Wisdom of Didion

Wilde Night

 

‘We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars.’

~ Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde

I had the most delightful birthday this year.  It was every bit the surprise and exceeded every expectation.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to stay at The Waverley Inn on Barrington Street, in the same room Oscar Wilde did while in Halifax on October 8^th, 1882 for his North American reading tour. This year, I was astonished to find a birthday envelope from my buds on the West Coast arrive ages earlier than my birth date. I opened it, confused, wondering if maybe that had lost their marbles and thought it was already December. Enclosed was the Oscar Wilde book De Profundus, birthday confetti, and a hand-made card, the kind that usually makes a welcome appearance at Christmastime. I was reading the verse inside, still befuddled and then it struck me, for my birthday, they had booked the Oscar Wilde room at The Waverley Inn for me as a gift, giving ample time to make additional plans.

As I live and breathe! Holy snappin’ scones!

Needless to say, I was flabbergasted and wowed and grateful and thankful and touched and beholden and and and ...

I arrived at The Waverley Inn on December 5^th at 2:10pm. I stopped for a few minutes outside to admire the festive holiday decorations outside, life-size but crackers, Santa in his sleigh, and larger-than-life baubles. I pulled the heavy front door open and spilled into the charming demeanor of the foyer; it welcomed me like a warm hug from an old friend. I drank in every last detail, the parlor arch festooned with greenery, the Rockefeller-size Christmas tree just beyond it, the chandeliers adorned with sparkle and shine: holiday cheer as far as the eye can see and the heart can handle.  

I acquired my fancy room key, ascended the regal staircase to the second floor to arrive at a door with Oscar Wilde’s named engraved on a plaque. I was smiling so wide my face hurt. Inside, the room was an old Victorian revelation! A decadent feather bed surrounded by antique finery and window treatments. I was giddy, like a school girl sitting next to her crush. And then there was Oscar’s portrait, displayed boldly above the writing desk where I’d spent time scribbling, card-tagging and reading. Home for the night, comfy cozy, and breathing was easy.

The Waverley Inn is so lovely and large that I found it difficult to sit still for the first little bit so I went exploring. I encountered a woman who was tending the rooms and we struck up a friendly conversation. She took a bit of a shine to me I think because she took me around and showed me several of the vacant rooms. Each one I entered was more beautiful than the one before. And, if someone of note stayed in a room, their name was also engraved on a plaque just like Oscar’s (P.T. Barnum stayed in the room right next door to me!). While peeking at the rooms, she proceeded to tell me that a psychic had stayed with them once and told her in that particular room, there was an abundance of positive energy. She shared this with me after I commented on how warm and livable it was. Seems I picked up on the mojo immediately. Instincts are still intact despite my being old as dirt!

(The Chinese Room)

I soon parted ways with my new friend and continued to explore. Each of the long hallways was lined boastfully with old incredible antique pieces and so many more elegant holiday embellishments. I can’t recall where I found it but I came upon an old Remington typewriter. I snapped a picture of it and snuck a feel, gently placing my fingers on the keys. I joked with my friend that on sight, I drooled on the carpet. It was a beauty and I was pleased to have encountered it. It’s too bad it wouldn’t have fit in my overnight bag! Hee.

My day was full of goodness. Not only did I have a special place to lay my head, I had a fantastic meal out with my buds at Mongolie Grill. We built our own personal stir-fry. I went nuts and added chicken, prawns AND baby scallops to my mountain of veggies tossed in peanut sauce. It was my first visit and I really enjoyed it but more importantly I enjoyed the company of my chosen family. I arrived back at the Inn to a flower delivery from my buds out West! I had just finished feeling weepy and grateful after reading my best bud’s card and opening her generous gift, coming back to the fragrant arrangement only prolonged my sob-fest. I felt loved and that is never a bad thing. They were a challenge to take home the next morning but I carefully transported them and they are proudly perched high on a shelf in my kitchen far away from my cat’s clutches! Anything new in town, she chews on. Bugger.

Back at the Inn, I chatted with my big brother on the phone, soaked in a hot bath, tucked into my book (Mitch Albom’s ‘The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto’) and then crawled up into the big feather bed and sunk in for a relaxing sleep. The Waverley Inn is directly across from Bearly’s House of Blues and my room was in front, directly above the entrance, so I fell asleep to the sultry thump and twang of the blues. Of course, I slept with my window open as they keep the Inn hot as Haiti and I prefer the cool when I sleep. It was, in a word, Heavenly.

I confess, I woke around 5am and likely rattled the whole place awake with a rather violent sneezing fit. I gather it was the abundance of feathers both in my pillows and mattress. I forgot to bring Benadryl just in case.  I did tire silly old self out and fall back to sleep but it was a small price to pay for a deep contented sleep, the likes I have not had in months on end. It was a good feeling, to be free, momentarily, of stress and responsibility. And for that, I can never thank my beautiful West Coast buds enough.

I shot out of bed around 8ish, threw on my hoodie and my sock monkey slippers and scuffed on down into the basement for breakfast. They have a lovely dining room, which at this time of year, was sparse with patrons, so I basically had it to myself. I helped myself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a nip of orange juice, ham and cheese quiche with fruit and yogurt. I sat quietly, listening to the Christmas music playing overhead and daydreamed. I thought about what it must have been like in 1882, in Halifax, when the two spinster sisters, Sarah and Jane Romans ran the Inn. I am sure that Oscar Wilde, with his hats, capes, velvet green pantaloons and wavy hair, caused quite a stir when he breezed in. For a figure so stylish, it would have been a strange sight for the time period and I’m sure the sisters had interesting opinions of their most famous guest.

My evening with Oscar Wilde was exceptional. It was peaceful and exciting, entertaining and soulful, calming and invigorating. All at once. I spent much needed quality time with my ‘self’. I hummed and mused, read and wrote, laughed and cried, slept and dreamed, rested and danced. All at once. This is an extremely rare occasion for me, I am sure it is for most of us, so I made sure to appreciate every single second. I am uncertain if even I can describe with words, just how much the gift meant to me. The stay, the time spent alone, the time spent exploring, dining with my people and sleeping to dream. Nothing else has ever compared to the feeling I arrived with or the one I came away with. That is my wish for the people I love, to have that kind of day, birthday. We all deserve it.

To my West Coast buds, incredible women, thank you. Your generosity is astounding and I am a thousand steps beyond grateful, not only for your dazzling gift but for your kinship and the extraordinary way you impress it on my life.

To my chosen family, I love you guys more than I care to mention. I am so fortunate to have found you in all the 7.3 billion humans on the planet. You bring so much happiness into my days and I will forever be thankful for that. My circle of friends is small but it is mighty and that you are among them is important to me.

My Mom was really excited to hear all about my adventure upon my return home. I snuggled in with her and showed her all the pictures and recounted all of the moments. She’s the best cheerleader anyone could ever ask for.  I enjoyed sharing it with her and she loved living vicariously through me via a grand kindness bestowed by darling friends.

Nic and Oscar’s excellent adventure sadly ended but won’t soon be forgotten, its effects still ripple through me, that’s amazing.

In propinquity,

Nic

Mourning Moon

Mourning Moon

autumn’s close

winter’s beginning

a luminous full moon

ample with assertion

it is the time of fruition

the perfect time to let go

of all that weighs on you

&

value the fertility of gratitude

autumn’s goodbye

winter’s introduction

a radiant abundant moon

the mourning moon

it rises for your serenity

**

On this day, one year ago, it was the last time I’d see my father alive. I went to his house after work with my niece and had a quiet cup of tea with my step-mom. We almost hadn’t gone as she told us he wasn’t doing so well during the daytime but changed her mind. I was always glad she did otherwise I’d never have gotten to say one last I love you.  Chelsey and I left the apartment and had a somber dinner together before we both went home and fell into our beds, feeling the deepest weight of sadness.

At the time, my cellphone was on 24/7 and that night before I went to bed I changed my ringtone to something that would be loud enough to jar me out of my sleep if it could even find me: Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing With Myself’.  I had just succumbed to a light sleep before Billy was wrestling me from it well into the early hours of November 27th. The news I feared would come any minute. He was gone.

One year today was the last time I saw my Dad alive. It has been a year of confusion and heartbreak and bereavement but in all of that I have held tight to the happiness he brought to my 40 odd years on this planet. That kept me going, the good memories of which there are many. I still miss him, with every fiber of my being. I wish I could call him up, have him yell at me, bark at me, anything: just one more time.

Today, one year later to the day of the last time I saw my Dad breathing, there will be a full moon. Not just an ordinary full moon but one called the mourning moon. I found peace in this coincidence: that one full year later a moon would hang brilliantly overhead as a symbol of culminations, commencements, and letting go. It is to be thought of like this: imagine it to be illuminating the darkest moments of your past year so you can visit them one last time before turning away from them. This can apply to so much of the past year for me but it is certain that I will likely never turn completely away from the loss of my father.

I took a vacation day for tomorrow. I don’t know what I will do on the 1^st anniversary of his passing but the idea is to be off the grid, move through the day on my own, free of chatter and responsibility, so I can breathe.

I miss you, Dad.

In propinquity,

Nic

Lost Boy

Lost Boy

when we lost you

I sat in front of my

Kmart radio and wept

your absence

was not a fate

but a deep fury

amplified by losing

the privilege to visit

and watch you grow

too much to abide

dealing in despair

grasping memories

it was a long-lived

and sullen loneliness

the forced separation

you became the shadows

in all of my short-stories

quiet whispers in my poems

when we lost you

my heart capsized

my lungs closed

no words would come

I was unable to pray

I couldn’t find you

yet I love you

(always)
as if you

weren’t lost to us at all

**

Small poem. Big meaning.

In propinquity,
Nic

Joys Fears Pains Sensitivities

Joys Fears Pains Sensitivities

I wonder what it feels like to be a young Bob Dylan in a

Greenwich Village apartment making prank phone calls

or the endless repetition of supernatural light creating

beautiful sun-bleached palettes of a wild paradise fire

I imagine myself as prevalent and brimming with cool

the sole owner of one inspired and continuous blunder

protected by the diaphanous sheath of obliviousness

digging dramatic ground to entomb the barefaced verity

an indolent string of made-up words are the train-tracks

to the bleached-bone straightforwardness of not knowing

the look of a dominant voice recommending you to surrender

your whole heart for something important named after you

to not be in attendance for your own departure diminishes its

perfection and resolve like balancing dancers on the memory

of the very last lines emblazoned on the softness of the sand

joys fears pains sensitivities

we were never meant to survive

under one small star

**

It is wet and cold outside today. Coincidentally, it’s also Halifax’s Parade of Lights. My buds and I are going to brave the cold and damp with layers and rain ponchos and participate. I am still planning my attire in my head as I type this. Should be fun even if a little uncomfortable due to the elements but we’ll be together, united, ready to soak in a little holiday cheer. Cheer never hurt no one!

I slept in good this morning. I had a rough heart day yesterday so I turned my phone off at 9ish, binge watched some Parks and Recreation for a little lightness and headed to sleep by 11ish. Sadness is exhausting but I woke up today, made a hearty brunch, a pot of tea and did some writing (the result being the above poem). While writing I listened to Adele’s 25 and Chris Stapleton’s Traveller records, both of which I love. I should have been working on my story but that I will save for tomorrow. This morning I just felt like filling my ears with music while I tinkered with words. It felt good.

Wishing you a bountiful Saturday. However you spend it, I hope joy finds you.

In propinquity,

Nic

I Am So Often Alone

I Am So Often Alone

for a future that is not hers

authorial sympathy fashions

the forgery of her character

each breath is inescapable

a slow subjective emergence

articulated w/ a fractured force

in the hollow of things imagined

unacquainted with amour-propre

she resembles an unfinished echo

an impassioned woman with no

abhorrence for solitary pursuits

emerges from a fragile prison

to confess:

“I am so often alone in here,

so often exiled but bursting to

become speech, to become

a radiant devotee, turn toward

the softness of the superb sun,

spread outside of myself, and sing.”

she is so often alone

in the small sweetness of living

an affirmation made imperfect

she is so often alone

**

Dedicated to anyone feeling alone in their skin, in their home, their relationships, their workplace, their community, the world.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bataclan Angels

These are my people. Beautiful, vibrant faces gathered for the sole purpose of filling their ears and spirits with the euphoric romp of the rock ‘n’ roll. These are my people, elated and adrenaline-filled, mashed up against barriers, buds and strangers, beer sloshing, dancing machines righteously singing their lungs out until it hurts. These are my people, who came to rock and spill into the streets drenched in sweat, high on the power of live music.

My intention is not to write a large, emotional missive on terrorism, my thoughts on it or the plight of refugees in the middle east etc. I will leave that to the fancy news makers and the grossly opinionated and uneducated.  My intent is to simply and lovingly pay tribute to my people, the people who worked for the weekend to arrive at a Friday night that was to hold adventure and the awesomeness of Eagles of Death Metal. My people, had no idea that stepping out into  the Paris this night would cost them their lives. For that, I grieve an indescribable ache.

I have been where they were. Not at the Bataclan, not in Paris, but in their shoes: worked to the bone Monday to Friday, anticipating a night certain to nourish my ravenous core by way of the power and indecent decibel of rock ‘n’ roll enhanced by quality time with my buds, and exultation of it all happening right in front of you. I live for that. I always have. I am sure so many in that theatre on Friday night did too.

My heart goes out to those people whose lives were taken so senselessly, in such a callous and violent manner: young effervescent individuals rife with potential and vigor. My prayers go to those they’ve left behind, family, friends, colleagues, and their dreams. My heart is also extended in love to those who were inside and escaped with their lives or who still struggle with their injuries.

I cannot pretend to understand what they’ve been through, but I’ve been where they are: in the front row, amped up, starved for live music, the escape and the potent freedom it engenders.

The next time I am where they were, the time after that and so on, I will think of them, honour them, my people. Music, the universal language - is dedicated to you.

In propinquity,

Nic

Amor, etc.

Amor, etc.

champions of universal abundance

need not possess corresponding verbs

to inherit a charitable core of grace

just to believe in the marvels of nature

to consider love an unexplainable mystery

is response enough to attain such earthly joy

benevolent artifacts are prescribed nouns

but amor bares all resemblances to Delight

unconditional, lionized, selfless, altruistic

let love alter your pride in life’s calamity

let love sate your hunger for ample ruin

let love embrace the fear of your burdens

champions of universal goodness

need not worry over the present moment

they’ll gather up their words and emit light

amor, etc …

**

After watching the Remembrance Day ceremony on CBC, like so many others I know, I spent the day exercising my pen. I sat to finish this poem and ended up having one of those 'out of body' writing sessions. It wasn't until I received a text from a friend that I snapped out of it and back to reality. After this poem I started looking at notes for Tilda's story but somehow ended up starting from scratch on an older story idea. In that session, I feverishly wrote almost 5000 words! My eyeballs are sore and my shoulder is burning but hellllls yes! Way to go, self! It was magical, zoning out like that and accomplishing what I did. Of course, some of it is good and some of it is absolute crap but that can be addressed in the edit. This mid-week ease, made possible by the brave men and women who have served and serve our amazing country, was well spent. I also know it was a good writing session because I emerged from my room looking like absolute trash! Haha! No one said writing was a glamorous job.

In propinquity,
Nic

Ode to Flânerie

Ode to Flânerie

artist-poet

idle about town

making short notes

taking quick snaps

roaming aimlessly

by languid stride

fervent wanderer

wholly detached

amateur detective

utterly enthralled

astride my heart

a poised calm

pleasurably free

airy perspective

artist-poet

idle about town

a Flâneur

brazenly unaided

delightfully so

**

My dear friend Ruthie introduced me to the word Flânerie. Its meaning simply: aimless idle behaviour. Much like many an artist date. It’s an enjoyable word, it rolls off the tongue like a dream and then sets into motion the glorious act of bumming around without a plan, putting you in adventure’s way, following any whim. I have done this countless times, participated in such a manner and soaked up every single glorious second of it. I have always been grateful to consider my artist dates an exercise in flânerie, always grateful to my dear friend for sharing the essence of it. I am an absolute Flâneur, no question: unapologetically so, so unapologetic that I wrote this silly little poem as a way of shouting my love for flânerie from the rooftops. And, as a thank you to Ru.

Roam free, fair-weather friends!

In propinquity,

Nic

De Profundus

I have spent my day thinking about loss. My Dad, Erica’s Mom (it’s her birthday today), love, friendships, jobs: all of the big ones that shuffled the pieces of my insides around enough that some of the pieces simply disappeared. I thought of Mom Jackson’s crazy laugh and about all of the people she loved most gathering at her resting place, adorning it with flowers, tears and the deepest love. I thought of my last exchange with her and then I thought of my Dad. My last I love you to him, whispered inside his bedroom door where he lay in dim light, his chest heaving, close to his earthly exit. I was vacuuming the floors, thoughtfully until I was sobbing uncontrollably.  I relayed it a bit to Erica in a text, how I have found this to be an incredibly hard year and was feeling that weight today just a little too heavily from thinking and feeling and longing for things I no longer have, people. It opened so many wounds and conjured my sorrows, ones I deserved, ones I didn’t, and ones I still to this day do not understand.  And then there’s death. Who can ever fully comprehend that kind of loss? It is one thing to lose someone to life’s circumstances and know that somewhere in the world they are still looking up at the same stars but to try and resolve that someone you love is looking down at you from them? Well, that is another can of worms entirely.

In that vein, and from sitting here staring the cover of the book cover Ruthie and Terri sent me to accompany my early birthday surprise, I wrote a wee poem:

De Profundus

I used to smother

under the burden

of barely breathing

in a weighted life

but one daring day

I reached down deep

into my chest where

my heart used to be

found a fist full of nerve

and told myself to exhale

&

out of the depths

I climbed

**

Time for a cup of tea, a few pages of my book until my evening errands commence.

However you spent your Sunday, I hope it soothed you somehow.

In propinquity,

Nic

Condensed Into 36 Lines

Condensed Into 36 Lines

In the ballroom of an exclusive hotel

my caustic synecdoches unspool promptly

set to a sea of the saddest faces ever traced.

Standing straight in relaxed square-toed shoes

at a podium where restlessness is a hallmark.

I read from creased pages in my nervy poet hands

telling of feats, wants and shrunken prospects.

Also tales of collapsed bridges and erotic subsets

to laugh out-loud moments with scattered applause

gut-wrenching stillness and a fair bit of upheaval.

I explain apologetically about my subversive side

recounting rebelliousness in seventeen syllables

and how we can never tell who is behind the mask.

Yet I will still be reviewed as charming and melancholic

even despondent for attempting to condense such

an imperative piece of work into 36 tight lines.

My brevity, it was unequivocally intentional to protect

excruciating and devoted austerity to fading music  

and the invisibility of the ink used to make the mess.

In the ballroom of an exclusive hotel on

the cusp of delivering a virtue that is simultaneously

childlike and terrifying, temperance is hard to implement.

Afterwards, I’ll improvise.

**

I spent some of my rainy day down-time this afternoon plucking away at a half written poem. I had fun playing with words in between phone calls, accounting and fearing the roof of our building might peel away like the lid of a sardine can thanks to the last remnants of Hurricane Patricia. This afternoon, I was also daydreaming about that writing retreat I often wish I could take, pondering all things that inspire me and how much stringing words together truly means to me. Adding and subtracting numbers pale in comparison to being able to connect words and watch them multiply. I am grateful I have the knack and the passion for it, even if what I create stinks. It’s the passion; the big magic (it’s what also prevents me from becoming an embittered crone).

And I can’t help but wonder, what I’ll write next. Oh, the suspense.

Creative minds are rarely tidy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces

all the bits and pieces of this and of that

vanish in the precise moment we make a

virtuous home among perfect strangers

shared simply in a long letter or a soft cry

all things dismal tend to dazzle just a little

I tell this to the moon and a spray of stars

as I know who will to greet me at the door

smiling when I have no gift for speaking

I am not terribly old but no longer young

less naïve more tough bright and skillful

all the bits and pieces of then and now

a busy intersection of strong pretty things

subtracted by privately owned pleasantries

heed to the sweetest custom of kindness  

everything murky made magic with an easy

exchange of warm hand over obliged heart

enhances the romance of my departure

a short trip outward to come back inside

to share the wealth of wisdom with eagers

all the bits and pieces of this and that

disappear in late afternoon’s unnamable light

when one has lived a long time alone

to arrive for someone never there before

for brief moments to turn into endless hours

all the bits and pieces of this and that

become anything other than what they once were

**

This one is for those of us who spend their time alone among the lovers. It's meant to be a hopeful poem, to express the yen for companionship, the longing to walk shoulder to shoulder with another human through the wilds of the world. 

You, lonely-heart. You're next. I just know so. The poets told me.

In propinquity,

Nic

To Live

A Zen feeling swept over me today. Maybe it’s the sun shining, maybe it’s a dear friend musing about a romantic encounter that left her speechless and smiling, maybe it’s the Kerouac article I read, maybe it’s just my amorian insides begging to be tended to. I have been distracted of late, lethargic, listless, and depressive even (I am starting to see a trend in my grown-up self, egads!). And then, out of nowhere, this feeling. Fundamentally, I am an optimist. The fibers of my being are woven together with love and kindness. I am prone to the sunny side of things despite the evil intentions of things like social media and negative humans who darken my way. I am, in every way, every word of this verse. I, in every way, hope these very sentiments for my people and their people and so on and so forth. Today I am feeling the full force of collected wisdom and peace. I hope, in some small way, you do too from my sappy little poem.

Mid-week sanguinity at its finest!

There are always reasons to smile in the face of any kind of adversity. In mine, I wrote this poem. And in mine, I look to the end of the week where rock ‘n’ roll will save whatever sanity I have left from this work week. July Talk for Halifax Pop Explosion with my best bud. These, the things I cling to when I’m feeling defeated!

So, the poem:

To Live

let us ponder the fertile wisdom

of the wild rucksack revolution

who wander to bless those in their

path with kindness and compassion

let us consider the brave notions while

we thumb the rules of spontaneous prose

studied by the platoon of bodhisattvas for

the sole purpose of learning to dream out loud

let us rejoice writing with fever and truth

to allow our deepest flaws to draw great love

commandeer the sacredness of a moment

and indulge in the existence of breathing freely

let us know sadness on the inside and out

reacquaint our true selves with the excitement

a spray of stars are noble companions in silence

building our perfect shadow on a sunrise mountain

let us desire the potent will to live as a whole poem

as a whole person poised to serve with intention

for the world, the universe, the Heavens, for ourselves

**

I meet you here, in the middle of the week, in a new Canada, with well wishes.

Broken crayons still color.

In propinquity,

Nic

La De Da

There are always those people in your life who assume you to be an accessory, the last resort ‘option’, the constant sucker to turn to when no one else will listen. It’s conversation I’ve had with a few lovely souls of late who are experiencing it first hand: feeling as though they are being taken advantage of by those posing as friends and confidants, feeling lost from the constant rejection, feeling inadequate and unsure because you love your friend but they are absent for you in all the ways you are present for them. To me, that all sounds incredibly junior high, grown men and women need not revert back to that sort of behaviour when they’ve reached adulthood. Life is hard but it’s supposed to be, how else to we learn the lessons we are meant to learn and grow from? It’s confounding to me. Perhaps it’s the Facebook age sending people back into their adolescence? Facebook and social media make narcissists of us all and for those whose penchant for passive aggressive pandering, large egos, and/or raging insecurities, the act of online social interaction only serves to enhance such a performance.

I can say with the utmost certainty that while my own actions may hurt someone’s feelings now and then, I never intentionally set out to do so. I can say the same thing for the people I’ve been conversing with.  That is not truth for some. Sadly.

Of course, their current plights with warding off that exact negativity, got me thinking about poetry. This poem, for some, may seem rich in snobbish vocabulary. It’s intentional. If you’ve ever had to put someone in their place or send them packing from your life because they were murdering your spirit, you’ll understand that such language is necessary. To make a point. I have been on the receiving end of this kind of attack, several times. I’m a soft, emotional person. Or, I was. This past year, with all I’ve gone through and continue to wade through, I’ve toughen up, I’ve had enough,  tightened up the circle and I focus on what matters most, what brings me joy while purging the rest. It isn’t that I’ve hardened really, I’ve just wised up and have realized that I don’t have to do or feel anything I don’t want to. I am my own person and frankly, I come first after coming in last my entire life. I have encouraged my friends to do the same and it seems to have started to work for them as well. With age (for most of us) comes wisdom. I’m happy to have reached a place where, for me, that is present and a reality.

So, a poem:

La De Da

if I were the nervy contrarian you

would have others believe me to be

thanks to your irrational elitism

I would have to utter something pretentious like:

“I find your banter about stolen cars betwixing.”

if I were the kind not to be reasoned with

a longstanding status you’ve attached to me

if for nothing more than plain old entertainment

I might weep and run into the wilds of wallflowers

I deliberate on our juxtaposition from your perspective:

“You are of minimal use to me, as different as North and South.

Of course, in this analogy, I am South.”

I contemplate your perception profoundly and scrupulously

if I were the apprehensive disappointment you take

delight in indicating to insignificant others that I am

I might reciprocate and relish in pointing out your flaws

your teeter-totter artifice your subterfuge your flagrant perfidy

to you I say la de da

ergo I will remain in your eyes and those of your pedigree

a kind of sad exclamation snobbishly disdained in high fiction

if you weren’t such an extraordinary novelty

struggling so desperately to renew your world

you might find a way to formulate the divine truth

accept love without believing there are consequences

la de da

**

It's a stunning fall day outside. My coffee cup is empty and I think maybe it's time to throw on a warm sweater and head out for an adventure.  

Wishing you a soulful Sunday full of good feelings and good friends.

In propinquity,

Nic

Maybe The Are Mingling

It is a stark truth, I am now at an age where I now have a small cluster of dear friends, who like me, has lost a parent. It still hasn’t been a year yet since my Dad has passed and I have no real time-frame to rely on to gage how long the grief and mourning of that loss will last: likely forever. I took comfort from those who had been through it before Dad and was then able to transfer that compassion to my closest friend who has recently lost her Mom, a woman I thought the world of and always took pride when she referred to me as her ‘second daughter’. I identify with her sorrow, sympathize and empathize: because I know the pain is the hardest thing to describe with words and that time never truly repairs your heart, never justifies the loss and leaves your internal puzzle pieces shuffled, changed forever but not without a sense of gratitude for having that man or that woman raise you, guide you, scold you, mold you and love you like no one else truly can.

I have seen so many hearts broken from such grave losses in recent years and I was thinking the other day about all of them, together. Supposing Heaven is real, I imagined my Dad congregated with the lost parents of my dearest people. I thought came to me that brought me a moment of comfort. What if they are all hanging out together up there together, friends because we are all friends, to collectively care for us from afar? What if they are mingling? That was a nice thought. While we are down here living and caring for each other as human beings, carrying on their goodness, they are together too.

I wrote a poem about it tonight. To celebrate them. To celebrate us. To comfort. To express my gratitude and love for those who enrich my life. Often times we suffer silently, afraid to burden each other with our heartache but this is an open letter to serve as a reminder that my heart and my ears open: always. My love for you is real.

**

Maybe They Are Mingling

maybe they are mingling

dangling from midnight stars

bursting in Heavenly laughter

maybe

fathers and mothers

lost to us in human flesh

bound to us in Celestial spirit

maybe they are mingling

hanging on the might of the moon

radiating light straight into our hearts

maybe

maybe they are mingling

hovering like bright hummingbirds

reflecting in soft rippling waves

mothers and fathers

absent from our sight

surviving in our smiles

maybe they are mingling

to rejoice in our forged bonds

that sustain us in our sadness

maybe they are mingling

to ensure we stay closely connected

by the gentle influence of the universe

maybe we are mingling

to forge their friendships in Heaven

maybe

**

Sending love up to the Heavens on this Sunday evening of the long September weekend and sending more to those missing their Mom and Dad.

In propinquity,

Nic

Make It Sing

So, I didn't make the long list for the Creative Non-Fiction Literary Prize this time around. And, that's ok. The fact that I was able to write this little piece about my Dad so soon after his passing felt like a win in and of itself. I think I'll try again for the next round. I have plenty of time to pick a moment and expound on it in a creative non-fictiony way.

I kept this piece close to my chest, allowing few people to read in the event it was chosen. But, now that I know I've not been short-listed, I can share it here. It makes me smile when I read it and perhaps the reason for my non-success is because I can tell I wrote it with a broken heart. It really isn't CBC worthy and I can see that clearly now.

That evening is one I will cherish all my days.

I hope you enjoy this little glimpse of my Dad:

**

Make It Sing

Dalhousie Arts Centre, Halifax, NS

June 2007

It is no small matter to see my father perform his comedy act for the first time. He is in his 76^th year, and I am just now being afforded the opportunity to experience his hilarious hijinks and his dry, side-splitting jokes in the presence of strangers. Throughout my life, I have been a victim to his pranks, gags and quips; it is officially time to see him onstage, performing his screwball routine for an audience who has loved him longer than I have known him.

The crowd convening inside the Rebecca Cohen is an old-fashioned sea of bright, summery coat sweaters resting on rounded female shoulders, crowned with perfectly-coiffed white curls to complement their male counterparts, sporting haphazard comb-overs and dusty suit jackets. A devout crowd has collected for the Nova Scotia Classic Country Concert, a benefit for the Special Olympics, to reminisce, to return for a few hours to their formative years, to raucous kitchen parties and pool hall dances by way of a familiar roster of singers from the era, the fiddlers and performers who provided the soundtrack to their youthful shenanigans. The air is heavy with anticipation and a hint of impatience, married with a faint bouquet of floral talc and stale cigars. I bypass them all and slip backstage in search of Dad.

I find him in his dressing area, fussing in front of a mirror. His zany get-up includes a pair of old tattered overalls, a black felt Hillbilly hat with an arrow shot through the crown, bare feet, and his Ovation guitar strapped in place, with his joke prompts taped carefully to its curve. He is examining his face closely, adjusting his glasses under the brim of the humorous hat, muttering jokes beneath his breath. He catches my reflection in the mirror and spins on his heel, his arms open wide in exaggerated presentation.

“Ta da!”

“You look amazing and ridiculous.”

We both laugh.

“Are you nervous?” I ask in awe, sizing him up in his wacky ensemble.

“Piece of cake,” he says, confidently.

“I am so excited to finally see you on stage.”

His face tints and he fidgets. “What?”

“I said, I am excited to finally see you perform on stage.”

“That’s twice you said that,” he smirks.

I shake my head. He is always on, and I fall for it every single time.

Dad is given his curtain call: “Five minutes!” I snap a few pictures of his comedic form, give him a brisk hug, and rush to take my seat near the front of the auditorium. When I stop and look back at him, he’s adjusting his guitar and straightening his posture.

“Hey, Dad!” I give him a proud two-thumbs’ up. “Make it sing!”

He chuckles charmingly and nods. “You got it, Pontiac.”

The five minute curtain call turns out to be a lark. An hour later I am anxious, shifting in my seat as I wait for him to appear. I scan the auditorium to see scores of almost-snoring seniors, seconds away from nodding off. In the span of ninety minutes, the mood in the room has gone from jubilant to borderline comatose. The band launches into their next song, slow and deliberate: “Send me the pillow that you dream on …”

We are doomed. For the next two and a half minutes, at least.

My own eyes are getting heavy when the MC returns to the microphone. “This man doesn’t need any introduction. You know him, you love him, and he is here to entertain you. Put your hands together for the funny man himself, the Ben Colder of the Maritimes … Lawrence Myers!”

The seemingly pedestrian introduction upends itself to the swell of sleepy seniors rising to offer thunderous applause. Dad slides onto the stage, in character, ready to deliver. There he is, my Dad, rocking on his bare heels, cradling his guitar, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Farce is about to become force. My heart is in my throat and I’m on the edge of my seat. Dad launches in effortlessly.

“You know what they call a funeral where you can smell your own flowers? A wedding.”

The room is alive again. He immediately has them in the palm of his hand. The guys and dolls are alert, hanging on every zinger that rolls off the Joker’s quick tongue.

“A friend of mine opened up a dry-cleaners next to a convent. He knocked on the door and asked the Mother Superior if she had any dirty habits.”

He is a real pro: at home in the spotlight, inviting the adoration, feeding off it, reveling in it.

“A blind man walks into a bar … and a chair … and a table.”

Dulcet giggles morph into boisterous merriment. Witticisms, anecdotes and yarns pour out of him with ease; gags cringe-worthy and ridiculously silly induce rib-tickling laughter. He tells whole stories in a single sentence, striking creaky old funny bones so hard they are howling in the aisles. My cheeks twinge from smiling, a direct result of the pride I am experiencing from seeing him engage a room. So this is what all the fuss is about. He is a luminary, so revered. I was so unaware of just how much.

He rounds out five superb minutes of rip-snorting comedy with an impassioned rendition of “Green Green Grass of Home”. The grateful crowd sings along with him; some are even on their feet, swaying. “The old town looks the same, as I step down from the train, and there to meet me is my Mama and my Papa …”

        As he exits the stage, the applause and whistles are almost deafening. I spring from my seat and sneak backstage. This time I find him surrounded by his peers, shaking his hand, slapping his back, bantering and congratulating him on another job well done. It is a marvel to see the man, whom I know as a regular old Dad and affluent car salesman, turned into a beloved comedic superman.

I wait patiently for the crowd around him to subside and move toward him, a bashful fan.

“You were incredible up there,” I blurt.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m happy you are here.”

“They were drowsy and then the energy was frenetic when you came out,” I muse. “It was amazing.”

“Did I make it sing?” he asks.

“Did you ever!”

He laughs. “Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come find you, okay?”

Dad is not an affectionate man; not one to show a lot of emotion or bask in adulation, but this night I watch the next few songs at stage left with him. Without a word, he reaches, puts his arm around my shoulders, and squeezes. In his 76^th year, he embraces me, his youngest of six children, backstage at a benefit where he volunteered his time to help raise money for special athletes to fulfill their dreams in Beijing. The poignancy of this moment is that he made another young woman’s dream come true: mine.

I glance up at him, my heart brimming with pride. He is out of costume, back into his usual “Dad uniform” of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, singing softly along with the folks now occupying the stage. I want to turn to him and tell him that I, too, have benefitted from his performance and from our close proximity right at this moment. I want to tell him how proud I am of him, proud and in awe of how he filled the room with joy.

I keep quiet and appreciate the moment. I think he knows. I hope he does.

He made it sing.

**

Hmmmm ... what to write about for the next literary prize?

Suggestions welcome!

In propinquity,

Nic 

Writing Blind

Writing Blind

I always hope it will be scrupulous and lively

the tender trap of an ordinary Heaven, writing

piecing together old wounds in my thinking suit

an old mushroom-hued nubby cardigan sweater

I strive for it to be devotedly comprehensive and strident

every single page cluttered with ample prose and poems

created inside the confines of my own private organized chaos

my stomach tied in the most intricate of stubborn knots

and the silence so deafening that to breath is impossible

writing blind toward an ending is an indescribable ecstasy

it is an enforced soberness to arrive at the conclusion

to have left so much of your private self behind in plain sight

the goal: to be a fine practitioner of word-molding magic

the hope: to morph from clumsy tenderfoot to the premiere suite

the way: coached in language by the Supreme who have come before me

the struggle: to isolate the ownership of memory and make-believe

the reward: sensitive curation of intimate markings touching others

I always trust it will be honourable and animated

the hapless adventures of my pen moving across a fated page

a demand for love to disarm the weight of the world and suspend

into the fabricated fortunes, fortitudes, follies and fouls of fiction

I endeavor for it to be forged with unceremonious courage

all tenacity, all mettle, all nerve and valor, audacious and dogged

immune to the clamor and distraction of both praise and criticism

to be able to bookmark my beginnings and focus on the process

I arrive, as imagined, empty-handed to every occasion ready to toil

I tell myself: ‘You are a woman of infinite talents. Get to work.’

and, I write.

**

Writing a poem about writing while aching to write anything other than a poem.

It’s all work. It’s all creative.

Don’t sweat the small stuff, yeah?

Got it.

In propinquity,

Nic