my spirit dances in wheat fields;it can be heard in the sound of the wind and
comes to life in the fury of the tempest;
it is alive in god's gift of nature.
my spirit is found in my written words
and behind them
naked to those who can see
Monday, 28 January 2008
Histoires de la rivière aux rats//Stories From the Rat River
my spirit dances in wheat fields;it can be heard in the sound of the wind and
comes to life in the fury of the tempest;
it is alive in god's gift of nature.
my spirit is found in my written words
and behind them
naked to those who can see
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Histoires de la rivière aux rats//Stories From the Rat River
JACK JONES: part ii
Jack had arrived in the small town a penniless man, his wages up North spent more quickly than his need for bourbon required. Having stumbled upon an old shack by the river, he made his way to the farm house above the banks of the Rat to ask the landowner’s permission if he could stay there a while. The owner was my Uncle Robert, Roger’s dad. Mon oncle is a kind-hearted, generous man and so it isn’t difficult for me to imagine him offering the coloured stranger a piece of land on his riverbank. He agreed to accept the man’s help with menial labour in exchange for the land. Mr. Jones became a gardener that day.
After some time in the community he chose to call home, Jack was accepted into the church and baptized by water with the parishioners looking on. Jack was now a full-fledged Roman Catholic. I wonder if he hoped that the blessed water might cure him of his drink. Well, despite his attempts at embracing sobriety, it wasn’t long before Jack fell off his blessed wagon and began one of his three week binges.
The bottles emptied, he managed somehow to find his way home, and when he did, he quickly fell onto the straw mattress and into a very deep sleep. He didn’t have the presence of mind to light a fire or to close the door to his shack. It was a bitter-cold winter night, the kind only a person raised on the prairies would know with any amount of intimacy. None of Jack’s toes could be saved, though many say he was lucky to get away with his life.
Jack had arrived in the small town a penniless man, his wages up North spent more quickly than his need for bourbon required. Having stumbled upon an old shack by the river, he made his way to the farm house above the banks of the Rat to ask the landowner’s permission if he could stay there a while. The owner was my Uncle Robert, Roger’s dad. Mon oncle is a kind-hearted, generous man and so it isn’t difficult for me to imagine him offering the coloured stranger a piece of land on his riverbank. He agreed to accept the man’s help with menial labour in exchange for the land. Mr. Jones became a gardener that day.
After some time in the community he chose to call home, Jack was accepted into the church and baptized by water with the parishioners looking on. Jack was now a full-fledged Roman Catholic. I wonder if he hoped that the blessed water might cure him of his drink. Well, despite his attempts at embracing sobriety, it wasn’t long before Jack fell off his blessed wagon and began one of his three week binges.
The bottles emptied, he managed somehow to find his way home, and when he did, he quickly fell onto the straw mattress and into a very deep sleep. He didn’t have the presence of mind to light a fire or to close the door to his shack. It was a bitter-cold winter night, the kind only a person raised on the prairies would know with any amount of intimacy. None of Jack’s toes could be saved, though many say he was lucky to get away with his life.
Friday, 18 January 2008
sarah
I am sarah in my dream.
she stands stone like, unsmiling. did she never find a reason to smile or is her face a map of her past, cultivated over the years?
maybe she just forgot how to dream. i know how painful dreaming can be, but what are we without our dreams...
...i've never met sarah yet there she is, invading my thoughts, creeping her way into my dreams at night. i did not invite her but there she stands all the same, stone like, unsmiling.
.
i am Sarah in my dream.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Histoires de la rivière aux rats//Stories From the Rat River
JACK JONES, part i:
His parents made their way to Dresden through the Underground Railroad. The escapees travelled only by night using the North Star of the Big Dipper as their guide to the land that the old spirituals called heaven. Destination, freedom. Jack Jones’s journey ended in Saint-Malo, Manitoba, by way of Alaska after years of labour on the northern pipeline. Nothing more is known of Jack’s past or how he came to find himself among people who did not speak his language and who had never before seen a black man, unless you counted Al Jolson. But then, making it to the big city movie houses sixty miles north was a rare excursion and a white man pretending to be black didn't quite compare.
While walking about the back roads of the small town one day, I took a last minute detour through the old cemetery behind the steepled church. And there it was - a life-sized statue of a man leaning against his hoe, his work day done, the gardener laying in rest just below. JACK JONES, R.I.P., the plaque announced. Though a bit askew, it seems the sculptor had tried his best to capture the facial traits of the African man. Jack had apparently remained here even after his death and was lying next to white French-Canadian Catholics, with the largest tombstone in sight. Even the Métis didn`t have such privileges unless they renounced all but their whiter half and remained quiet about certain things that needn't be talked about.
His parents made their way to Dresden through the Underground Railroad. The escapees travelled only by night using the North Star of the Big Dipper as their guide to the land that the old spirituals called heaven. Destination, freedom. Jack Jones’s journey ended in Saint-Malo, Manitoba, by way of Alaska after years of labour on the northern pipeline. Nothing more is known of Jack’s past or how he came to find himself among people who did not speak his language and who had never before seen a black man, unless you counted Al Jolson. But then, making it to the big city movie houses sixty miles north was a rare excursion and a white man pretending to be black didn't quite compare.
While walking about the back roads of the small town one day, I took a last minute detour through the old cemetery behind the steepled church. And there it was - a life-sized statue of a man leaning against his hoe, his work day done, the gardener laying in rest just below. JACK JONES, R.I.P., the plaque announced. Though a bit askew, it seems the sculptor had tried his best to capture the facial traits of the African man. Jack had apparently remained here even after his death and was lying next to white French-Canadian Catholics, with the largest tombstone in sight. Even the Métis didn`t have such privileges unless they renounced all but their whiter half and remained quiet about certain things that needn't be talked about.
**********
Roger and I sat above the Kenosee Lake Mini-Mart and Motel catching the remains of another hot and sun-filled day during our travels through remote Saskatchewan. Jose Cuervo seemed good company as I awaited a call from Dalmar. Dalmar had promised me a late day gallop through his mountain Reservation but the sun eventually faded and the tequila was dissapearing one shot at a time. Thus began a conversation that lasted into the night. Roger would tell me how he had come to know Mister Jones as a young boy...
Roger and I sat above the Kenosee Lake Mini-Mart and Motel catching the remains of another hot and sun-filled day during our travels through remote Saskatchewan. Jose Cuervo seemed good company as I awaited a call from Dalmar. Dalmar had promised me a late day gallop through his mountain Reservation but the sun eventually faded and the tequila was dissapearing one shot at a time. Thus began a conversation that lasted into the night. Roger would tell me how he had come to know Mister Jones as a young boy...
Histoires de la rivière aux rats
La rue D'eschambault, revisitée:
J'ai entendu le croassement du ouaouaron il n'y a pas une heure quand je me suis trouvée à l'étang au bout du champ appartenant à mon cousin. Il y a habite là des castors - quoique jamais je les vois - et des canards et des oiseaux de toutes espèces. Ils font leurs maisons entre les quenouilles et les roseaux du marais.
Mais moi, c'est le ouaouaron que j'écoutais, car il me fut penser à M. Touang, l'ami ouaouaron de Gabrielle Roy durant ses années à Charlevoix. Tu vois, tout près de l'étang, il y a une parcelle de terre dont mon cousin me donne permission d'édifier ma cabane d'écrivaine. J'ai déjà choisi un nom: La Charpente. Et on m'a trouvé une vieille cuisine d'été dont je n'ai qu'à déménager sur ma nouvelle terre.
Çà me tracasse tout ça...un moment joyeuse de la nouvelle, le prochain je me sens pleine de doutes...je ne me trouve pas prête à me déclarer <<écrivaine>>, à essayer de devenir une autre Gabrielle Roy comme L- me là suggeré l'autre soir. Ensuite, me trouvant seule au champ (c'est bien vrai que j'aime ma solitude), d'où viendra mon inspiration?
Je fais quoi de cette belle terre sur la prairie près de l'étang où vit paisiblement le ouaouaron? Y existe-t-il quelqu'un qui voudrait écouter mes mots, qui me laisserait leur raconter de mes histoires?....
J'ai entendu le croassement du ouaouaron il n'y a pas une heure quand je me suis trouvée à l'étang au bout du champ appartenant à mon cousin. Il y a habite là des castors - quoique jamais je les vois - et des canards et des oiseaux de toutes espèces. Ils font leurs maisons entre les quenouilles et les roseaux du marais.
Mais moi, c'est le ouaouaron que j'écoutais, car il me fut penser à M. Touang, l'ami ouaouaron de Gabrielle Roy durant ses années à Charlevoix. Tu vois, tout près de l'étang, il y a une parcelle de terre dont mon cousin me donne permission d'édifier ma cabane d'écrivaine. J'ai déjà choisi un nom: La Charpente. Et on m'a trouvé une vieille cuisine d'été dont je n'ai qu'à déménager sur ma nouvelle terre.
Çà me tracasse tout ça...un moment joyeuse de la nouvelle, le prochain je me sens pleine de doutes...je ne me trouve pas prête à me déclarer <<écrivaine>>, à essayer de devenir une autre Gabrielle Roy comme L- me là suggeré l'autre soir. Ensuite, me trouvant seule au champ (c'est bien vrai que j'aime ma solitude), d'où viendra mon inspiration?
Je fais quoi de cette belle terre sur la prairie près de l'étang où vit paisiblement le ouaouaron? Y existe-t-il quelqu'un qui voudrait écouter mes mots, qui me laisserait leur raconter de mes histoires?....
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Friday, 11 January 2008
Thursday, 10 January 2008
histoires de la rivière aux rats
un petit roi:
~ tu as le chapeau. aujourd’hui tu es roi – le roi du royaume de la rivière au rat, et moi, je suis ton sujet…je lui dis çà comme je baisse ma tête et hausse mes bras en respect du petit roi.
il sourit. il veut rire de moi. il ne me trouve pas raisonable. le voyant là avec son chapeau trop grand me ramène à l’histoire du petit prince, et moi, je veux jouer. mais comme l’après-midi devient soirée et miguel et moi se promène main en main sur le gravier qui nous emporte vers le lac, je lui demande s’il aime être roi pour un jour. il me dit que non.
~ tu ne veux plus être roi?
~ non.
~ tu veux être quoi?
~ rien.
~ pourquoi?
il me répond sans hésitation, je suis trop petit pour être quelque chose de grand.
moi, j’hésite. je veux lui dire qu’il n’est pas trop petit, qu’il est plus important que les rois grands. mais je comprends prochainement que miguel n’a aucun problème étant petit, que ce n’est pas une mauvaise chose du tout, que c’est moi qui voudrais bien être petit comme lui et comprendre la vie sans effort.
nous sommes maintenant près du lac, et je lui montre le gros drapeau canadien qui se balance là-haut dans le vent. je crois qu’il aimera ça, comme la seule chose qu’il dessine, ce sont les drapeaux.
~ c’est quoi ça? il me demande.
~ mais-c’est un drapeau, comme ceux que tu dessine. tu aimes les drapeaux, non?
~ oui… mais lui, il veux me montrer le signe de traffique au loin…
~ regarde! stop! ça dit STOP!
~oui…
j’essaie encore, pourquoi tu dessine les drapeaux?
~ je l’sais pas.
cette fois, je me sens perdue. je croyais le connaître un peu. mais j’accepte sa réponse…ce n’est pas toujours nécéssaire de comprendre afin d’apprécier.
plus tard, à la rivière, je lui demande de me dessiner un drapeau. il me dessine un drapeau, pendu sur un poteau…
~ c’est pour toi, il me dit souriant, et m’explique que je devra planter mon poteau dans la terre.
j’apprécie son don, mais je ne le trouve pas complet. je le redonne en lui demandant s’il peu, s’il-vous-plaît, dessiner une fleur sur mon drapeau.
il me dessine une fleur qui ressemble à un homme bâton, mais je suis contente. je place mon drapeau entre les dernières pages du petit prince, et comme le petit prince, je me sens soudainement apprivoisée…
il sourit. il veut rire de moi. il ne me trouve pas raisonable. le voyant là avec son chapeau trop grand me ramène à l’histoire du petit prince, et moi, je veux jouer. mais comme l’après-midi devient soirée et miguel et moi se promène main en main sur le gravier qui nous emporte vers le lac, je lui demande s’il aime être roi pour un jour. il me dit que non.
~ tu ne veux plus être roi?
~ non.
~ tu veux être quoi?
~ rien.
~ pourquoi?
il me répond sans hésitation, je suis trop petit pour être quelque chose de grand.
moi, j’hésite. je veux lui dire qu’il n’est pas trop petit, qu’il est plus important que les rois grands. mais je comprends prochainement que miguel n’a aucun problème étant petit, que ce n’est pas une mauvaise chose du tout, que c’est moi qui voudrais bien être petit comme lui et comprendre la vie sans effort.
nous sommes maintenant près du lac, et je lui montre le gros drapeau canadien qui se balance là-haut dans le vent. je crois qu’il aimera ça, comme la seule chose qu’il dessine, ce sont les drapeaux.
~ c’est quoi ça? il me demande.
~ mais-c’est un drapeau, comme ceux que tu dessine. tu aimes les drapeaux, non?
~ oui… mais lui, il veux me montrer le signe de traffique au loin…
~ regarde! stop! ça dit STOP!
~oui…
j’essaie encore, pourquoi tu dessine les drapeaux?
~ je l’sais pas.
cette fois, je me sens perdue. je croyais le connaître un peu. mais j’accepte sa réponse…ce n’est pas toujours nécéssaire de comprendre afin d’apprécier.
plus tard, à la rivière, je lui demande de me dessiner un drapeau. il me dessine un drapeau, pendu sur un poteau…
~ c’est pour toi, il me dit souriant, et m’explique que je devra planter mon poteau dans la terre.
j’apprécie son don, mais je ne le trouve pas complet. je le redonne en lui demandant s’il peu, s’il-vous-plaît, dessiner une fleur sur mon drapeau.
il me dessine une fleur qui ressemble à un homme bâton, mais je suis contente. je place mon drapeau entre les dernières pages du petit prince, et comme le petit prince, je me sens soudainement apprivoisée…
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
about A man
"It was just a dream.":
In the distance was a shadow. Aldonza thought she saw his horse halt. After a moment, she beheld the two figures riding towards her. Quixano got off his high horse and approached the lady with the perfect pear. He bequeathed her with a smile and took the pear from her hand. Aldonza stepped towards the man, "You have returned for me, Quixano?" But the man tilted his head as though he had never before heard uttered the name she called him now. He bit from the ripe fruit until there was nothing left but the strings that keep the sweet nectar together. These, he deposited into her open hands, mounted his nag and rode off in his heavy armor.
Aldonza awakens, drenched in tears and sweat, and looks about her. She was lying in a field of wheat. "It was just a dream. It was just a dream...a dream," she sighs with great relief, "Just a dream.
: -)
In the distance was a shadow. Aldonza thought she saw his horse halt. After a moment, she beheld the two figures riding towards her. Quixano got off his high horse and approached the lady with the perfect pear. He bequeathed her with a smile and took the pear from her hand. Aldonza stepped towards the man, "You have returned for me, Quixano?" But the man tilted his head as though he had never before heard uttered the name she called him now. He bit from the ripe fruit until there was nothing left but the strings that keep the sweet nectar together. These, he deposited into her open hands, mounted his nag and rode off in his heavy armor.
Aldonza awakens, drenched in tears and sweat, and looks about her. She was lying in a field of wheat. "It was just a dream. It was just a dream...a dream," she sighs with great relief, "Just a dream.
: -)
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
2008
Like most of you, I look towards a new year with questions, hopes and dreams. I don't know about my resolve, not this year. There are more questions than there are answers this time around. It's just luck of the draw, really. It's nothing to do with the number "8" or my astrological sign. The first day of the year just puts me in a place to want to assess things. The before and after, the sign-posts on this road of mine. Although...when things are going especially well, I forget to look around.
Okay. So I've put on my glasses. Eyes wide open and looking out for the signs marked "Right, this way!"
Okay. So I've put on my glasses. Eyes wide open and looking out for the signs marked "Right, this way!"
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