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January 30, 2005
memories of the carnival
In my hometown of Lafontaine we had a miniature version of the Carnaval de Québec, with a small parade, small hills to slide down on pieces of cardboard that the elders waxed for maximum speed. The high point was the Petit Bonhomme crowning, a diminutive copy of Bonhomme Carnaval. On the year my brother turned 10, he was called to duty. He got to wave from a flourished parade float, but he was also mandated to raise 200 $ for the local Optimist Club. I don’t know how familiar this organization will ring; I believe it has branches all over the world. I never had any idea what was going on at the Optimist Club, except they were always raising money for themselves and holding rocking chair marathons. The Optimist Club Junior was for kids 8-14, and my friends and I all attended it, because of rumoured dance parties. I remember getting kicked out once for my contribution being vulgar on a collage work. Everyone was kicked out at some point or other, even the quiet ones. Then we were all re-allowed into the club following the same vague ceremonials, reciting the Optimist rules, shaking the hand of those who claimed they had been offended.
I only attended the Quebec city carnival a few times, but never did I feel at ease there, nor did I manage to escape the threatening sense of being back into the Optimists’ fold, white as snow, ready to kick you out at the slightest misbehavior.
Not long after he hung up his Petit Bonhomme costume, my brother and I founded a Bitter club jr. We held a fundraiser, purported to help us buy sturdier fundraiser boxes, the ones we used being old butter pots with a cut-out hole on the lid and inspiring pity. After a few years we had amassed a pretty sum, until one night my brother raided the locked tinboxes and took off for the sea. He left me only a couple of dollars, and a note suggesting I order chinese food, like we used to do whenever we felt fortunate. But I got mad.
And from then on, I never rested. My efforts culminated in the Union certification and ensuing revolt of Bonhomme Carnaval, which got all the elders from the Optimist Club up in arms. It is now obvious that their sinister credo cannot withstand the modern world, and I have faith that with their surrender, new hope will unlock in the heart of this foolish, carnival town.
Posted by nathalie at 12:57 PM
January 27, 2005
so said k.
My friend k. says that the best way to beat the winter funk is to make daily lists of little things that make you happy, and to stab yourself with them repeatedly. On a somber remembrance day can something as trivial as a smile help me keep focus on the beautiful blinding sun outside, and the frostiest of blue skies, well I do think so. Maybe. Here goes.
1. First one was less a smile than a studious frown, seen on a young man in gigantic cushioned headphones from which thumping bass grooves could be heard from front to back of the bus; he had his nose buried into a pocket book, French Grammar – Intermediate, and my heart swell
2. Apparently someone thought I was deserving of a treat, and produced a 85% cocoa excellence bar and a jar of coffee right by this very desk! making my heart swell and swell, while I maintain my alarming productivity
3. The picklejar lady, my very favourite… really, she shouldn’t be at number three. So to recap, in the aftermath of a plant closure, shocked and sulky ex-workers are often sent our way for alchemy seminars or whatever it is we do around here to cheer folks up. It came to be that, one victim of the closure of another Kraft Foods plant is a lady of 73 years who supervised the canning of pickles, and who have kept at it from way before I was born for 6 days a week, which is simply stupendous considering how sparkly her eyes are. And how energically she kept shaking her head, and saying how she needs to find another job, and fast! because she can’t stand children, and the minute she gets off work, she gets asked to babysit grandchildren and greatgrandchildren and it simply is crazy and simply cannot be… I knew I was supposed to hand out pamphlets and walk her around our quality premises, but I just stood there and kept listening to her grievances, watching her smile grow bigger and bigger until it broke through everything.
4. I can’t think of any number 4 (have a refill of number 2)
5. At random : the word lewd, the word levorotory, the words holy shit, amongst others, leave me with nothing to do but smile.
Posted by nathalie at 04:54 PM
January 23, 2005
stage one = denial
I can’t help feeling sorrow and embarrassment over the outpouring of winter panic, from the northeastern cities. Really have all reporters already forgotten the lessons of summer, the stickiness and death sunburned in puddles of dirt… contrast with the locomotive walk and breath on days of blizzard, how your thoughts swirl and fly. Also, it builds character!
A lot of smoke come out of the city’s chimneys, I don’t know what is burning precisely, I just feel glad all engines are running. The weather only matters in that you derive pleasure from its contrast, and again there is no contest; to be filled by warmth of meals heavy in flavor and texture, and by lush layers of winter music, or to side with the salads and ice cubes one survives hot summers with? I know a thousand wonderful counterexamples could be raised but I can’t afford it at present, bringing them up would kill me. Yet not many indolent summer ways help building character, I wouldn’t think so.
We have all been fooled into embracing summer, just because it lasts for only a month, it should be deemed highly desirable. But it is the icestorm of 98 that generated an as yet unseen baby boom; compare to heatwaves when even a hug feels uncalled for. Now I wouldn’t join a baby boom for the world, but still it gives an example, regarding desire.
My fingers are frozing on the keyboard, maybe I should go watch television before we lose power again. But within my four walls of ice, always I’ll keep drilling these thoughts into my head: winter, my mother! o my country, my season
Posted by nathalie at 08:59 PM | Comments (3)
January 17, 2005
old stories, being tired, don’t listen
I remember a few years ago someone sent me a zipped .doc file of Salinger uncollected stories, but not having good enough print-power I had only managed to go through a few, on the computer screen. The inverted forest left the most vivid impression, and I still consider Hapworth 16, 1924 to be Salinger’s most humourous work, but then I just forgot about it, until today where a fresh new link was found on the link-o-matic. Hurrah for the wonderful distraction! It began in the midst of children’s laughter, with their laughter will it end.
So my laserprinter is humming nonstop, as I run back and forth, assembling and stapling neat little piles of these old war stories. My boss looks at me through the window, rubbing his hands and smiling. He must be very happy to not see me napping under my desk, or sticking various instruments into coworkers eardrums, for a change. Candidates for personality assessments haven’t exactly been taking the office by storm lately. But why,I wonder! We have all these new tools! And they are very sharpened! Mm.. perhaps I am scaring clients away, brandishing my bloodstained money stick with such exuberance.
I have had random tidbits of songs in my head all weekend, so much so in fact, that one would think the neverending SAQ workers strike(SAQ = Société des Alcools du Québec, government-owned liquor stores) has just ended. Sadly, it hasn’t, and from the latest news, it seems like it never will. Deprived of SAQ, one has to make do with cheap wine from overheated dépanneurs, a perilous experience that can nevertheless be enhanced with a pinch of sugar and a previous burning-numbing of tastebuds with very hot coffee or a couple of 3 months old cigarettes. Mm. So despite the SAQ strike, songs have filled my head all weekend. I don’t remember them very well though. Beginning to see the light by the Velvet Underground, as we entered our new little favourite hang-out. And Electrelane as we exited. So good. Then in the depth of the night, Gilles Vigneault’s fantomatic presence, singing with large gestures and oppressing high collar, brought back to me all these old ballads my grandmother used to die for — my love we are neither beauteous nor true! die a very sharp death, that I fo-ooo-llow you…
well I would have try to finish this entry and make a little sense but it is now 5 o’cl
Posted by nathalie at 05:00 PM
January 10, 2005
and i could drink up everything you have
FOR THE ULTIMATE LIE
shadow777 has it all covered. thanks, shadow!
right here
also,
TP’ing tips you may not of thought of
kudos, SkImiNal!
Posted by nathalie at 04:43 PM
January 05, 2005
didn’t make sense of a word you said
Just found out with relief that w/trem grandmaster Dominic Fox has his poetix weblog, and his poems and his vacumm noises, all available online at http://codepoetics.com/
So there is a way out from this bleak tunnel day, and there is possible escape from the wellmeaning but deserving of death-by-sword receptionnist, who keep sending me “cheerful thoughts of the day” because I “look a little frowny” (- What is going on, dear? - There’s this meanie to exterminate - Ooh, let me send you great Powerpoint Art!)— so all day I have been receiving dancing bees, spastic butterflies, and deep sayings; Working for God on earth does not pay much, but His Retirement plan is out of this world… And things like that, and I can only thank her, with a subtly exasperated smile, while all I think about is, set yourself on fire.
I don’t want to hear another word from maryjane
Who writes such pretty poetry…
So the Dominic Fox award goes to Dominic Fox. If you decide to download the music, be patient. In the end it will all work out. To hear this very ancient ballad, the one I was singing:
http://codepoetics.com/wtrem/speaks_your_weight/drug_lyrics.mp3
Posted by nathalie at 03:39 PM | Comments (7)
January 03, 2005
downcast eyes and a smile
I hope everyone had good holidays… Now quick recap before moving on.
Once again I will remember New Year’s Eve for its blurry outlines, its drinks spilled and colourful lights dangling from the ceiling or creeping up on the walls. But most especially, for all my friends dancing unrestrained, except for two but they were still happy. In the Green Room we discovered the city’s only jukebox, underneath a big plank of wood. Perhaps the jukebox was only cardboard, perhaps it stopped working long ago, but who could discern trickery amid the columns of smoke, flood of revelers; nobody!
Early into the night the DJ played a favorite song, and all I could think was, hey listen, listen, like when I am asked about a favorite book, and all I can say is, read this line, and that other. I can’t explain. Can a person be as tedious as myself, I sincerely ask. But you just ruffle my hair, now now.
It’s my last day off before returning to the office, and it’s the coziest, most quiet of mondays. I am sitting around in mocassins, attempting to balance accounts and the likes. A formidable yawn-fest in which my cat partakes too! Molecular biophysicist David Hackos observed, “Cats very often yawn and stretch when waking up in the morning, but you will rarely see a cat yawn when it is tired in the evening. ” He then pleaded for more experiments to be made on the subject. Although I don’t condone any kind of feline science experiments, the procedure doesn’t seem like the cruelest one – as the clock strikes 11 PM, a dozen cats are installed on comfy cushions, being tickled on the throat until they burst out in yawns, and their fiery eyes and swatting paws pretend to be saying “stop it STOP IT I don’t liiiiike it!” but they are purring with pleasure, and stretching out their back.
Posted by nathalie at 03:18 PM