Checkin' In.

There was a difficult day. Everyone has them. 'Seems the gauntlet was thrown down as my eyes opened in the morning. Nothing was working. My ideas, goals seemed ridiculous and the world, well, I just couldn't figure it out. There was no point, it seemed. I was not making the headway I wanted. And outside, the air was cutting cold, thrown carelessly by the wind, and armed with stinging, sharp snow. In a fit, I shrugged off my useless efforts and left them in a sullen heap on the floor. I put on my jacket and headed out through the storm  and to a movie. The theatre is a bit of a walk from where I live so the storm had ample time to make me uncomfortable, that is until I got to Philosopher's Walk, a thin, forested park set low behind UofT's Faculty of Law, Faculty of Music, and the ROM. Because it is low, and sheltered, the wind was blowing over top and dropping the snow gently, instead of bludgeoning it as it seemed to be doing everywhere else. It appeared a scene from Narnia, or some special place with rich, thick duvets of granitic, sparkling white laid everywhere. It was beautiful and I was thankful for the respite from the wind. I could hear my own breath, the crunch of snow under my feet, and then- then I heard the silkiest sound coming from a trumpet somewhere in the music building. Someone was playing Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition: Promenade." I stopped. It was so beautiful. So lovely, as if they were playing it just for me, to draw me out of my difficult day. As if someone said,

 "Here she comes! Play it now! Remind her that there is, most definitely a point!"

 It was as if God was just checkin' in to sort me out. Whatever it was, there was most certainly a magic to it. I may never forget it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5r8sa863Ts

Glenn Gould and Me.

I can not wait for this Death Match to be over. I've been listening to Glenn Gould and the English Suites, and pacing. Gould is pure genius, no question. I am a struggling writer, no question here either. Again, it's completely my fault for entering the contest. But as I was pacing and letting Gould's brilliance wash over me, I think I finally realized the problem I have with it: the Broken Pencil Death Match is disrespectful of the discipline. It takes advantage with the lure of the prizes and belittles the sacredness of the creative process with the insulting, juvenile tactic of hourly voting. I could never imagine Glenn Gould having put up with something like this. I'm not, by any means, putting myself on a par with him, but I think there is nothing wrong with respecting myself as he did, as any profoundly focused artist/creator should. I was going to write here that I have learned nothing significant during this tiresome week, but that's not true: SELF RESPECT.  That IS significant. 'Took a whole week to put words to it, but thank God I got it. Thank God indeed.

Ugh.

Sorry everyone. I'm embarrassed by the Broken Pencil Death Match Short Story Contest. It's such an obvious scoop of email addresses. I was so excited to be a finalist and then, well, once I realized that it wasn't about the writing at all, it was about who had the biggest contact list, I was quite angry. Now I'm just sad that I didn't see it. But now I know. I will never be a part of anything like this again. No more voting. Ever. I apologize.

Short Story Contest:

Everyone to http://www.brokenpencil.com/deathmatch-2014 starting on Monday. Vote every hour, if you can, for me!
"Dent-O's Taste-O'-the-South." Comment too!

Appalachian Spring.

Why is it that Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring can leave me sitting, weeping on my kitchen floor? 

The Lunatic

The street corner faces the other three as if it is trying to hold on; trying to grab deeper into the earth as it sees the setting around it changing.  The curbs bow to the asphalt street on one side, and hold tightly to the sidewalk on the other; charged with the task of keeping the two separate.  The buildings, set far from the curb, are falling once into disrepair and then are disappearing, as if stamped deep into the earth by the steel and glass condos that seem to come from nowhere in no time.  For now, on this street corner, there is still sun.  Today, it's glorious and perfect, laced with an autumn breeze and overlaid with the sounds of life. It is lunchtime, and the high school kids walk the streets in packs of uncertainty and bravado.  They care little for anyone else and mandate their ownership of the sidewalks, the curbs, and the streets, at least until lunch is over and they must move, as one, back to class.  I stand on the corner, waiting for the walk light, listening to the pubescent throngs.  I am jealous of their youth but not envious of their journey to come. I am finding my own journey exhausting.

The light changes and I cross with a random gathering of humanity, fording together, obedient, but made up of separates; each to his own with thoughts, appointments, and cell phones.  I see the lunatic set against the building I am approaching.  She is there in her wheelchair as she is most days.  She shifts what little is left of her legs and fusses with her remaining fingers.  Contained in her braked chair, she is constantly in motion; gums, finger stubs, thighs, all moving as she struggles to answer the voices in her head, I think.  I am wearing sunglasses. I can easily feign distraction or some kind of urgency with which I must travel.  With a tilt of my head, I can ignore her and pass.  I have compassion fatigue and am so tired of the homeless, fearful, deep down that I may join its ranks, but something here moves me.  I look at the lunatic and she hooks into my gaze.  I remove my sunglasses, my only defense, and she pulls me to her with something deep in her bloodshot eyes.  It is almost as if her erratic fit is an act, cloaking an angel, wise and kind.  The rest of the world falls away as she tells me how dangerous it is to cross this street.  We talk, us two; she, still weaving and dodging in her pathetic chariot, and I, standing next to her.  I am stunned at her clear speech and her focus, and stand listening like an idiot as she describes the times she has been hit by vehicles on her voyages along these crosswalks.  I express my disapproval at the offending, anonymous drivers, all the while wondering how this woman even exists.  How is it that she isn't tempted to end her own time?  How is it that day after day, in biting cold and unrelenting heat, she appears on this corner, from nowhere, like the condos?  I never see her enroute.  She is always just there.  The packs of kids stay clear of her, perhaps out of respect and an unwillingness to consider that she is part of their future's palet.  The next walk light changes and sets me free.  I move from the lunatic and she tells me, "Be careful.  God bless you."  I nod, turn, and walk away.  But in truth, I am stunned and off balance for the rest of the day.  'Surprised at her depth and endurance. A tremendous heart. No lunatic.  Not her.    Not at all.

The Dare

There is sun and wind on this day. Each thing, both the sun and the wind help to make the characteristics of the day, like varying degrees of behaviors in a person make them unique.  And so this sun; is it harsh? Well, yes. It's an autumn sun, and though it might not be considered in the zeitgeist as worthy of note, like the celebrity summer sun, it is powerful. This sun is hitting the little Cessna as if it was trying to keep it on the ground. It's beaming down from its very own astronomical unit away, and covering every single visible top-side piece of the airplane, leaving shadow underneath.  Even as the plane moves slowly along the runway, the sun stays with it. The wind too.  Though useless in blowing the sun off its mark, or piling it up on the far wing (starboard, as it is now heading south), this wind is felt fully coming in low and across as if to move the plane away along the ground.  It is as if the plane is under attack.  It reaches a cross-runway and heads west with the wind on its tail for now.  You might think it's trying to get away from the wind. You might think it was giving up, but it isn't.  It reaches the west end of the east/west runway and slows.  The tail comes up a bit but recovers to settle.  The sun is still all over it.  The rotor blade on the front of the plane is turning fast, pulling, but the brakes, wing flaps, and ailerons and the rudder on the back of the plane, in their own way, claw at the air to keep all hell from breaking loose.  Left brake engaged and the plane turns around completely, facing directly into the wind.  The sun is still there, though its angle has moved the shadow from the back to the front of the plane now, but the top is still covered in sun.  It glints in various points as if there is too much of it and it's trying to bounce back up into the sky, or drip over the edge.  The wind is full-on. No hesitation. Like the kid at recess who throws your hat up on top of the monkey bars and dares you to try and get it. Brakes set. Flaps up 10 degrees. Throttle up. Up. And release brakes.  The rotor is spinning so fast that it is impossible to define the individual blades.  The sound is like some yawling creature trying to move between worlds and, frankly, that's just what's happening. This little plane, this Cessna is cheating the wind, actually using its  assumptive arrogance to get it up off the ground, the rotor pulling it through.  And it this wasn't enough, there is gravity to contend with now.  Gravity, and the battle of that shiny little plane to move through.

Accepting the dare; that's all it is. That's all any of this is.