The real voyage of discovery
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .consists not
in seeking new landscapes,
but in having new eyes.
..
MARCEL PROUST
.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Monday, 26 January 2009
exhilaration
.
I smiled. The cozy warmth of his words returned to me and I was filled with exhilaration. A sigh, a click of my heels en terra firma , and I turned in the direction of my departure.
Filled with sudden courage I didn’t know I possessed, I found myself on his front stoop, my clenched hand ready to rap yet again.
The scent of lilacs pervaded through the gated garden and strangely enough, finding myself newly hopeful, this time I took notice of the sounds of new life about me: a group of young swallows nested in the oak tree on the east side of the yard chirping for their mother’s attention; a squirrel scampered up a second tree while another foraged from up above.
The door opened suddenly. There he stood, silent and grave looking.
“Can I come in?” I dared.
.
I smiled. The cozy warmth of his words returned to me and I was filled with exhilaration. A sigh, a click of my heels en terra firma , and I turned in the direction of my departure.
Filled with sudden courage I didn’t know I possessed, I found myself on his front stoop, my clenched hand ready to rap yet again.
The scent of lilacs pervaded through the gated garden and strangely enough, finding myself newly hopeful, this time I took notice of the sounds of new life about me: a group of young swallows nested in the oak tree on the east side of the yard chirping for their mother’s attention; a squirrel scampered up a second tree while another foraged from up above.
The door opened suddenly. There he stood, silent and grave looking.
“Can I come in?” I dared.
.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Latté
.
I lost myself in a
cuppa conversation,
hope floating atop frothy soy bubbles
I watched sink to the bottom
of what I (clicked my heels
three times and) wished was
a bottomless cup.
On the surface-above the foamy frivolity-
I heard myself say things like
It doesn't matter
and
Whatever you think.
I allowed debates
(whose answers I cared nothing about)
to fly about me busily,
grave frowns and
empty smiles and
promises
buzzing in my ears
and
my memory.
The last sip I left
to lie, cradling
the unfinished exchange
of useless syllables.
.
I lost myself in a
cuppa conversation,
hope floating atop frothy soy bubbles
I watched sink to the bottom
of what I (clicked my heels
three times and) wished was
a bottomless cup.
On the surface-above the foamy frivolity-
I heard myself say things like
It doesn't matter
and
Whatever you think.
I allowed debates
(whose answers I cared nothing about)
to fly about me busily,
grave frowns and
empty smiles and
promises
buzzing in my ears
and
my memory.
The last sip I left
to lie, cradling
the unfinished exchange
of useless syllables.
.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
articulation
.
art i cu la tion
unified pronunciation
execution: enunciation
expression connection
delivering diction
connection ejection
arc tic you la tion
arc ti queue lation
arctic elation
.
.
art i cu la tion
unified pronunciation
execution: enunciation
expression connection
delivering diction
connection ejection
arc tic you la tion
arc ti queue lation
arctic elation
.
.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
sculpture
.
Curves and crevasses flowed up and down the eighteen inches of plaster of Paris. I closed my eyes to caress what I felt I must touch to understand. I wanted to occupy the very space the artist had while he shaped the sculpture that sat before me.
He had left the room momentarily and I took advantage of this freedom to finger his work. The smell of clay and wet canvas and crimson reds permeated through the room, though every now and again, a spring breeze from the studio’s open window eased the lingering aromas around me.
My attention returned to the form beneath my hands. I held both palms to it, longing to understand its intricate, provocative shape with my own burdened body. I heard his footsteps then, those of the artist returning to his holy sanctuary . . .
.
Curves and crevasses flowed up and down the eighteen inches of plaster of Paris. I closed my eyes to caress what I felt I must touch to understand. I wanted to occupy the very space the artist had while he shaped the sculpture that sat before me.
He had left the room momentarily and I took advantage of this freedom to finger his work. The smell of clay and wet canvas and crimson reds permeated through the room, though every now and again, a spring breeze from the studio’s open window eased the lingering aromas around me.
My attention returned to the form beneath my hands. I held both palms to it, longing to understand its intricate, provocative shape with my own burdened body. I heard his footsteps then, those of the artist returning to his holy sanctuary . . .
.
Monday, 19 January 2009
métro
.
Il l’avait repéré, là, dans la station de métro St-Eustache. Elle attendait un train de l’ouest. Quoi faire, maintenant? il se demandait. Si je l’approche, voudra-t-elle même me parler? Si je ne l’approche pas, si je n’essai pas, serais-je pour toujours rempli de chagrin? Sapristi! J’en sais rien.
Geneviève avait toujours été celle dont toute autre femme ne comparait pas. Pour Luc - il en était certain - elle persisterait à vivre dans son âme comme l’amour - c'est-à-dire, le seul amour - digne de son cœur.
Il n’y avait qu’un petit problème. Elle n’en savait rien . . .
.
Il l’avait repéré, là, dans la station de métro St-Eustache. Elle attendait un train de l’ouest. Quoi faire, maintenant? il se demandait. Si je l’approche, voudra-t-elle même me parler? Si je ne l’approche pas, si je n’essai pas, serais-je pour toujours rempli de chagrin? Sapristi! J’en sais rien.
Geneviève avait toujours été celle dont toute autre femme ne comparait pas. Pour Luc - il en était certain - elle persisterait à vivre dans son âme comme l’amour - c'est-à-dire, le seul amour - digne de son cœur.
Il n’y avait qu’un petit problème. Elle n’en savait rien . . .
.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Cyclisme dans la cité, v
.
The croc is still smiling!
..............proof that some of us enjoy this beautiful winter white . . .
..............proof that some of us enjoy this beautiful winter white . . .
photo: Marjolaine Hébert
Saturday, 17 January 2009
Friday, 16 January 2009
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Saturday, 10 January 2009
un-armed
.
.
. . . . .. . . . . .. . .exposed
elm branch reaches
for the January sky, in hope
of touching the
full moon whispers through
the January sky, in hope.
.
.
.
. . . . .. . . . . .. . .exposed
elm branch reaches
for the January sky, in hope
of touching the
full moon whispers through
the January sky, in hope.
.
.
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
summertime
.
When the wheat turns golden, my cousin and I bring the men their supper. The first harvest must be gathered as quickly as possible. No one can predict the next rainfall, or worse, another tornado. The roar of the machines unsuccessful in diminishing the beauty of this prairie landscape, I must soon close my eyes against the setting sun the colour of fire. The fields dance in its light and I am hard-pressed to find a line of any sort, that division between land and sky. I breathe in the familiar smell of grain dust, waiting for the combine to complete its row.
We will jump on to deliver the food already melting in the paper bag I hold and chat up a few words with my uncle. It’s very hard to hear anything though. Once standing on the side bar, I realize that he is pointing to something at the rear of his machine. The grain chamber isn’t working as it should. So I make my way, carefully, to unclog it. It scares me, the idea of losing a limb over this golden grass. Still, there is contentment in feeling I'm a part of the land’s life-cycle. My heart shares warmth with the sun that blurs my vision as I quickly free the machine of its obstruction.
My uncle gives me a quick nod of approval, and we soon reach the field’s border where the old rusted truck awaits us. Summertime on the Manitoba prairies will quickly lie behind me, giving way to the big white and a chill I can hardly imagine right now. But the brief period between snowfalls in my world will live on, and on frigid January days, I will close my eyes and return to the fields where the sun waltzes with wheat and wafts the aroma of summer earth my way.
.
When the wheat turns golden, my cousin and I bring the men their supper. The first harvest must be gathered as quickly as possible. No one can predict the next rainfall, or worse, another tornado. The roar of the machines unsuccessful in diminishing the beauty of this prairie landscape, I must soon close my eyes against the setting sun the colour of fire. The fields dance in its light and I am hard-pressed to find a line of any sort, that division between land and sky. I breathe in the familiar smell of grain dust, waiting for the combine to complete its row.
We will jump on to deliver the food already melting in the paper bag I hold and chat up a few words with my uncle. It’s very hard to hear anything though. Once standing on the side bar, I realize that he is pointing to something at the rear of his machine. The grain chamber isn’t working as it should. So I make my way, carefully, to unclog it. It scares me, the idea of losing a limb over this golden grass. Still, there is contentment in feeling I'm a part of the land’s life-cycle. My heart shares warmth with the sun that blurs my vision as I quickly free the machine of its obstruction.
My uncle gives me a quick nod of approval, and we soon reach the field’s border where the old rusted truck awaits us. Summertime on the Manitoba prairies will quickly lie behind me, giving way to the big white and a chill I can hardly imagine right now. But the brief period between snowfalls in my world will live on, and on frigid January days, I will close my eyes and return to the fields where the sun waltzes with wheat and wafts the aroma of summer earth my way.
.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Words that have influenced me in 2008:
.
o Digging to America. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anne Tyler
o Committed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Male authors, various
o Helpless. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barbara Gowdy
o The Triumph of Narrative. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. Robert Fulford
o Shooting Butterflies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marika Cobbold
o five-o’clock shadows. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..George Amabile, ...
o Private Property. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Margaret Sweatman
o Working North. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Rick Ranson
o See the Child. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . ..David Bergen
o Beyond Innocence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .Jane Goodall
o confessions of an Innocent Man. . . . . . . . . . .William Sampson
o Instances of the Number 3. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. Salley Vickers
o The Withdrawal Method. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Pasha Malla
o Lost in the Garden. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Philip Beard
o Sur mon îsle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . .Marie-Louise Gay
o Le Petit Prince. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
o No Two Snowflakes. . . . . ... . . ..... . . . . . .... . . .Sheree Fitch
o If I Were the Moon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... . . . .Sheree Fitch
o Caillou et autres amis de Eric. . . . . . . . . . . . …Multiples écrivains
o Qu’est-ce que vous faites là?. . . . . . . . . . . . . .Dominique Jolin
o If you’re not from the prairie. . . . . . . . . . . . . .David Bouchard
o La Disparition. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... . . . .Charlotte Gingras
o Le Grand vertige. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .... . . . . Martine Latulippe
o Les Prisonniers de monsieur Alphonse. . . . .Céline Cyr
o Les Mille oiseaux de Sadako. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Eleanor Cœur
o Antoine et Alfred. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .Yves Beauchemin
o Menace sur Bouquinville. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Louise Lévesque
o Forgetfulness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Ward Just
o The Plight of Happy People in an Ordinary World/Natalee Caple
o Karma Armed With A Toilet Brush. . . . . . . . ..Fernando Raguero
o kiss the joy as it flies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sheree Fitch
o The Helsinki Rocamatios. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Yann Martel
o Moral Disorder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Margaret Atwood
o Soucouyant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .David Chariandy
o The Artist’s Way. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julia Cameron
o Vein of Gold. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Julia Cameron
o Writing Fiction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. Janet Burroway
o The Practical Stylist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sheridan Baker
o Elements of Style. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..Strunk & White
o The Write Track. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. Betty Jane Wylie
I want to add to this list those words I read from my literacy students, for their words are those that provide the most Joy. And the importance of words are conveyed so honestly through their hard work and commitment to learning, in hope of a better life. This is why we all read, isn't it?
.
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