our living bodies

I read or hear or observe how we are endangering life on this planet several times a day. So do you probably. I’ll notice I’m not breathing. I’ll realize I’m afraid.

But then I visit a gardener, a farmer or someone living on the land and am showered with their abundance. Today my fridge overflows with varieties of lettuce and kale no supermarket has heard of and I just spent two hours in the garden transplanting more gifts.

It still strikes me as possible we could wake up and celebrate our mortality; there’s enough for us all to share here on this good earth.

Thanks Amanda Tipton for sharing the photo.

Thanks Amanda Tipton for sharing the photo.

Ernest Becker, adopting a phrase from Luther, says you must

“…taste death with the lips of your living body [so] that you can know emotionally that you are a creature who will die”

Movin’ on: Stompin’ Tom and resurgence

Found this one languishing in the ‘drafts’ pile just waiting for a few links. Written March 2013, the week singer, songwriter Stompin’ Tom Connors died.

I caught the revival of Stompin’ Tom in the 80’s because my friends in Scarborough were musicians and fanatics. I wore my cowboy boots to the Horseshoe, the Hotel Isabella and Grossman’s to hear country punk, blues-a-billy, rocknfolk inspired bands. My ears were primed for Tom.  Some of us were also tuning into the Rheostatics and paying attention to what they were paying attention to.

So when Dave Bidini’s tale of tracking down Stompin’ Tom came out back in the day, the news reached me somehow.  This week I enjoyed reading  John Doyle’s memories of the Stompin’ Tom resurrection story, paying homage to their fellow college radio dj at York University, Alan Round, who turned on both John and Dave to Stompin’ Tom.

Tom’s name rang in my ears even then. My mom had told a tale of his shake-the-fillings-in-your-molars stomping when she and dad saw him,  but I couldn’t remember where in their non-stop tour of Central/Eastern Canada and upper New York State they’d caught up to Tom. (Probably not their US years.)

She called me up this morning. Turns out it was Larder Lake Hotel, Larder Lake, Ontario circa ’64 or ’65. My mom was teaching grade school and my dad was the United Church minister.  He was minister to a two or three point charge, which meant they’d  drive around in Sunday blizzards to 2 or 3 small towns ‘nearby’, so dad could preach a sermon and the family could greet the people.

It was kind of a deal in the 60’s for the minister and his wife to be out at the local hotel. “This was before your dad became chaplain of the legion.” Good idea! One way of ensuring you can have a beer in public now and then.

“Movin’ on to Rouyn’ was Tom’s first single, released 1965 in Timmins by CKJB radio station. Mom and dad won this 45 that night in the Larder Lake hotel. V-town, mentioned in the second verse, was one of the charges in my dad’s preaching rounds. Kirkland Lake, more well known, was down the road. Rouyn-Noranda is just over the border in Quebec; my family lived there in the late 50’s.

I’ve caught wind of family outrage that the single went missing. “In the moves” mom says but I’m pretty sure I remember it from the box of 45’s in the family room in Scarborough that Danna and I danced to. My mom still lives in that house so it’s the long years in one place that are to blame. Years hide things.

I loved the family stories from their time in the Ontario northwoods. I grew up playing down the creek, one of Toronto many forested ravines. It was the great woods to us but I imagined something else. Taller trees, like stately grandmothers, less brush underneath, wide spaces to walk, a creek not bound in a cage of rocks, not stinking of whatever the factories a 1/2 mile north dumped into it, fish leaping, enough to share.

I was about 7 when I asked my dad if I might have been reincarnated and been with them up north.  He smiled and talked to me of the power of stories.  He reminded me of the stories he’d told of his camping trips as a boy “not a summer until you get north of North Bay” and the stories from his fly-in trips to Native communities north of Thunder Bay, after he’d left the church and joined the Human Rights Commission.  He was telling me I knew the forest through stories.

Now I think the forest was telling me stories too. Lay down a beat, start singing that story.

Stompin Tom toured us around this land and its people.  In truth I haven’t been listening to Tom much this week, except for the excellently curated selection over at Network Effects. I’ll wait until there’s a fire and some fount of song to lead a sing-along.

No, this week I’m remembering that forest I imagined as a child and listening to its music. In my poking around since Tom’s death I discovered that he and his manager started a record label in 1971, Boot Records, that featured a some Native musicians, one of whom was the Cree musician, Morley Loon.

Youtube got me to this recording of Morley Loon, not by Boot Records but by the CBC Northern Service. I hear the forest in these songs.

Cree Songs by Morley Loon recorded by CBC Northern Service.

 Resurgence. Songs of this land and the people.

Something Tom rooted for.

Performing

I wrote this for a young friend who had something pretty awful happen to her. She’s a gifted artist, before trauma and after. 

I did some performing as a kid. I played piano, clarinet in school band, sang in choirs. I performed in dance recitals; gymnastics one year, jazz dance the next and then Highland dance. Every year I gave speeches at school.

In speech arts I always won at the classroom level, often the division level and a couple of times for our school. I don’t know why it had to be a competition but it was and I did my best. I wrote the speeches with a lot of help from my mom and dad.  She worked part-time as a teacher and knew what they looked for, as well as speaking to groups of kids, teachers and parents all the time.

After my dad died I didn’t want to perform. He had a motorcycle accident and died 5 days later from the injuries. It was sudden but the crisis went on for a long, long time.  Ties that bind us to the earth fray, snap, blow in the wind.

My dad was a powerful, provoking and inspiring public speaker. As a United Church minister he liked to preach sermons. As a senior public servant he liked to give speeches. He worked really hard on them and he coached and helped me practice my own on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, just us, in the dining room by the piano.

The year he died I didn’t write a speech. Instead, I memorized a poem, not too long, about a sailor. It was like a jig or a sea shanty. Anyway I won at the classroom level. I was too good at it by then, even without practicing. I found myself performing, a grade 7 girl, in front of a few hundred kids, the grade 7’s and a very tough group of grade 8’s. They were a sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll crowd.

I got started, and through the first verse. Then, on the second verse I stopped. The words were gone. My memory was white, like old bone.

I stood there for a long minute. And then another one, while the giggles started in the audience. My friend Jeanine from our street was in grade 8. I found her with my eyes and she wasn’t giggling. I heard a voice, inner or maybe from backstage, telling me to start again.

I did and got through it. And that was all. It was over.

After that I didn’t want to perform for a long time at least not as a solo artist. I played in the band in highschool, 2nd clarinet, in the back of the crowd. I loved drama class but didn’t do school plays. It’s still something I feel very unsure about, drawn to, sometimes with longing, but mostly I hear a NO, not for me.

Except. I’m noticing there’s more exceptions as I get older. Some things that felt like performing 20 years ago, like leading a workshop, just feels like sharing with friends now. Or playing at being a rock star, like at ladies rock camp. It can take a while for nerves to heal up I guess.

After the fire

It’s been a doozy of a month for many I love. We met Jacinda and Leon and their baby Maddy when Harry was a baby. We live close, we celebrate our milestones and holidays together. Maddy slept over the night her sister Phoebe was born and we went to meet her together, just a few hours after she arrived.

We live far away from our families and that’s only possible with friends like these. They bring the joy. And endless practical help.

A fire broke out at their house, started in the dryer. Jacinda was sound asleep but woke up, feeling hot. She looked out the window to flames and screamed “FIRE!”

Maddy flew down from upstairs, Jake and Leon grabbed the girls, whatever coats they could from the front door and escaped to the street. They watched as flames engulfed their home and all their belongings.

Fire trucks arrived, blocking their car, and so they ran up the street to us. As we would have done.

We got through the first few days, alternately giddy with relief and shell-shocked. Offers of help came from near and far and most of our activity, once our school community and their extended family met their immediate needs, was answering the phone and emails of all those who love them.

Soul Sister on a bed of rose hips One of Jacinda’s hand-crafted Soul Sisters on a bed or rosehips, harvested last fall from their wild and lovely garden

The next wave of support rolled in. Tawny, one of the many fabulous souls they’ve introduced me to over the last 9 years, set up a website with a list of their needs to get re-established. It’s a wiki, a website that we can all edit. So we can add in what we can share and they can keep track of the needs that are being met. It takes a lot of help to start again.

Here it is: http://oldales.wikispaces.com/

Thank-you.

p.s. The title of this post is borrowed from Jane Rule’s great novel: After the Fire
I hope you cross paths with it someday.

Primordial soup, a thank-you to the Flaming Lips

Photo by strangejourney

I saw a swarm of mosquitoes hovering today

flying in drunk tired circles

stupid in the late season

There’s breeding ground a-plenty:

garbage can lids under pots of earth,

overflowing with rain water

mini ponds in low, sodden footprints

but I tracked them to a crack in the lid of  5 gallon plastic juice bucket

Inside a stinking brew of  weeds

water rich green, primordial soup

I remember now: a splash of olive oil on top of the weed tea prevents this

Tip it over, wave goodbye, no tears at the

mosquito graveyard (where the garlic grew)

There’s death in the garden. I’m  always murdering something when I’m out there. Slugs get it the worst. Right through their soft bellies with a sharp stick. I don’t show much mercy to aphids and their nasty leaf-sucking ways either.

However, it’s all hand to hand combat and I don’t focus. I’m opportunistic and lazy. I’m picking greens for dinner or throwing a bit of mulch around, thinking peaceful garden thoughts (or anxious thoughts about money or bored considerations of what to make for dinner) and then GWAH HA HA…!

What I need are  more predators. Garden snakes eat slugs. They’d be more consistently motivated.  But it’d take some doing to get a habitat corridor going in this neighbourhood that would support a snake population. A snake learning party? Invites all done up with skull and cross-bones with a big X through the slug? T-shirt tie-in?

Photo by photogirl7.1

Gardening, from a permaculture perspective anyway,  gets you thinking about sex and death pretty much all the time. A permaculture garden provides the setting for a frenzy of fucking, birthing, eating and dying. (I liked when farmer, story-teller Michael Ableman said last year at his talk in North Van that we we are missing the boat trying to interest people in sustainable farming by talking about health and abundance etc: it’s SEX, SEX, SEX all the time people. But then again, you start with sex, you get to death and in that little human conundrum there lies the story of how we got to the hyper-controlled rows of veggies jacked up on fertilizers.)

I spent yesterday’s late afternoon out there in the end of September sun; warm enough for bare skin, humming the same song over and over, like an am transistor radio in the 70’s

..

Do you realize

that everyone you know

someday will die

and instead of saying all of your goodbyes

let them know you realize that life goes fast its hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn’t go down

it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning around

The Flaming Lips know what’s up. They share it generously with balloons and confetti and smoke and LOUD, BEAUTIFUL noise. I loved hearing the new Embryonic songs live and loved, loved that Steph was there with me.  We’ve been listening to new music together since we met in grade 9 but its been a million years since we’ve been able to go to a gig together.

It was perfect- well a drink or two would have made for more unrestrained dancing but as Wayne points out there’s trade-offs to the Malkin Bowl. You get to rock out in a forest cathedral but they kick you out at 10 and don’t serve booze.  Isn’t that just like real life.

Thank-you Flaming Lips for another magic show in our forest, in the heart of Vancouver. ’til we meet again, in the meantime,  I discovered you’re all on twitter…

photo by draggin

photo by draggin

I want yellow and blue wings

I am pulled into my back. Nubs of wings want to sprout.

It fucking hurts to grow wings out of this calcified chest cage.

Pushing, through flesh, wounded thin at the surface. Sap oozes, trickles down and pools, a little ocean, a salty bath for all the micro-organisms living in the small of my back.

The body absorbs.

The sea evaporates and is renewed,

one inch less.

Millions live, millions die. This goes on for a long time.

The  salt tang, the liquid pooling, the body absorbing,

water sliding, sap oozing, forming eddies.

Taste snaps me back:  this is a spiral pulling in on itself.

Something vital is being drained while I lie, face down in this cool, sunlit room. Rest does not follow this waiting.

There is a depth,

and a wide open sky,

a golden field stretching to horizons.

I need to walk it. On and on, through the day, sipping water, warmer than my breath, little laps to make it last.

Ahhhh, another blast in the middle of my mouth, stretching me thin into a wisp of cloud.

Vapour calls to vapour, clouds coalesce, densify

and rain over me,

my naked body, lying flat on a field of rape yellow, blue flax in my mind’s eye,

tongue out, waiting to receive.

The View from Barcelona #1

This is a joint production of Harry and I, photos chosen by Harry. He also had final authority on the text.

We start the day at a cafe where Harry drinks his hot chocolate, usually from a bottle but sometimes in a glass. He is now a confirmed cacaolat maniac. Grammie and mom prefer cafe con leche.

Cacaolat maniac

We were very excited to see some of Gaudi’s buildings and designs in person after pouring over a Gaudi book that Brian (Harry’s dad) brought back from his trip to Barcelona last year. Gaudi was inspired by nature. He observed the curves, waves and arches that we see in trees, shells and bones.

Fractal Growth

Curved forms

Gaudi's Inspirations

This was on the roof of Casa Milà, also known as “La Pedrera” which means the quarry in Catalan. Catalan is the first language in Barcelona but everyone speaks Spanish too and many have a bit of English.
On the Roof

Harry ran these stairs fast as lightning to the bottom.

Stairs

Each day before we got out, or after we come in, Harry does a bit of school work with grammie.

Guess what? Spiderman lives in Barcelona!
Spiderman lives in Barcelona!

That’s all for now- school’s out!
School's Out