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FEBRUARY

by Lisa Moore

Anansi Press.

Anansi Press (press blog)

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Reviewed by Marjolaine Hébert

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Grief. We have all had our taste of it. It is never a requested menu item, but there it is, strong and sustainable among the human range of emotions. And it won’t go away at will. It takes its own time.

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February is an insightful look into one woman’s grief twenty-six years after the drowning of her husband at sea.

But, we have all read stories of loss, haven’t we? So what, might you ask, makes February stand out from the other teary-eyed readings that already line one bookshelf of my study wall?

Through Helen O’Mara, Lisa Moore has succeeded in shedding light on the brief moments that sit on the boundaries of our consciousness, there where the most private of inner dialogues take place. How she uses the senses to describe everyday life is a unique one, and the life that is shared here is that of a woman who is on intimate terms with love and grief. This story isn’t as tearful as it is, quite simply, full of revelation about the inner workings of memory and of how we remain connected to our own life.

I suspect Moore threw out her copy of Strunk and White long ago. Her unfaithfulness to proper sentence structure, reminiscent of writers such as Ward Just and Marie-Claire Blais, leaves her readers at the mercy of the protagonist. You could say that it provides us with a backstage pass, and what is revealed in the mayhem, is life.

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The Girl in the Mirror

part viii:
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Natasha has decided to have breakfast in the dining room today. Somehow, she’ll feel safer among people, she decides. She grabs her purse, opens the door. Steven is standing there before her, a look of hesitation washed over him.

Natasha ...is all I could say. I knew there was more that needed to be said, but damned if I could find the words. She looked frightened, almost, to see me. But then, for all she knew, I was dead.

They stand on either side of the door and on opposite sides of a universe. She thought...she had told herself he was dead. It seemed best that way. But here he stands before her, flesh and blood and looking sheepishly guilty.

Natasha, I tried again, I know you have a million questions. You might have even thought I was dead...two years, right? It's been two years. You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you! I came as soon as I could. No one would tell me where you’d gone to, and...and... I was aware that I was spewing words even I wasn’t listening to anymore.

I grabbed her then and held her and she faltered for a moment before returning my embrace.
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The Girl in the Mirror

part vii:
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Natasha wakens with a start. She’s covered in sweat and gasping for air. She must have been dreaming though she can’t remember what. A tiny ray of filtered light has made its way around the curtain. It doesn’t feel like day to Natasha, but she hobbles towards the window and pulls aside the drapes.

The sun sits on the Eastern horizon, orange and rosy. The beauty of daybreak takes her breath away. Wow escapes her lips and she realizes then that she hasn't smiled since ... but she doesn’t remember.

What a beautiful Thursday morning this is, she thinks. Thursday ... her dream returns to her. The angst of the unknown intruder upon her life had made its way into her night. Now awake, she feels her heart beating fast for not knowing what – or who – Thursday will bring.
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The Girl in the Mirror

part vi:
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Natasha has left the sanctuary of her room, made her way down to the lobby, where a boy is manning the front desk. Shouldn’t he be in school, she asks herself, but when she gets nearer, she realizes by his mannerisms and the tone of his voice that he is older than she had imagined. Now it is him who eyes Natasha oddly, which is when she realizes that she forgot to wrap something on her head before coming down.

This envelope, she begins. Do you know who delivered it to my room?

I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am.

Oh, how she hates to be called ma’am! She pretends not to mind and asks the man-boy where the letter came from. But he says he can’t help her with that either.
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Well, surely ... Natasha doesn’t finish her thought. She sighs, turns around, and makes her way to the elevator across the lobby.
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Nothing is as real as a dream.

The world can change around you, but your dream will not.

Responsibilities need not erase it.

Duties need not obscure it.

Because the dream is within you, no one can take it away.

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Tom Clancy

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The Girl in the Mirror

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part v:
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“Where is Natasha?” I was screaming by then, but still no one would say. Frankly, I’m not sure anyone knew - except for Christopher, who eventually caved and took me aside and said the words that had my eyes leaking.

The anger I felt ... no, the rage ... “Son-of-a-bitch!” The words came spewing out, and afraid I might hit him, I ran out of house. I barely made it to the truck before breaking. Then I sat, and I wept.
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friday night lights

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the prairie girl
on stage
sings from her heart
.....it isn’t great
but it’s okay (you know?)
.....she is me
once upon a time

she ‘s okay i tell her
but she pretends not to hear
.....wants to see the blood
with her own eyes
.....wants to see the pain
on the pavement
(as long as it’s not hers.)

the lights are on
in his garden
.....again
i smile as i try
to reach the stars
.....in the sky
with my toes
(almost!)
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The Girl in the Mirror

part iv:
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The envelope looks oddly familiar, but she doesn’t know why. Natasha orders coffee from room service and sits in one of the two chairs in her room. She likes the subtle colours this hotel chose for their fabrics. She recalls other hotels, other rooms with colours that left her feeling edgy. The treatments are hard enough, she thinks, and decides she got lucky choosing a hotel whose colours don't make her sick.

The envelope is sealed. She tears one side off and pulls out a single sheet of paper. The words are handwritten. No signature. I’ll be in Tacoma on Thursday. Can’t wait to see you!

She jumps when she hears the rap at her door, then remembers the pot of coffee she ordered. Despite the softness of the room, Natasha is on edge.

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. . . Art is not just ornamental, an enhancement of life,

but a path in itself,

a way out of the predictable and conventional,

a map to self-discovery.

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GABRIELLE ROTH

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............

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Little Italy today: chaotic exuberance! Spring is here (honest). It showed itself on the temperature gauge, in the heat emanating from today’s sun and the batch of bluebells springing up in my neighbours’ yards. It was on the faces of the motorcycle enthusiasts roaring their engines as loudly as they possibly could, feeling unnoticed for too long I suppose. It was in the hopefulness of the new magician in my neighbourhood, ready to prove himself worthy to the passersby. It was the sound of folk songs strummed on the corner. It was on a cold one in the hands of a patio patron. It was through and through the queue I patiently waited in at Nucci’s Gelati, anxious to reach the promised cold comfort with my tongue. It's true. Spring is here. It has not forgotten Winnipeg after all...
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L'homme Orange (iii)

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je dessine mon cœur sur
un bout de papier,

c’est pour toi, je murmure en coulant

égratigné en forme de lettres
il est là en rouge saignant

c’est trop pesant, tu me dis.

je reprends mon papier
je corrige mon échec et maintenant

tu souris, en voyant mon cœur violet.
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l'homme orange

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L'homme Orange (ii)

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on s’arrête un instant
faire des anges dans le sable:

c’est joli le désert au coucher du soleil

je partage ma couleur avec toi
et tu me demande pourquoi.

c’est la couleur de courage, ma réponse.

debout, coude à coude, on admire nos esprits
l’ange orange à la gauche

à la droite, le violet, tout petit.
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What a journey!

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Today, it will be with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to the students of Journeys Adult Education Center. After decades of service to Winnipeg's inner-city communities, the school is closing its doors, due to poor funding.
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The school has enriched my life in ways I could not have predicted, and my time there will live on in my heart forever.
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A few literacy facts:

• Number of Manitobans enrolled in the province’s provincially funded adult literacy programs in 2006: 2,700
• In 2008 there were only 46 adult literacy programs and 10 family literacy programs funded by the provincial government, but there were more than 30 communities whose literacy levels were below level 3 (grade 12) and had no programs.
  Amount budgeted by the provincial government for family and adult literacy programs (2007): just under $2.2 million.
• Length of time it would take the government to recoup the expense of literacy upgrading an individual (in terms of improved wages, decreased support payments and general productivity) 4 months. (T. Scott Murray, Data Angel Policy Research, 2008)

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Literacy is the basis for the well-being of individuals, families, and the whole province. The ability to read, write and perform basic math has an impact well beyond those skills. Low literacy is, on the surface, an invisible handicap. Its effects, however, are not. Investing in literacy makes economic, social and political sense/cents.

To Journeys' alumni...

Fare Well.

L'homme Orange (i)

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tu étais là quand
le soleil toucha la terre

un éclat de jaune-orange brillant

et quand je t’ai nommé ‘Orange’
tu m’as demandé pourquoi.

je n’avais aucune réponse, mais,

je t’ai rappeler que c’est là,
entre le jour et la nuit, où nous

nous sommes rencontrés, toi & moi.
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Le deuil:

: mourning, to be in mourning; grieving
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I hopped in my truck yesterday to the sound of the man on the radio saying... Nous sommes toujours en deuil, toujours, toujours, nous sommes en deuil. As you might gather, French radio chit-chat is rather looser on the tongue than English radio banter, and it tends to be emotionally honest. Some ten minutes after arriving at my destination, he was still sharing these words and the meanings he attaches to them, and I wasn't going anywhere.

I sat in my parked truck outside my home listening to a stranger - a lovely one, it felt to me - speak to no one in particular about how we are forever in the process of mourning. Someone, lost. Or, someone loss-ed. Always. Forever. We humans grieving one loss or another throughout our too brief lives.

It doesn't seem fair, does it, that we should forever be losing people we cherish or love or simply enjoy being around? Well, I can vouch that it really isn't fair at all. We all deserve at least one anchor and safe waters to cast it in. Without the anchor the waters get rough. What had me glued to his words though, was the need to share in the knowledge that I`m not alone in my deuil. I find it comforting to know that loss is so universal, so very human, and that it isn`t just happening to me.
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nereo ii: on my own

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The end of May saw the end to another season of slamming here in Winnipeg. As always, there was a great variety of poetry and slammers alike. Nereo II didn't take part this year, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been busy performing his special magic.
Here he is voicing a piece I especially love (and can appreciate) the words to. Hope you enjoy!
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If only human beings
could...be more reverent
toward their own fruitfulness . . .
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R M RILKE
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joan mirò

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