← April 2004 | Main | June 2004 →
May 27, 2004
news are bad
This morning as I was sleepily making my way to work, a whistling man started shouting at me, “Don’t go to work, mademoiselle! Sit in the grass and read poetry!” I wasn’t sure I heard right, as it made so much sense. I let myself be engulfed in the metro station, place Gérald-Godin, and grabbed a newspaper. Then I understood. The man I saw was installing stalls for the Poetry Market, starting today. He was happy about it, and just felt like shouting. Well.
I haven’t heard anything else today that made so much sense. It has been hard to concentrate on work lately. I feel a bit under the water, new training abounds, and most time is spent on faking utter concentration, my “do not disturb” air. I need time off, soothing distractions. It’s Code Green. But in a few minutes it will be lunchtime, a breath of fresh air, a walk through La Baie, giving the evil eyes to the perfume ladies, walking straight to the bookshop section, an urgent need to peruse kitten calendars, browse Spirou comics. I warn you, I’m sorry, these are the times of Poetry Contagion.
Posted by nathalie at 11:52 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
May 19, 2004
bannières de mai
I would give everything to be out swimming instead of having cold sweats over tomorrow’s colloquium-golf tournament, but what can you do. I feel feverish with the splendor of May, a warm luminescent sun and a cool cool breeze, May 19th, my brother’s birthday. We are both spring offsprings, and every May 19th, I half expect my brother to call up from some faraway pay phone and blurt out, “hey it’s my birthday! send in the gifts, plenty of kisses!” - which he does, calling up that is, a year out of two.
Every May19th brings forth a whirlwind of memories. How easy it is to romanticize the one that got away! And to get caught with the stickiest of archetypes, when your childhood is spent mimicking the antics of your ADD-afflicted brother. But what can you do. In the early 80’s, I was forcefed innumerable Ninjas movies, learning to distinguish between what was special effects and what was obviously not, and being the guinea pig of many scary experiments in the Ninja Room, a dark corner of the basement whose walls were covered with aluminum foil, Bruce Lee posters and Christmas lights. This is the room where my brother and I, utterly destroyed after the Canadian Customs seized all of the Chinese Stars and Sarbacane Bullets we had ordered from US catalogues, concocted our poisonous traps out of rubber bands and Ajax cleaning powder. It is the room where I secretly brought my girlfriends to go through my brother’s stuff, while he was out climbing electric pylons or exploring neighbours’ houses in their absence.
“My brother sucks”, I explained. “All he does is stupid boy stuff. He gets bad grades. He breaks things. He makes his teachers cry. He makes other people seem boring.” My girlfriends would understand, they had older brothers too, or older sisters. “We understand”, they said. “But next thing you know, your sibling is gone and you are left with nothing but idealized memories and love and regrets.”
Happy birthday, Stéphane the sailor man! I bet your hair is turning grey!
Posted by nathalie at 03:53 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
May 12, 2004
war blogs
Just for fun, I imagine things – the Americans are actually the Iraqis, and I am on the front line with them, for them – I certainly drink some Macabbee; this officer at his Presidential’s request will turn into a winged androgyn and do the vampire dance, dribbling milk and tea – then I will awake in a well-known bed and do my shift at the docks – with you by my side, brandishing the wand of electricity
…it isn’t over, you know – they have bombed us again this morning, although 12 km from the line… I would be annoyed to die so younng.
I have done enough reading for tonight. I am translating from memory, it’s already slipping off my hands. There are black clouds gathering outside and an ever thickening fog in which my thoughts ascend as I prepare drifting into sleep, trivia, swear words, random acts of kindness, I close my eyes to drown out the rumbles, it doesn’t always work.
Posted by nathalie at 09:52 PM | TrackBack
May 05, 2004
the story of ch0mi
Ch0mi was just a fluffy handheld kitten when we adopted her, back in 1994. My boyfriend looked at her pointy little ears and christened her “Ch0milakashloo” (“the charming nutty one”), shortened most often to one, two, three syllables. For the very first year, she was the invisible kitty! Always hiding under sofas, behind warm electronics, swatting defiantly everything.
The following year, we moved to Quebec city, where she spent a blissful year munching grass, soaking up sunshine at Cap-aux-Chats, chasing butterflies with the locals. She would come home late every evening, hungry as hell for ouananiche, her purring heard across the street. I know she had her happiest time as an outdoors cat, but then I moved back in the city, and my familiar tagged along with me in every sucessive move.
My cat has long lost the nervousness of her youth and have turned into a graceful old tabby, about the size of a pillow, and I know her so well that she remains for always my timekeeper, whenever I look into her deep green eyes.
Happy sweet 10, Ch0mi!
Posted by nathalie at 09:44 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack