
Rick and Doug. Nice guys.
The Swerve.
We could have broken down after crossing the border. We could have made it to the border and not been allowed to cross because they didn't trust the Passat not to break down.
We could have been mauled by bears.
We could have been robbed.
We could have remembered the milk. We saved four dollars this way.
We are taking this so well.
At home, I'm putting things away, I want no remaining evidence. Tent, chairs, gear, back in the garage. Quickly. I will deny we ever got it out. Twelve eggs, into the fridge. The carton is soggy from the ice and falls apart when I open it. Sheer genius. When this is done I put my dying phone on it's charger and sit on my bed, waiting to feel at home, grounded. It doesn't come. I am still floating, aimless, driving nowhere.
And I'll be gettin' out as soon as I can fly
Levin calls. He is having a barbecue with our groceries.
Levin: I'm gonna frame my ticket.
Yes. Of course I want evidence. Sheer genius. This is brilliant, Lev.
Me: Awesome.
We are golden.
We are on fire.
As soon as I can fly.
Me: What time?
Levin: Five or six.
Me: I'll be there.
We are organized.
Five hundred dollars Canadian is 430 and change in American.
We are ready.
We are driving from Calgary to Washington State for three days of camping and one glorious night of music. Kings of Leon are playing. It will be legend. It will be history. It will be documented. After careful consideration I pack only five cameras.
It is maybe ten o'clock Thursday night and we're at Safeway with Claire, who is examining our grocery list and meal plans. She doesn't say so but we know she sees the sheer genius of meal plans. This is brilliant, guys, she is thinking. We know, Claire. But thank you. We are getting everything but milk here; they don't have the plastic 1 litre jugs, and the carton will get soggy in the ice. Sheer genius. We deserve this.
Levin: Six eggs should be good right?
Me: I don't think so, if we have two each for breakfast Saturday, that leaves only two for our omelet Sunday.
Levin: Couldn't we just have one each on Saturday?
Me: Yeah you're right six.
We buy twelve eggs and Levin packs the cooler in the Brentwood Safeway parking lot. I am conveniently on the phone. There are things to be said, last minute details to be clarified. We drop Claire off. I feel sad for her, that she will miss this. It is closer now. My bones are shaking, shouting at me. LET'S GO LET'S DO THIS ANYWHERE BUT HERE NOW ON THE ROAD NOW MOVEMENT NOW PROGRESS NOW.
We stop at my house to pick up the last of my stuff. I have to wake my mum up to get in, I have forgotten my key. Of course I have. How could I spare one thought for our return? She hugs me for a long time. She knows I will come back a different person. Me, but more worldly, more alive, more certain, more tanned. And with a commemorative t-shirt of some sort I can only hope.
Sasquatch is calling.
We have to remember the milk. We stop at a gas station; fill the tank, buy heavily caffeinated beverages. M&M's. These are crucial. We forget the milk. It is just after eleven pm when we leave Calgary. This takes several tries to get right (Star Trek character references are considered, and I have to be taught the terminology):
Levin: (KSSHH)Houston this is Passat, we are ready for takeoff.
Me: (KSSHH)Roger that Passat, you are clear for takeoff, please approach the runway.
Levin: (KSSHH)Roger Roger, counting down to liftoff. Liftoff in 10, 9, 8...
Me: 7, 6, 5, 4...
Levin: 3, 2, 1. Houston we have have liftoff.
We are golden.
We are brave adventurers.
We are on fire.
There will be plenty of opportunities to buy milk along the way. We play Kings of Leon loudly to stay awake. It is important to be awake, to remember as much as possible.
It is somewhere between midnight and one when 193 km outside Calgary, the car breaks down.
Levin is saying I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Emily, that's it. That's our trip. Are you joking around Levin? He does this. He jokes. But he is serious, and kind of shaking. I know it is selfish and stupid but I wish it were more dramatic. A crash landing. A blaze of glory. At least some air time. Something. But it doesn't even sputter, just sort of coasts dreamily to a stop. Oh, were you guys headed somewhere? I'm sorry, I'm just not really feeling it. This is my frustration speaking, really I know the Passat is sorry, so sorry Emily. The Passat speaks with a voice like Levin's, but quieter, slightly ashamed. Very soon Levin is calmer, in control again, and I break my silence and start being positive. But within these few minutes a part of both of us dies.
There is no service here. Or it is elusive. Levin gets out an emergency kit, one of those things you're supposed to never actually need. A little bag that says in this very cavalier italic font: Justin Case. Justin finds himself amusing. Ahaha! Wordplay in your desperate circumstances will lighten the mood! There is an S.O.S. banner with adhesive edges for the back window, but it is too cold and it doesn't stick. It is very cold. It is freezing. Save Our Souls Justin! We hang it out the back passenger window. Levin imagines a gang of adventurous youths stopping to help us. Your car broke down? That is a tragedy. Sasquatch Fest? We're on our way there now as a matter of fact. Say, we have some room, and you packed so efficiently, join us! We are even more powerful in numbers! The first two cars to stop have no room. They promise to get us a tow truck in the next town. We get out our sleeping bags and blankets and try to sleep.
Levin: Emily? Are you awake?
Me: Yes.
He is apologizing again. The noise of the banner in the wind woke him up, he thought it was wildlife. Bears. Levin has a healthy fear of bears. He will later tell me that for a few moments, he genuinely thought we were both going to die. I am glad he kept this to himself at the time. We drift in and out of sleep until about six. Levin decides we need a trucker, and they take a while to stop, so he gets out to go down the road a little way and flag one down. He is doing everything, I am too cold to move. He is a saint. I'm looking ahead and see Lev running to meet the truck that is pulling to a stop. I'm watching this interaction, thinking how funny it looks, tiny Levin looking way up at this enormous truck and talking, gesturing, like the truck is a live entity, with no need for a driver. See, it's like this truck. It is suddenly very quiet in the car except for a rustling noise. I am alone and scared and I slowly turn my head. It's the S.O.S. sign again. You have been of no use Justin. The truck has a driver, his name is Rick, and after some confusion we are both riding in his truck the one or two hours to Radium. It is now the opposite direction we need. Finally on the move again, and it's pointless; a ghost of a road trip. But Rick has a heater. I cherish Rick for this. Slowly the chill wears off and I fold up the blanket I brought. We arrive in Radium, and it's daylight now. I am instantly cold again. The slightest gust of wind rattles me. I wander into a coffee shop with the blanket wrapped around me while Levin calls his mum. He comes in and says, Will you take that blanket off? You look like a crazy person. He is right. My hair is messy and my eyes are tired and I am wearing a very old and worn light blue blanket. I am sketchy. We get coffee and Lev calls a tow truck. We wait for hours in the coffee shop. I fall asleep. Then Levin kicks me and we go outside to wait. Blanket on. A man walks by in shorts, talking on a cell phone. What is wrong with you sir? Can't you feel that soul crushing cold?
The tow truck driver is a large man with various items hanging from the holes in the neck of his t-shirt. He is at first all over the road. He actually says, it can be hard on this job, you get so sleepy. Then he begins making frequent stops for the washroom, smoking, energy drinks. He comes back sniffing and rubbing his nose. He is a better driver now. Over the long trip he talks about his son, his rebellious days, being in trouble with the law, his diabetes, the best energy drinks, his company and previous jobs. For the first hour or so his Ipod is playing all country. I think I might have gone my whole life without hearing 'Jukebox Junkie' were it not for this man. At one point when he is stopped for something or other, Levin says, we have to listen to this music for hours. Almost as if he heard this the driver, his name is Doug, eventually says you guys can go through there if you want, or if you want to put your own Ipod on, I like anything really, except the rap. I can't stand the rap. We play Kings of Leon of course. One side of me sees this as a small comfort. My negative side is quieter, but makes a solid point. It is almost a cruel joke.
At last there's a record that I love to play
Dreamin' 'bout a place I'll never see
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
DAY OL' DAY OL' DAY OL'
BA-LUE-HUUUES
Hey what do you guys think so far?? Why am I doing this??
So we get back to the car, Levin gets to ride in it while Doug loads it. This makes Lev smile a little which is nice. En route to Banff to drop off the car. By this point he has arranged for Jack to pick us up there. Jack who would not loan us his car for this trip. A completely understandable and wise decision. We hated him for a moment when we needed to hate someone. But Jack is a good guy. This is not his fault.
Then there is a new development. Something wonderful. A miracle. Can we salvage this? How crazy would that be if we could salvage this??
Levin: My mom says she'll meet us in Canmore after work and drive us to Washington. We can't camp the whole time, she doesn't want to hang around, but we can go for the one night, see the show! What do you think? I know it won't be the same but should we go?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Obviously. We can save this. This is great.
We are golden again.
Or tarnished brass.
In Canmore we see a Volkswagen specialist. I'm in the cab watching his face. He listens to Levin's explanation, takes one look at our broke down spaceship, shakes his head. There is no hope for the Passat, he is saying. You were fools to think the Passat could manage this, he is saying. You were fools to think you could manage this, he is saying. Give up. Go home. I will not be your savior.
Levin is without a car now. Being a bus taker / cab payer I cannot pretend to understand this feeling. I wonder if it is like losing a pet. Or a sudden eviction from a kind of second home.
Doug takes us to Boston Pizza. The three of us are sitting at a table in a Boston Pizza in Canmore eating lunch like old friends. Levin makes conversation, but I can't help being quiet. I don't understand where I am. I am processing. Doug offers to pay. So nice. No really, you don't have to do that. It is decided that the car will be left in the parking lot of a Husky in Dead Man's Flats. Because Canmore isn't small enough. I don't know. But I must contend this town's name is appropriately depressing for the long wait ahead of us after Doug unloads the car, shakes our hands, asks our names, and goes on his way. It is midday and Holly (Levin's mum) can't leave Calgary until five. We are getting fresh clothes out of the car.
Me: I'll be right back.
Levin: Just change here.
Me: I'm a girl.
Levin: Go behind something.
Me: I want to wash my face.
Levin: Use the wipes.
Me: I just want to go to the washroom. We have been in some sort of vehicle for so long. We have been in transit so long. I want my dignity back. I want a moment to myself.
Me (really): I'll be right back.
We get out our cameras and wander, finding different places to sit. Over to a playground. I lie on a bench, Levin naps in a little play hut, then gets bored and throws pebbles at me. We sit on the teeter totter. What was that rhyme? Something about helicopters and a Mrs. Brown? On to the swing. This is a good decision. Swings are movement. Swings are not 'We are wasting every minute of what should have been a fast paced adventure in this tiny town waiting for a ride' . Swings are ' Higher and higher I'm flying I'm doing this I'm propelling this operation and I control it'.
MOVEMENT NOW.
The swings are a temporary solution.
PROGRESS NOW.
The best I can do under the circumstances.
There is a creek. We look for places to cross. I remove my flip flops for this. I have wandered away from Lev and am halfway across a log with the sun on my face and water rushing over my bare feet and I shout urgently, Levin! He comes running, and I feel guilty immediately. I am clumsy and he knows this. He probably thought I needed help and here I am standing on a log grinning like an idiot.
Levin: What?
Me: I don't remember.
I am a child.
We been running barefoot through the stream
We ain't even been to the ocean
We head back and stop in a little general store. There is a cat lounging on the shelves in the sun. I pet the cat then look up to see the owner with a veritable scowl on her face. The store has camping gear. We don't need this anymore. We are not boy scouts. We have nothing to prepare for. We are lost. Rambling, aimless. The store has second hand tapes for a dollar. They are all homemade mixes. I consider something titled 'R&B and others'. I wonder what was happening in the first owner's life at the time of this tape's creation. In the Husky parking lot we try to sleep again. I start to read, and the book I brought is too perfect for the trip this was supposed to be, full of travel, events, revelations, adventure. I give up and try for sleep. Levin is cranky so I sleep outside, in the grass. Then a honk wakes me up and Holly is here. We transfer necessary items to her car, but the passenger count has increased by one and we can't fit everything. Levin packs. I am torn between wanting to be of use and not wanting to ruin his efficiency. Levin is systematic, meticulous, logical. I can easily picture him moving whatever I put in the car to a more sensible location. He is separating the dishes, weeding out anything other than the essential. At one point he says, pick one pair of shoes to bring. I have a Safeway bag with my runners and other flip flops in it. I know it is small and could easily be stowed away just about anywhere, for my shoe choice convenience, but I comply. I think because he is making a point. Yes, we are doing this, yes, we will try to salvage whatever we can, but this is not the same journey we set out on. We have been dealt a crushing blow. Sacrifices must be made. Some shoes must be left behind. The results of this trip will be bittersweet at best.
We are in the car and moving again. My sense of direction and purpose is muddled, but I say to myself, this is good. This will get better. Somewhere along the way we stop at a roadside tourist shop with snacks and such to go to the washroom. There is a sign on the door, saying something like, please respect the proprietors of this store by not using the washroom if you are not a customer. There is a public washroom across the highway. We use the the washroom anyway. Holly buys a coffee but Levin does not, out of spite for the rule. He will not support this business if they are going to be so irrational. There is a playground we wander over to, until we see the sign posted, with several bullet points. After one bullet point: Children ages 2 - 11 only. We return to the bench.
Levin: This place has too many rules.
In the car, I try to read again. I look at it in a new way; the book is an escape, like it's always been. Stop trying to relate this to yourself, Emily, ignore the similarities, you will never do anything this amazing. Levin is in the back, on his laptop. This is not the same journey we set out on. We are broken and divided.
Around 60 km outside Canmore, this happens very fast:
Levin: SHIT!
Holly: (Swerves)
Grey Blurry Object (cement?): (Impact with the front of the car, on the passenger side, a heavy thud, then gone in an instant)
Me (incoherent): What... what was that? What just happened? (And quietly: Was that cement?)
Holly: (Still driving, begins hysterical laughter, then pulls over, still laughing)
The trucker behind us pulls over at the same time, as though we are a synchronized driving team.
Levin: We just hit a deer.
The trucker is climbing out of his truck. Our team mate. Maybe he knows what just happened. Wait, did Levin say...
Me: We hit a deer?
Levin: We just hit a deer.
Me: A deer?
Levin: You didn't see it?
We are out of the car, the trucker is coming towards us. We stand around in silence, staring at what used to be the headlight. It looks like someone broke several mirrors and threw the shards into the cavity in front of the bulbs. The fender is dented and broken. There is fecal matter sprayed in a graceful arc across the hood, the windshield, and the back door on the passenger side. As a final reminder of his existence, the deer has left two hairs emerging from the crud on the hood, sticking straight up, in a perfect 'v'. This deer, he is an artist. All this in an instant. Incredible. What a talent. The trucker has reached us now, he is youngish, in torn jeans and a hoodie. His belt buckle appears to be a set of brass knuckles. After a moment, he breaks the silence.
Trucker: Fuckin' deer, eh?
Too right, my friend.
Holly: Thanks for stopping.
Trucker: Yeah I just saw him doing cartwheels through the air into the ditch there... You guys alright?
What? You are telling me, you. Are. Telling. Me. Somewhere in the second or two that it took the deer to make a tragic canvas of our last hope, he somehow made time for gymnastics??
Fuckin' deer, eh?
Un.
Be.
Lievable.
There is more conversation, it is agreed that it is a good thing Levin shouted, because this is what caused Holly to swerve, and had she not done that we would have hit the deer head on. Holly's amusement at the (irony?) of this situation fades as she begins to consider damage, accident reports, insurance, etc. She gets the trucker's information in case she needs a witness. We are gathering ourselves, we have made our play. Good work team. Hands in.
Me: Are we still going to Sasquatch Fest?
Levin: We're not going to Sasquatch Fest.
We can't drive at night without a headlight. I'm an idiot. And slightly relieved.
Levin: I'm kind of at peace with it. With not going to Sasquatch Fest. We are not supposed to go.
Me: Yes.
We will drive to Cranbrook. We will stay the night in a hotel. We will drink. In a legion in the basement of the hotel. We will be told, live music! This will be two men on the small stage trying to remember the chords to various country songs for an audience of us three and the bartender. We will shower. And tomorrow we will gather all remaining scraps of our pride, whatever is left of our faded glory, our last reserves of youthful optimism, (Did you get everything? Check behind the bed) and we will go home.
We are defeated.
In the car.
Levin: Next year.
Me: Yeah.
Levin: But what if every time... What if it's like a curse?
Me: No way. It will be a challenge.
Levin: Good.
It will be history.
It will be legend.
Later we are looking at the positives:
We only bought concert tickets for the one night.
We didn't use any of our American money.
We will see Kings of Leon when they come to Calgary in August.
Rick and Doug. Nice guys.
The Swerve.
We could have broken down after crossing the border. We could have made it to the border and not been allowed to cross because they didn't trust the Passat not to break down.
We could have been mauled by bears.
We could have been robbed.
We could have remembered the milk. We saved four dollars this way.
We are taking this so well.
At home, I'm putting things away, I want no remaining evidence. Tent, chairs, gear, back in the garage. Quickly. I will deny we ever got it out. Twelve eggs, into the fridge. The carton is soggy from the ice and falls apart when I open it. Sheer genius. When this is done I put my dying phone on it's charger and sit on my bed, waiting to feel at home, grounded. It doesn't come. I am still floating, aimless, driving nowhere.
And I'll be gettin' out as soon as I can fly
Levin calls. He is having a barbecue with our groceries.
Levin: I'm gonna frame my ticket.
Yes. Of course I want evidence. Sheer genius. This is brilliant, Lev.
Me: Awesome.
We are golden.
We are on fire.
As soon as I can fly.
Me: What time?
Levin: Five or six.
Me: I'll be there.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Picking up heavy objects
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Vancouver Groceries
1 bunch of carrots
3 heads of bok choy
1 tub of yoghurt
3 red peppers
2 green peppers
3 local nectarines
3 local peaches
5 heads of corn
3 kiwis
3 zucchinis
1 red onion
$14.39
And it has the ocean. Where else would I be?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Bags
My mother packs for England.
Only a few days ago she returned from the North, where my aunt now lives on what used to be Grannie's land, near Hay River. Mum brought back things for us, my sister, my cousin, and I. Loads of stuff that was hers, Grannie's I mean. Nicky and Pam didn't keep much, some pictures, a painting, a cigarette case from Spain. I have acquired a copper double-boiler, and an enormous collection of scarves. One with Roman landmarks pictured and labeled on green silk, another in gold, with Egyptian-looking symbols, yet another depicting a veritable African safari. I love her for keeping these. Mum showed me a picture of Grannie when she was sixteen. She is wearing her uniform from the Women's Land Army. At sixteen she was working on farms with strangers, doing the abandoned work of soldiers. She actually had tea with the Queen, before she was Queen, she told her how cider was made. When my mother was sixteen she was sent off to study in England, after spending her childhood moving from place to place, attending a new school every year or two. When I was sixteen I had the same good friends I'd had since elementary. I had braces, good manners, a sense of humour, very little grace, and no concept of how to grasp and claw and run at life.
My mother will be in England longer than I will be here, we won't see each other again until Christmas probably. She is packing very logically, if indecisively. She has categorized piles of clothing on her bed across which I am sprawled, disturbing everything. Her room is pale yellow walls, sun through white cotton curtains, shiny hardwood floors, and nice things arranged tidily on dressers. I have come home from work earlier than expected and am giddy about this. It's bright out, the golden hour. Mum's hair; chin-length, blond highlights, is lit like a halo by the window behind her and she is flitting around the room like a hummingbird - she does this - trying to decide what to wear on the plane.
- What do you think of the teal?
- My favourite so far. Looks classy. First class-y.
- Maybe they'll bump me up. But it's tight here, see? Nine hours of this?
- But there's buttons. On the back, you could loosen it.
- I suppose. Should I bring this skirt do you think? Oh and before I forget, what should I bring back for you?
- Good tea. And scarves!
- The problem is the shoes- could you stop rolling around on my things please?
I'm getting carried away because I am excited about tea and scarves. And about the sun in my drink, casting bottle-green shapes on the wall. And about my mother's suitcases and belongings spread out in an otherwise calm room, like a child I am excited by this. By the break from routine, the stir of her departure.
- What happened to the teal?
- I know but I thought maybe... The red, it's nice, summery but still nice right? You don't like it?
- I don't think it looks as nice with the dress pants, and it's funny shaped, in the front, here.
- No it isn't. Besides I can wear the white cardigan over it.
- True...
Across the hall, my room is pale blue, old lace curtains, two belugas swimming in turquoise water on the light switch cover, and various items ranging from very little to very great importance strewn about haphazardly, in makeshift containers and cluttered piles. Paycheck stubs and insurance papers mingle with bits of string, foil wrappers from rolls of film, and hair products. Clothes are thrown across stuffed animals and boxes of old books and school projects litter the closet. Camera equipment is jumbled in a laundry basket by the dresser. On a shelf behind several beanie babies there is a pile of rarely worn shoes, high heels mostly, and I take down a pair I got for high school graduation.
- Look.
- When did you get that dress? It's very pretty.
- A while back. I feel like I could wear it to a wedding. Someone should get married. Are you sure about that yellow with black?
- Oh that's right you don't like that. The bumblebee effect.
She looks down at the shirt in question and flicks away a piece of lint, thinking of things to be done, turning briskly back to her bedroom, sighing at the small mess I've made of her progress.
When I was little I wanted lullabies. Around the age of two, I'm told, I was especially demanding. My mother, while a great appreciator of music, is not the type to sing throughout the day, to hum or whistle, to entertain melodies in her head instead of more productive thoughts, and so my pleas caught her off guard to some extent and she would sing the first thing that came to mind. This was in most cases one or all of the following:
-Michael Row Your Boat Ashore
-Row Row Row Your Boat
-Oh Canada
But my very favourite, as Mum tells it, was Bags. I'm not sure of the actual title, but I called it Bags and I knew the lyrics, and she says I would mouth the words along with her. I would say: "Sing Bags, Mummy, sing Bags!" and she would sing:
"Got no bags or baggage to slow me down,
I'm a-runnin' so fast my feet ain't touching the ground,
Travelin' light, travelin' light,
Oh I just can't wait to be with my baby tonight."
And I would watch her with big eyes and shape the words silently with my lips while she sang.
I'm matching Grannie's scarves to dresses I have never had occasion to wear, and each time I come out of my room newly adorned I say "Look!"
- Yes, lovely.
She is packing Canada-themed gifts for the family in England. Maple candies, a red and white onesie for the new baby.
I am mainly twirling.
- Look!
She is wrapping Grannie's jewelery in tissue, to bring to Aunty Rona.
I am wearing a sunhat I found in the hall closet, floppy wide-brim straw variety, with a ribbon, because I think there are people who wear these regularly.
- You can keep that.
- Ha!
She is tucking her necklace under the collar of her teal shirt, smoothing her hair.
I am pulling the curtains out from behind the couch and spilling them over the cushions, crawling under them like a cape and looking out the window at nothing.
- Look Mum!
- I'll have to pay extra for this baggage I suppose- another one I haven't seen! How many dresses do you have exactly?
She is folding, sorting, arranging. She is moving forward every instant and I want her to sing Bags so I can watch her and learn it again but I don't want her to think I'm being cute.
When the sun sets I am lying on the kitchen floor, yawning and stretching and humming. The last of the light is flickering, reflecting gold on the tiles around me where I float and she rows swiftly by me, cleaning up after me, sighing at me again, lovingly maybe, row row rowing by. She is glorious and I feel like a piece of furniture. I'm thinking with a certainty I don't quite deserve that she doesn't know any other way to be. I am thinking that my mother does not know, maybe once knew, but has forgotten and in any case does not need to know, how to pull up the anchor and drift aimlessly on the surface, with great vast unsolvable depths below her, waiting for something she's never seen and isn't sure exists, waiting for someone to ask her something.
Only a few days ago she returned from the North, where my aunt now lives on what used to be Grannie's land, near Hay River. Mum brought back things for us, my sister, my cousin, and I. Loads of stuff that was hers, Grannie's I mean. Nicky and Pam didn't keep much, some pictures, a painting, a cigarette case from Spain. I have acquired a copper double-boiler, and an enormous collection of scarves. One with Roman landmarks pictured and labeled on green silk, another in gold, with Egyptian-looking symbols, yet another depicting a veritable African safari. I love her for keeping these. Mum showed me a picture of Grannie when she was sixteen. She is wearing her uniform from the Women's Land Army. At sixteen she was working on farms with strangers, doing the abandoned work of soldiers. She actually had tea with the Queen, before she was Queen, she told her how cider was made. When my mother was sixteen she was sent off to study in England, after spending her childhood moving from place to place, attending a new school every year or two. When I was sixteen I had the same good friends I'd had since elementary. I had braces, good manners, a sense of humour, very little grace, and no concept of how to grasp and claw and run at life.
My mother will be in England longer than I will be here, we won't see each other again until Christmas probably. She is packing very logically, if indecisively. She has categorized piles of clothing on her bed across which I am sprawled, disturbing everything. Her room is pale yellow walls, sun through white cotton curtains, shiny hardwood floors, and nice things arranged tidily on dressers. I have come home from work earlier than expected and am giddy about this. It's bright out, the golden hour. Mum's hair; chin-length, blond highlights, is lit like a halo by the window behind her and she is flitting around the room like a hummingbird - she does this - trying to decide what to wear on the plane.
- What do you think of the teal?
- My favourite so far. Looks classy. First class-y.
- Maybe they'll bump me up. But it's tight here, see? Nine hours of this?
- But there's buttons. On the back, you could loosen it.
- I suppose. Should I bring this skirt do you think? Oh and before I forget, what should I bring back for you?
- Good tea. And scarves!
- The problem is the shoes- could you stop rolling around on my things please?
I'm getting carried away because I am excited about tea and scarves. And about the sun in my drink, casting bottle-green shapes on the wall. And about my mother's suitcases and belongings spread out in an otherwise calm room, like a child I am excited by this. By the break from routine, the stir of her departure.
- What happened to the teal?
- I know but I thought maybe... The red, it's nice, summery but still nice right? You don't like it?
- I don't think it looks as nice with the dress pants, and it's funny shaped, in the front, here.
- No it isn't. Besides I can wear the white cardigan over it.
- True...
Across the hall, my room is pale blue, old lace curtains, two belugas swimming in turquoise water on the light switch cover, and various items ranging from very little to very great importance strewn about haphazardly, in makeshift containers and cluttered piles. Paycheck stubs and insurance papers mingle with bits of string, foil wrappers from rolls of film, and hair products. Clothes are thrown across stuffed animals and boxes of old books and school projects litter the closet. Camera equipment is jumbled in a laundry basket by the dresser. On a shelf behind several beanie babies there is a pile of rarely worn shoes, high heels mostly, and I take down a pair I got for high school graduation.
- Look.
- When did you get that dress? It's very pretty.
- A while back. I feel like I could wear it to a wedding. Someone should get married. Are you sure about that yellow with black?
- Oh that's right you don't like that. The bumblebee effect.
She looks down at the shirt in question and flicks away a piece of lint, thinking of things to be done, turning briskly back to her bedroom, sighing at the small mess I've made of her progress.
When I was little I wanted lullabies. Around the age of two, I'm told, I was especially demanding. My mother, while a great appreciator of music, is not the type to sing throughout the day, to hum or whistle, to entertain melodies in her head instead of more productive thoughts, and so my pleas caught her off guard to some extent and she would sing the first thing that came to mind. This was in most cases one or all of the following:
-Michael Row Your Boat Ashore
-Row Row Row Your Boat
-Oh Canada
But my very favourite, as Mum tells it, was Bags. I'm not sure of the actual title, but I called it Bags and I knew the lyrics, and she says I would mouth the words along with her. I would say: "Sing Bags, Mummy, sing Bags!" and she would sing:
"Got no bags or baggage to slow me down,
I'm a-runnin' so fast my feet ain't touching the ground,
Travelin' light, travelin' light,
Oh I just can't wait to be with my baby tonight."
And I would watch her with big eyes and shape the words silently with my lips while she sang.
I'm matching Grannie's scarves to dresses I have never had occasion to wear, and each time I come out of my room newly adorned I say "Look!"
- Yes, lovely.
She is packing Canada-themed gifts for the family in England. Maple candies, a red and white onesie for the new baby.
I am mainly twirling.
- Look!
She is wrapping Grannie's jewelery in tissue, to bring to Aunty Rona.
I am wearing a sunhat I found in the hall closet, floppy wide-brim straw variety, with a ribbon, because I think there are people who wear these regularly.
- You can keep that.
- Ha!
She is tucking her necklace under the collar of her teal shirt, smoothing her hair.
I am pulling the curtains out from behind the couch and spilling them over the cushions, crawling under them like a cape and looking out the window at nothing.
- Look Mum!
- I'll have to pay extra for this baggage I suppose- another one I haven't seen! How many dresses do you have exactly?
She is folding, sorting, arranging. She is moving forward every instant and I want her to sing Bags so I can watch her and learn it again but I don't want her to think I'm being cute.
When the sun sets I am lying on the kitchen floor, yawning and stretching and humming. The last of the light is flickering, reflecting gold on the tiles around me where I float and she rows swiftly by me, cleaning up after me, sighing at me again, lovingly maybe, row row rowing by. She is glorious and I feel like a piece of furniture. I'm thinking with a certainty I don't quite deserve that she doesn't know any other way to be. I am thinking that my mother does not know, maybe once knew, but has forgotten and in any case does not need to know, how to pull up the anchor and drift aimlessly on the surface, with great vast unsolvable depths below her, waiting for something she's never seen and isn't sure exists, waiting for someone to ask her something.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
thoughts from a bus ride
i. rain in june
raindrops falling on the windshield black
steady steady ever steady
but suddenly
it stops, for one long second
while we zoom under an unseen bridge.
a tightrope of silence within a canyon of white noise, falling
gently gently ever gently.
ii. it's time to face the music, and dance
it's time to face the music, and dance
sweet steps over neglected dreams
crooked smile with missing teeth
nothing left but one lonely embrace
it's time to face the music, and dance
raindrops falling on the windshield black
steady steady ever steady
but suddenly
it stops, for one long second
while we zoom under an unseen bridge.
a tightrope of silence within a canyon of white noise, falling
gently gently ever gently.
ii. it's time to face the music, and dance
it's time to face the music, and dance
sweet steps over neglected dreams
crooked smile with missing teeth
nothing left but one lonely embrace
it's time to face the music, and dance
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