October 31, 2004
days of the dead
So today I am an undead, if not in costume, in spirits, and although the real celebrations will only take place tomorrow, with half-priced candies sold in bulk, the days of the dead have already begun. All the clocks have been set back, and at dawn, I will storm the bakery. Or maybe I could just join the troups of children descending the streets… drunk on sugar, all senses sharpened, gathering enough supplies to last the long winter.
Dark times are here again. (Landscapes slip past vistas and windows open nowhere) Dark times are here again. The undead are speaking to us through the television, vampires in golden rags! DO NOT VOTE FOR THEM.
Boo! I still haven’t decided on my Halloween costume, and I fear there is no party left. Well I am a living corpse; it’s not brain science. Isn’t that enough? People humor me. I think the costume gene just runs poorly in the family. As a kid, I pretty much always went trick-or-treating as a punk. I remember a couple years where I accompanied my brother, who was costumed as a one-arm-missing man. He just tucked his arm under his coat, which is stupid but I think I will remember it until death. Perhaps the candy donators in Quebec are less demanding when it comes to the trick-or-treaters costumes, as we are all pretty much covered in snowsuits anyway.
Boo! I like being surprised, like when someone runs up behind me to scare me, I may sometimes react a little promptly and look mad, but I love the gasp, the exhale. It feels like I am always holding my breath for something or other, for curses to be broken, or new spells being casted. Yet today I celebrate again, for renewed luck and vigour and the end of barbary, as exemplified by a friend’s new job, or my cat’s easy sleep… I went all out and get out the champagne-strawberry jam, so please excuse the sticky mess just typed out! Chomp.
Posted by nathalie at 01:24 PM | Comments (3) | 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.”