April 29, 2004
sans queue ni tête
My unflinching support for Mr. 10 000 volts has long been legendary around the block, so please allow me this public congratulations on reaching the 10 000 words mark! Today I have 2 people to assess, one meeting to assist, 2 reports to half-ass and yet so many web sites to surf, waves of wonder from waves of dismay, can you tell…
Sometimes when I am overworked I am reminded of David F., my little blond wonder, who swung as high as telephone wires, and to whom I promised to write a book about! My heart has been mended many times since, and technology has advanced so, but please know that as I am gulping down coffee and spilling muffin crumbs all over, trying to get things done, I dedicate this blog entry to my memory of wanting to write a book about you, ô my dishevelled one!
Posted by nathalie at 10:03 AM | TrackBack
April 20, 2004
moving into a new place
Earlier I was doing cartwheels, now I resemble the spinning wheel on an upside-down bicycle, in motion and crashed. I signed a new lease without much thinking, just wanting to end this frustrating year of let-downs in apartment hunting, and the worries as my current lease was ending. On sunday night it looked right, it was what I wanted. I just visited again this evening, my official new place, around 7. But the golden light didn’t pour in, it was blocked from walls outside. The bedroom wall isn’t dark wine like I thought, but a red shade of deep orange. The television was on and the hamster was asleep, and the current tenants, now that the landlord had left us alone, were lifting carpets with the tip of their feet, drawing curtains, “you should get them to repair this - they are supposed to fix that”. And I kept looking for a corridor of light and coloured glass, the sunset reflected somewhere, as the rooms turned into liquid lava, black and devouring.
The kitchen is quite bright, though. And unabashed gourmets would praise its location 2 flight of stairs next to Frites alors. There are other good sides too. It has wooden floors. It has no roommates. There will be enough room for a cat of good dimension. And it still won’t fulfill my wish for a fireplace, so I can save it for later. Perhaps I feel dread because I have just fulfilled a wish, by having a new place, like I am pushed back and forced to watch my wish unfold, as the craving fade. I should know different by now, and just wait until it rolls back, while I discover this new street, this summer.
Posted by nathalie at 10:17 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
April 14, 2004
WASTE and ecto are two
WASTE and ecto are two applications which I like the name of. Try both, they are fun, but WASTE don’t work. I can’t find my picture of an ectoplasm cat. ecto makes linking and bolding easy! WASTE does nothing. but reminded me of a comic book secret club, and reminded me of the Calvin & Hobbes pages taken down for copyright issues, the one that contained all the strips and a searchable index, and had hurted no one. It makes me mad and angered, and by extent, the software WASTE and its name which inspired me this lament.
Posted by nathalie at 09:13 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
April 12, 2004
up-to-date kings in meadows
To wrap up the holidays, I asked to be taken to my favourite ice cream parlour. It’s a term favoured by old people, as Chris pointed out the other night. The church bells have been ringing all through this Easter Sunday, their echoes retained into thick, looming clouds, and in such occasions, the Bilboquet fills up with old people and their grandkids, which is how the word parlour spreads out.
In turn, the children explain the etymology of the famed St-Laurent frappé, a delicious brown mixture of all knowned Slushies syrups. “We used to swim in this river, you know”, gently scold the grandparents. The kids keep jumping up and down on their seats, shooting little ice cubes out of giant straws, as they are being lectured on the Inquisition. We take our blue raspberry cones and go outside. Easter Day! What a breather. The sky is clearing up in a new salvo of bells, and we sit under the parasol, the place I have long for all winter.
“Look at my lips”, you say. “They are blue, and so are yours. We are of the same kind.” Earlier that day, as I was relunctantly scraping the candied eyes off my bunny, rolling them up for you in silky paper because they are your favourite part, I was reminded of the way you sometimes would bring up our commun ancestors, and how it is that you don’t like chocolate. “I am not sure of this”, I reply, as you caught my feet between yours, under the table. “I really am not sure.”
Posted by nathalie at 04:12 PM | TrackBack
April 08, 2004
le grand soulagement
During lunchbreak today, I found myself yet again conducting interviews with wandering 9 years old. “It’s for my weblog”, I said, raising my empty hands for them to see. They bolted left and right on their skateboards, 30, 60, 90 degrees. “Now what do you want to know?” I stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of wheels, boards and knees skimming the pavement. “There,” said one kid, as he wiped off little rocks from a scab. “Now stop writing poems about me.”
I went back in to sit at my desk, and I felt like a whimsy kid, or a parroquet, muttering between my teeth, can I be listened to for a moment? Can I be listened to for a moment? Someone has to reach the right conclusion here. Someone has to reach the right conclusion here. This is not worth a damn. This is not worth a damn. You don’t listen. etc.
But here I am at the end of the day, watching the birds soar in wavelike motions, the blinding play of sunlight mirrored on the buildings, the fetching young men carrying cases of beers, the godgiven right of jaywalking, and always this slight, sweet heartache, chocolate this and chocolate that, the 4-day weekend, right. now.
Posted by nathalie at 05:02 PM | TrackBack
April 04, 2004
La Dictée des Amériques
If I could establish in just a few words my peaceful childhood as a spelling bee champion, collecting on shelves the handheld water games I received as trophies, the smooth and odd resistance of the push button, which slowly propulsed hooks on a dolphin’s nose, or little balls in a whale’s mouth, because one has to include calming recreation from her spelling bee champ routine - well, it has now been established. You might think my spelling abilities all went downhill from there, if you have been a reader of this page since yesterday.
Still every year, I feel quivers of anticipation for La Dictée des Amériques. It is a french tradition that can be traced back to immemorial times, an event that my friends and I wouldn’t miss for the world. You only need to fill up bowls of Humpty-Dumpty chips, glasses of orange soda, and some sort of handkerchief to wipe off potato chips crumbs from your greasy fingers as you take along the dictation from the TV host. Such fun!
Writer Gaétan Soucy elaborated this year’s edition. Of course, it promised to be filled to the brim with traps, neologisms, faux-amis, and infuriation. It usually end in tears, but it is a tradition; families gather around the television, throw ballpoint caps at each other, then we all go make up at the sugarshack. I tell you, it is much fun, really.
So today, half an hour before the TV5 rediffusion, I decided to ring up the best people in this city, my friends K. and K., trying to entice with promises of coffee-baileys. But I got an unanimous “Uuuurggh nooo not this year…”. I know it sucks that the whole thing starts at 8:30 AM. “I do not like your tone!”, I said, but they had already hung up. So I went to sit in front of the television, and soon fell asleep, as the soothing sounds of the theme song rolled in.
Posted by nathalie at 11:54 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
April 03, 2004
hello
If there were initiations to hearten a timid chomper, I wonder what would mine be. Recalling a dream, maybe… Or three things that make me happy at the moment :
1. The many entries I have read, by friends and strangers alike, that have resonated with my thoughts, and made me wish to join in. I propose myself to assemble the links that I enjoy reading, on a list at the right, and leave my own words here, instead of scattered in my head. Thank you to Jacob who have teleported me in no instant into the great scary world of MovableType! wee.. I predict this summer to be slow at work, at least to do the best I can for it to be so. The gauges and measures we use are unreliable in the summer anyway. But even if many clients come in, I will strive to keep a leisurely pace.
2. And soon, we can be outside on a warm night. Tonight we move the clock forward, then the parks reopen and it’s my birthday! Finally, the sun will appear behind the mount Royal, after 6 months of darkness. It has always been this way, but still catch me offguard every year… When it all becomes grassy green and yellow, no matter how fleeting, I just love to go on about it.
3. What could be the third thing..? I will choose a recent dream.
There was a man in a store, handing me a book. The cover was very colourful, a girl with tangled hair, standing in a muddy field; How Nathalie fought the dragon. The man explained to me that the book was about archeology finds in our hometown. I listened and enjoyed, even though what he said made no sense. In reality the book was about the recurring dreams I had from age 3 to 6, of a dragon chasing me around the house, me running in circles, scared senseless.
It was not a dream of waterslide parks or mountaintop glass cities, my preferred stand-bys, but it made me feel assured and never quite faded. Something else for me to confuse with real life memories, in old age. I could have picked a real picture instead.
There is one of me as a teenager, breaking up a glass bottle against something I mistook for a new boat. The photo is in an album at my parent’s house, and though I couldn’t say why, is a reminder to myself of writing with a care, not an intention.
Now I must go pickup food and prepare old poems to regale my guests with tonight! Just kidding…I wouldn’t do that, anywhere but here.
This poem is called Devotions, and was written ages ago by a taciturn man, Rimbaud.
To Sister Louise Vanaen de Voringhem: …
I guess I like it because of its dramatic, sincere tone, and silliness too. I figure it is about masturbation. Thank you for bearing with me as I am breaking into my new weblog, hopefully I don’t harm my templates too much in the process.
Posted by nathalie at 05:44 PM | TrackBack
deux
THE GOOD old monk was within six paces of us, as the idea of him cross’d my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he should break in upon us or no.—He stopp’d, however, as soon as he came up to us, with a world of frankness. and having a horn snuff-box in his hand, he presented it open to me.—You shall taste mine—said I, pulling out my box (which was a small tortoise one) and putting it unto his hand.—‘T is most excellent, said the monk. Then do me the favor, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the peace offering of a man who once used you unkindly, but not from his heart.
a picture
