Tagged By Brownie

I was pleasantly surprised, and quite honoured, to be tagged for a book meme!

The number of books I own:
Although I am a constant reader, I actually don’t own very many books, unless you count textbooks. I have groaning shelves of textbooks that I haven’t touched since I graduated from University in 1990.

I don’t own books because I am a trader and a passer-on. I trade books at work, pass them between friends and I share them with family. My very dearest friend, Sue, is a voracious reader and has the benefit of disposable income. She lives in Vancouver, and my yearly visits have me returning home with a tote bag full of novels, which I read and then pass along. I rarely write my name inside books, preferring instead to allow them to go their own way, settling in with the reader who can’t bear to let go.

The few books I own NEVER leave my home, lest someone else love them as much as I do.

The last book I bought:
The last book I bought was a gift for my husband, “The History Of Blues”, complete with a CD of the referenced music. The last book that I bought for myself was “A Recipe For Bees”. I really enjoyed it, but only enough to give it to someone else.

The last book I read:
Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. I recently spent three weeks in Europe, touring WW 1 and WW11 war memorials and battlegrounds. Reading Birdsong was a way for me to bring some meaning to what was, sadly, a meaningless experience. This novel follows three generations of families through the first World War to present day. It was graphic and gritty and amazing. Highly recommended, but maybe only because I actually saw the tunnels of Vimy ridge in France, and the rows and rows of grave markers left behind.

I gave it to my sister, who went on the trip with me and also needs to rewrite that three weeks of her life.

Five books that mean a lot to me:

The Little House In The Big Woods
And so began a lifelong love affair with Laura Ingalls Wilder. I started reading The Little House series as soon as I could read without help, and I read my set until the spines broke and the pages were thumbed bare. My mother gave me a new set for Christmas when I was eighteen, complete with West From Home, Laura’s Diaries and the Laura Ingalls Wilder Cookbook (nice tie-in to my food addictions).

A few months ago, I started reading “Little House” with my seven-year-old daughter, though I’ll admit that I edited the part where Pa beats Laura for slapping her sister. I can’t bear the thought of her hating Pa before she falls in love with him, like I did.


A Prayer For Owen Meany and The Cider House Rules (Read them back-to-back so they count as one in my head.)
High school. Teen angst. ‘Nuff said.

The Power of One
This was the first book that my husband gave me, when we were first dating and talking and eating and gazing and singing and sleeping and having tons of sex. Where I actually found the time to read the book is beyond me.

She’s Come Undone
One of those books where you finish it, and you lay it on your chest and grieve because it’s over.

Fall On Your Knees
Probably one of the most treasured books I own, not because of the story, but because of my story and the chapter in my life at the time. Sue bought this book for me, not knowing at the time that I was in the midst of post-partum depression. I started to read it, and just couldn’t (if you’ve read it, you’ll understand why).

That book sat on my shelf for six years until I felt ready. It was like “goal jeans” for me.

I read it last summer. I wallowed in the turning of the first few pages and I celebrated the last.


So, after all of this talk about how much I love to pass things along, I find myself at an impasse. Having been tagged by Brownie, and wanting to pass on the challenge, I have to admit that I don’t know how.

Too bad this meme is about books and not in one!

Meeting My Inner Bitch

We stood, staring each other down like modern day gun fighters, (though my hand was reaching for the doorknob, not my six shooter, and his was rattling his car keys, sounding not unlike the cold jingle of spurs, and certainly lending to the atmosphere).

I can’t even remember that particular evening’s topic of tantrum. So many such evenings had proceeded along the same lines, the same script. An innocent comment, a gentle differing of opinion, an alternate suggestion; it was never anything that warranted a war. But that night, something was different. Something had changed. I wouldn’t know that it was me who had changed until hours later, when it was all over but the crying (His tears, not mine).

For the first time in my life, I was done. Poke-me-with-a-fork finished.

All my life, I was the hanger-on. The one who always gave second, third and forth chances. The glass-half-full girl who believed that everything had a reason, everyone had a purpose and that sometimes doing nothing was doing something.

I let go and let God.

I believed that the hardest decisions in the world were the ones that you agonized over, kneading away at the problem until you wrung out a solution. I believed that confusion was the result of not liking any of the options. I had overthinking down to an art form, to the extent that my thinking got in the way of my listening to myself.

Don’t get me wrong, no one ever took advantage of me without my permission, but I gave permission away like flyers on windshields, advertising myself as a bottomless pit of empathy, understanding and do-overs.

Until that night.

He came down the stairs, saying the word “Bitch” with each footfall. Each word, so clearly spoken, was like an invitation to me. He said, “Bitch”. I thought, “leave”.

Bitch….leave….Bitch….leave….Bitch….LEAVE.

So I did.

No second thoughts.

No pros and cons.

No pity.

No regrets.

And now…… I let go, let GUT.

Mixed Blessings

I could kiss you or curse you
For seeing, for sensing
For pushing and prodding
No relish for dawdling
Refusing excuses
Fingers in ears

I could love you or leave you
For who I am now
For taking my time
Once spent sitting silent
Amused by the outside
Now lost in my head

I could hug or hit you
For starting this storm
Words seething and swirling
Thoughts turning and twirling
This burden I carry
This need I must feed

Tour Of Duty

Not because it once was real
Just cry on command
From a practiced posture
The true north strong and free

Not a place you’d ask to be
Just follow the agenda
From their self-serving needs
The same stone marker again and again

Not enough to go around
Just eat what was in front of you
From the tote bag in your lap
The scavenged remains of the day

Not a chance to be at peace
Just share the space, the place, the bed
From one room to the next
The keys all look the same

Not a name of your own
Just one of the girls
From the middle of the road
The journey takes forever

Picture This

I can’t keep a picture in my head for more than a moment. The images I have behind my eyes flicker like an old home movie. They dance like flames and wisp themselves away like smoke. I’ve never had the opportunity to forget what someone looks like, because I don’t really remember them in the first place.

I can’t give directions to anyone, because I can’t open a map in my head, let alone fold it back up properly. I can’t play checkers or chess or backgammon because I can’t hold the pieces where I plan to place them, to see if my strategy is worthwhile. Knights and rooks and tiles float weightlessly, refusing to still themselves.

I can’t do a mind journey or any other relaxation exercise that starts with “Picture yourself in your happy place” because I immediately panic. For God’s sake, the last thing I need when I’m anxious is to start with an impossible task. Besides that, my happy place is black and dark and filled with frustrating snapshots that elude my grasp.

Being unable to carry colour chips in my head, home decorating is always a leap of faith. Bringing the bathtub to “Linens ‘N Things” is not an option and go figure I’d end up with sorta-but-not-really Martha Stewart green fixtures in my bathroom and no budget to replace them in white. Once, I had to return a set of slipcovers three times in order to match them to an area rug too big to fit in the trunk of my car. Who knew there were so many shades of beige that could turn to baby shit brown once applied to a couch?

So you learn to cope. You ask for landmarks, not compass points. You play cards and do puzzles. You breathe deeply and listen to good music. You carry paint chips and throw pillows and towels and cameras around with you.

But here’s the hard part…

I can’t remember the look on the face of my first lover, the first time.

I can’t find my husband in a daydream.

And I can’t see my daughter from my desk.

Travelling Light

I’ll leave this friend behind
This powerful poisonous pal
And take instead
A breath of fresh air
Across the pond

Friend for life,
‘Til death us do us part
Until an ocean away
Among the long-dead
I’ll gift this to those
Who gave their lives for mine

They lost themselves
To give me the choice
To self- suffocate
I will leave this friend behind
A small sacrifice

Wanna Fight?

Here’s what I believe. There is absolutely no point in engaging in conversation, debate, or all-out-teeth-clenched-sleeves-rolled-up-sweaty-upper-lip argument with anyone unless you’re willing to admit that you just might be……….wrong.

Fonzie WRONG.

The admission of it stuck in your throat like a half-chewed pizza crust from the night before kind of wrong. Even humiliated.

These days it seems most people aren’t willing to participate in good (read: heated) conversation. Why? Because we are scared. We’re all pee our pants scared because we don’t want to admit that we don’t have an opinion. The very thought of not having something to say leaves us speechless. So, instead we piss away precious words on innocuous chitchat, barely lapping at the fringe of controversy lest our ignorance be a bitter pill.

Why can’t we say “Hey, thanks, I learned something today.” or, “Who knew??” or, God forbid, “I didn’t know that!”? Because we are so threatened by the very notion of recognizing that we aren’t a bunch of know-it-alls, that we walk around acting like them instead.

In reality, the plethora of information available to us after a blind date with Google is mind numbing. The more we’re supposed to know, the stupider we become. Dabblers aplenty, the experts amongst us a dying breed.

So what’s the answer? In my opinion, (because I have one… thank you Jesus….dodged that bullet) you don’t need to have the answers, you only need to know where to find them. Surround yourself with amazing people and the answers will always be at hand. Seek and ye shall find, but seek quality, not quantity.

Judge the book by its cover; those in the know…..show. They have courage and passion and aren’t afraid to bare their asses from time to time. They aren’t afraid to admit that they were…..not exactly right. This time.

Life In Death

The uninvited visitor
A creeping cloud
Oozing over
An already too-cool sun

A slow sad seduction
Of the defenseless
When mind over matter
Matters not

Smothering serenity
Squandering joy
Feasting on the panic
The dread in your head

Tolerate another day
Waiting with sour held breath
From metallic medicine
That keeps the dark dogs at bay

What Is, Was, And Always Shall Be

The numbing nectar, the mead; the need
To knead away the knots
And silence the screams

Virginal white
Or blood heavy and red
Crystal held, cool as a lover’s hand

Furtive by day
In a Tupperware cup
Stained with shame

Sweetly slips away the sorrow
And brings instead
The same tomorrow

Her mother, her brother
Her sister
Herself

Barry

The grating rasp of her Bic
Like nails on a chalkboard.
He hates smokers with the slit-eyed disgust of those who quit
Cold turkey.
(No pain, no gain)

He did it standing in the line at the downtown Royal Bank.
Hearing someone whisper, “My God, that stinks”
He rubbed out his addiction on the leather sole of his
Black Dack’s shoe.
(When only the best will do)

He stares at the lines around her mouth
Deeper than they need to be
The leftovers of thousands of cigarettes,
Hundreds of books consumed.
(Read ‘em and weep)

Another plate of grey roast beef
Served on a TV tray
In front of the channel 7 news.
The kids clamoring in the kitchen
(A man’s home is his castle)

His side of the bed
Hospital corners tucked tightly
Holding in a rageful rest
Her side a tangled web
(Said the spider to the fly)