road trippin

I'm back from the Boat Show, and I had a complete and utter BLAST.

I intend to write about it more, but I'm about to head off to PEI for a long weekend with a girlfriend from college, who I haven't seen in four and a half years.

So, you can check out the photos on the marina's Facebook page. (For those of you who aren't on Facebook, you don't actually have to be a member to view these photos. It works just like any other website.) And when I get back, I'll be writing about all I saw at the boat show - and what it was like.

Also, I got the best line from a friend I saw while in Halifax. So simple, I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. She said, when someone asks me what I do at the marina, I can say,

"I'm in sails."

Hitting the road! Hoping you're having a wonderful Valentine's Day week.

seeing/eyes

I've been thinking that it's time I write about The Oil Spill.

But then this week I got contacts for the first time ever, and so I want to write about THAT.

(These pictures, by the way, are from March 2008. My camera is still not fixed. Oh, well. My eyes still look much the same, however.)

Anyway, both of these things mish-mashed in my brain, The Oil Spill and my new contact lenses - and I realized that both of them are about SEEING. And in a way, they're also both about sensation, and how we get used to things.

Whether or not we SEE or pay attention to the tragedy happening in the Gulf of Mexico, it's going on. The media is how we're seeing it up in Canada. (I haven't gone down to the shoreline in Louisiana and Florida and dipped my hands in the oil washing up on shore.) And if I choose not to SEE it, then to me, it's not happening. If I close my eyes, my actual eyes, as well as the screens and cameras that act as eyes around the world and relay images back to me, then I don't see it. I don't have to process the images. But they've gotten in anyway, they're eating their way into my soul. Turtles doing the dead-man's-float in oily water a caramel-mud color. Egrets long and limby like ballerinas, soapy and held by rescue workers.

When I sit and actually open up my eyes, and look at images, it's fucking sad. It's a fucking huge tragedy. I curse and use obscenities because it FUCKING CALLS FOR IT. There's a great big well SPEWING oil into the ocean, and no-one can stop it. Seriously? And everyone's just getting on with their lives? Because to me, this calls for a vigil and a public keening and crying on par with 9/11, on par with any huge loss of human life out there. I feel like I want to go down to some gateway, to some place where I can light candles and sit in stoned silence. And then I look away, I re-focus my eyes elsewhere and I CAN forget about it. I get distracted by my job, by my day-to-day life here in Cape Breton, by so many other things. By the men I have crushes on, by the projects I want to do. How is that?

That's because we get used to things. Sensation - we only feel it for a bit, then we get used to it. And if something isn't happening RIGHT HERE in front of me, I can forget about it, move on.

But then I start thinking - what if it WAS happening right here? People dump all kinds of crap into the Bras d'Or lakes, and it's only now, this year, that boaters have to have a holding tank on their boats. The lakes SEEM clean, but that's only because I'm taking them at face value. What all is in there that's clear, that's dissolved, but still in the water? All the plastics and cans and tiny bits of things that have broken down?

The point is - this kind of shit IS happening, all the time, in our backyards and front yards and everywhere, just not on the scale of a huge oil rig fucking spewing oil. And because we can't see it, we can pretend it's not happening. Ignore, refuse to acknowledge.

I can totally understand why we do this. To acknowledge it means to then come to terms with it, to go, "Holy shit, I gotta change something." And it's such a huge scale, what the F do we DO?

And then my thoughts fade into something else, like my appointment at the vision clinic yesterday morning to get taught how to put in my new contacts. I sat there and let a woman I don't know poke her finger into my right eye, me trying as hard as I could not to blink, but blinking like crazy just the same. Finally it worked - the little tiny slip of a contact stuck on. Now for the other one. Then that one worked. And suddenly, for the first time ever in my life, I could SEE without wearing glasses. I could see across the room. My own image in a mirror from ten feet away was CLEAR. And it is SO WEIRD.

I went back to work, giddy. "No-one should be this excited at work!" I exclaimed to my co-worker, who laughed good-naturedly at me like she usually does. My excitement was just a few notches below, say, girls squealing at the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. I was really! freaking! excited! And I had to kind of subdue it so I could focus on purchase orders and people's inquiries about summer wharfage. But the whole time I just wanted to walk around the store and LOOK AT STUFF. And touch my face - no glasses! Holy crap! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!

And it feels weird in another way, too. You can feel they're there - I blink a tonne more. It's like there are little itchy bits in your eye, not so bad that you can't stand it, but just enough that you feel it. "It's going to feel like you've got something in your eye. Because, you know, you DO," my hairdresser told me last week. "But you'll get used to it. After a bit you won't even know they're there."

(Crazy that THAT can happen. That we can have this itchy sensation and then after a while it fades. Even though the item is still there, causing it.)

After four hours I took them out and put my glasses back on. Cinderella going back to the kitchen, glass slipper put away. (Funny - I made reference to Cinderella in my last post, too. Weird.) And my eyes feel tender, sore. Like I'm really tired, except I'm not. I'll be glad to sleep tonight, rest them. Poor things, they've been poked at far too much today!

So, SEEING. Sometimes I see The Oil Spill for what it is, and I want to cry my eyes out. And I don't. Sometimes I think we're all effing crazy, really. Then I get in my car to drive to work, or I order up some clearly toxic petrochemical-based bottom paint for a client's boat, and I feel a shred of guilt. Accompanied by a portion of rationalization. As in, "Oh, I have to drive to get to work, and I only drive a little bit, so it's OK." Or a dose of denial. There isn't even a sentence to go with denial, because that's all about NOT thinking.

What are you SEEING? What do you think when you see pictures of The Oil Spill? Or do you have thoughts on contact lenses?

bam a lam!

Before I had even taken "her" for a test drive, I'd named her Black Betty. I said to Kate, "I'm trying not to get attached." With a goofy grin on my face.

"I can see that's working well for you!" She said.


I drove her to a mechanic's shop in town. The same place where I rented cars all last year, whenever I wanted to spin my wheels and get some freedom. They put her on the hoist and I stepped underneath with the mechanic. It was like looking up at some strange beast, suddenly immobile and helpless. I had no idea what those hoses and metal pieces did, but he did, and he pointed them out to me. "This is in really good shape, really good shape," he kept saying.


Two weeks later - after getting a loan approved, getting the papers signed and the car registered, brand new license plate and studded winter tires - Black Betty and I are together at last. I have a box of tapes on the floor below the passenger's seat. (Black Betty's vintage - 1997 - means that she doesn't have a CD player. Well, she does, but its in the trunk and disconnected.)

It's only been a few days but I can feel things shifting, I can feel myself changing into a "car owner." The kind of person who can get up in the morning, and know that they can get into their car, and drive wherever - and whenever - they want to go. No more worrying about meeting or missing my ride! No more having to call neighbours at the beginning of the work week to sort out who I'm getting into town with! (At least, until it breaks down for the first time. I know, I know.) It's incredible!

I'm sure I'll feel conflicted about this at some point - I'm rather environmental, after all. But for now - knowing that I can go on a little road trip, or do my errands, and take myself to work, all on my own time, on my own schedule, is well worth the money.

I'd love to hear about your first car. Or, if you've never owned a car, tell me about that. But yeah - car stories! Fill the comments!


Valentine's Day is this weekend. I'm writing a little love note to my new car, and as well I thought I'd share this picture with you lot. I was in the Bras d'Or Yacht Club the other day, which is where I meet up with some other writers once a month for some writing exercises, and among other decorations, they have this cherub hanging in a window. Behind it is Baddeck Bay and Beinn Bhreagh mountain. This place is one of the loves of my life, so this picture is fitting.

I hope you and your sweetie - be it a person, a car, a place, a thing, or yourself - have a lovely Valentine's Day weekend.

my day in a cabriolet

Sometimes those fossil-fuel-fed machines get it right. Take this:


and imagine that instead of palm trees, this is in the background:

and you have a slight approximation of the experience I am about to describe. It started like this: the other day my friend Brenda, who happens to drive a VW Beetle Convertible in Sea-green, named Luna, was going to have lunch with me. She had said she could go into town to pick up a pizza, and if I wanted, I could ride into town with her, to pick it up, with the top down. I was already excited about this prospect, and then when she arrived, the day was even more brilliantly beautiful than it had been forecast. Brenda said,

"You know, I have the afternoon free. If you're up for it, we could do more driving than we'd planned. We could even do the Trail!"

I hemmed and hawed... would I get overtired? The Cabot Trail is roughly four hours of a drive, if you don't stop anywhere. However, it's gorgeous for pretty much the entire time. Would we have to stop and socialize with people we know, when all I wanted to do was feel the breeze? Brenda read my mind:

"We don't have to stop anywhere, besides where you want. If you get tired, you can sleep. If you want to turn back, we can." Her good mood was infectious, and that along with the beautiful weather convinced me this was an opportunity I should grab with both hands.

I packed a small bag -- sunglasses, Boston Red Sox baseball hat (I know nothing about baseball beyond the basics, this is a memento from last summer's family reunion baseball game, and happens to be the only baseball hat that's ever looked good on me), water bottles, wallet. She put the top down. We drove off, and even before we left the dirt road I live on, I was having a fabulous time. The view from a convertible feels glamourous and adventurous at the same time, and shall I dare say, it became me? That's probably how everyone riding in a convertible feels, actually -- like a totally deserving famous person out for a jaunt. Even the spruce trees along the Bay Road seemed saucy and looked different as we zipped past. The alchemy of a cabriolet!

We ate lunch at the Dancing Goat Cafe in Margaree, where the sandwiches are huge and delicious, and the soups are always creamy. Then onward to Cheticamp, where I asked if we could stop at the Boulangerie de l'Est, thinking I was revealing a gem. Brenda laughed: "Can we?" Turns out she knows the proprietress, and goes there when she can for afternoons of pastries and conversation. This time we had some of both, chatting with Judy a bit, and picking up some delicious chocolate cookies, a Bear Claw (filled with almond paste) and goodies for the less-fortunate (our loved ones who couldn't come with us on this whirlwind trip). The pastries here are seriously well-made: when you eat one, you think, "I can't have had real pastry before this, because this is so different!" Or at least, that's what I think. They literally melt on the tongue, and the flavors are at once subtle, because they disappear so fast, and memorable, because they are so stunning.

And believe it or not, I am not exaggerating.

North from Cheticamp the road entered the park, and the dramatic mountain scenery began. Up and down, over hills we went, always being able to see nearly 365 degrees around. In four hours we hardly stopped talking, and I hardly stopped gawking at the scenery, twisting around in my seat to get the view as we would leave a valley, or turn a corner, or climb a hill. The few puffy white clouds there were laid a patchwork of shadows on the distant green mountains, and helped temper the warm sun beating down on us. Later, near 5, it started to get cool, so we turned on the interior heat for our feet, while the brisk breeze gave our upper halves the feeling of Fall. Oh, the luxury!

When Brenda dropped me at home that evening, and drove off to Sarah's hen's night, I entered the house feeling very much like Cinderella after the ball. No proof of the pumpkin save for crystal-clear memories, which continue to dazzle me days later.

Thanks, Brenda!

not exploding, just moving (at a slower pace)

"Unless you are utterly exploded, there is always something to be grateful for." (From Bellow, Saul. Herzog. Ed. Irving Howe. New York: Viking, 1976. p.7)

The other day Marlo was reading this book at the kitchen table, and I was reading Scarlet Feather, by Maeve Binchy. She laughed aloud at this quote and then read it to me, and then wrote it out onto a scrap of paper which I tucked into my book for safekeeping. I did that because it seems the sort of advice to keep with you at all times, and it will also remind me of Marlo.

Not that going home to Cape Breton is at all comparable to being utterly exploded, as there are many, many good things about home and being there. The sound of birdsong from the porch is one. The restfulness of the woods is another. But this is a big change for me, moving home and leaving here uncertain of return, and I've not yet completely recovered from the rough period that began this past February. Each day is still a question mark, some days are good, and some days I have very little energy and can't do very much. It will still be some time before I'm up to my usual tricks, or up to tackling anything too difficult. It is hard to admit this, because as Chloe said to me the other day, "You're quite a go-getter!"

I was very used to going and getting, it is true, and these days involve a lot of staying and resting. I find it hard to accept the fact that my body wants me to stop and let it rest until it needs no more resting, not just recharge enough to pretend I'm OK. I find it hard to accept that this can happen without my consent! I also find it hard to accept that when it comes down to it, after all my fears that no-one will understand, the person who understands the least is actually myself.

However, when I think about it, I realize that these things that are hard to accept are actually just fine. The harder it is, the better I will feel as I begin to accept them. Does that make sense? The harder the task, the better you feel when you accomplish it.

So, back to the point of this post: I'm going home to Cape Breton. I should also mention that none of the packing that has been happening lately would have been possible without my mother, who came here last week and is spending her week off here with me, helping me every step of the way. It sure makes a difference to have her here to tell me what needs doing, and do the things that I can't.

On Sunday we pack the little Golf and move. In the process I have to get rid of my old monitor, as it barely works right now, and I am going to dump it here and then buy a new one when I get home, a flat-screen model. I made many calls and nowhere in Fredericton is there a place to safely dispose of computer equipment, so unfortunately for my ethics and principles this monitor I've used for five years is going to end up in the landfill. It seems such a waste! Why, oh why, can't recycling technologies and businesses fill this obvious need as quickly as I would like them to? (She cried to the skies, not expecting a satisfactory answer.)

I probably won't get a new monitor right away, so I'll be using my mother's computer on a slow connection, or the computers at the library in town, my old fall-back method for when at home. That, combined with how little energy I've got these days, and the fact that I really do love posting, means I will still post, just not all the time. I just wanted y'all to know.

Allow me to counteract what seem like moderately unpleasant comments in this post with a few "good things", but have no fear, I'm not turning into Martha Stewart:

1. Maeve Binchy novels with their comforting predictability and take-charge heroines.
2. Driving out into the country with Mum, Marlo and a map.
3. The way the indoors feels when it rains out: cozy, complete.
   
4. Lebanese takeaway: falafel wraps, grape leaves filled with soft, tangy rice, tabouleh with lots of parsley, baklava with a melt-in-your-mouth texture.

So, that's all the news at this moment. And if you can't think of anything better to do, some Lebanese takeaway is always a good idea. I'll write again from the little island that could.

*Source of the photograph: unknown. Picked it up somewhere while trawling the Web for inspiration, saved it, and found it again today. If it's yours and you don't want it used, tell me.