On the road, or on the water more accurately, all day, on the fancy new ferry, the Coastal Renaissance, right now to Nanaimo to pick up Roderick and the painting I commissioned from him, for the blank wall in my office. In any case, I managed to make it to Crofton, to the ferry landing without getting lost. There are no signs at all and I went every which way except the right way last time. I was able to cruise all the way down to the end of the dock so Roddy didn’t have to carry the painting, his guitar and bags so far.
BFF Cathy has hit the west coast and I hope to meet up with her later at the Boathouse in Horseshoe Bay. She always blows in and out of town, and my life, in a matter of days, frantically busy during the short time she is here so I’m lucky if I get to see her. Junior has come down with another cold! Poor kid. He’s miserable. It always hits him in the throat and he gets laryngitis. I suspect it’s partly, if not entirely, hormonal, his adam apple growing in, which doesn’t happen overnight from what I hear.
Sure sign of spring; I found a doe raiding the bird feeder. (See poem below.) The dogs were going ballistic; I let them out on the deck to bark at her, the only way to get rid of her. The deer aren’t afraid of humans, with no natural predators on the island, except perhaps the phantom cougar. Between the squirrels and the deer I am going to go broke buying birdseed.
Old folks nightmare. I dreamed I was hosting a reading at our house and the start time was delayed and before I knew it, and to my horror, all these white-haired, tired, old people kept lying down or passing out and wouldn’t get up when I tried to rouse them. They would not participate in any way, as performers or audience. I was in a panic, frustrated and upset, didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t room for them all and they were all over the house, taking up all the beds and couches. It didn’t seem that late to me!
Life is strange. I’ve been conjuring up a shot list in my head all afternoon, ideas for the video Roderick and I hope to shoot for How To Remain. I was thinking about horses of course, because once again I employ equine metaphors and imagine an swayback horse being picked up and carried away by a tornado, real Oz-ish. The line is “Alas ankles thicken, braids recede, the old gray mare conjured every time she dares to look.” As I was driving home, a pale horse was in the paddock at the place on the corner, running around, being frisky. It made me think of How to Remain and then just now I had to shoo SamIAm out of the garbage. I had thought about using him to go with the line, “She snuffles it out before Buddy can.” We are trying to figure out how to make this video with 0 budget. It’s depressing. I apply for a grant every year and every year I get turned down.
Took Brinda and SamIAm for their morning constitutionals, heard a reggae version of Send Me The Pillow That You Dream On which naturally made me think of my mother. I sang along as I remembered her doing so to the Dean Martin version. I really miss her sometimes, regret that we didn’t have more time together. Life is so sad sometimes though I realize I have a lot of freedom too. I can decide from moment to moment what I will do next. I’m not beholden to a time clock and a punch card anymore.
I had a very bizarre, macabre dream about Peter last night. He was literally disembodied as I held his torso, carrying it! In my mind, the image of his torso loomed large because the police reports stated that he was shot in the chest. I was frantically trying to find someone to take us to the hospital, walking around with him like that, talking with him the entire time, about how we split up and I said, “Don’t forget, we were young, maybe I needed to experiment.” I finally got him out the door. That’s all I remember.
Change is hard, and slow in coming. I’m trying to get to bed earlier at night so I can get more sleep so I can look and feel better. I found myself on the computer at 12:20 am this morning and still awake at 1. I’m naturally nocturnal, feel better at night. Before I had a kid, I would stay up as late I liked, and was able to sleep in often. Those days are long gone. Maybe I’m going about this all-wrong. If I just eliminated anxiety, then I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this crap-deer, squirrels, insomnia, and murder. I’m working on that too.
YEAR OF THE MONKEY
Full house. Madhouse. Ill-fated deejay,
jester fixed to his back, grinding out tunes
in celebration of our new digs, life,
in the forest, despite the clear-cutting
a hundred years ago. There is talk
of the I-Ching. This will be
an extremely progressive time predicts
a guest with faith enough to practice.
Monkeys are shrewd. Agile.
You will find great success in 2004.
Happy New Year! A toast. To the pileated
woodpeckers, heard more than seen. Cheers!
To the deer phantoms, droppings molding
in the front meadow. Where do they go
in the winter? Why don’t I know these things?
We make clumsy attempts at lighting a fire,
heating the house, woodstove couched
and cold-shouldered as a guerilla soldier
brooding over such hatchet-challenged wimpiness.
We brave the Jacuzzi though. January. Naked ape it
on the deck, body sculpting with our bare hands,
pale-faced moon playing peek-a-boo
with the ridgeline, a breeze stroking our backsides.
An owl hoots, hunting through lushness.
Red-eyed towhees flit through a labyrinth of sword
fern, mist the only smoke around here,
desires in the mirror, smudges of dread
surfacing on its beveled edges
whenever we’re not looking.
Twin cedar sentinels stand guard
against the cougar I saw mounting our pup.
When it began stalking the neighbour’s pony
I knew I would need a rifle.