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