Weathering Summer

Source: Photo by Daniel Cooper

I keep getting caught in summer storms. They inspire terrible ambivalence.

On the one hand: ecstatic relief. On the other: electric anxiety.

I love them. I love the wildness of them, and the way the sky churns like an upside-down sea. I love the trickery, the reversal of day and night. I love the rain. It falls as if weighted with lead, as if thrown down. I love the feeling that the earth is drinking deep, slaking enormous thirst. I love finding myself in the minuscule shelter of a bus stop or a parked car and listening to the percussive music of it.

I both love and fear the sudden zig-zag of lightening, and the wide-eyed counting before the thunderous boom that inevitably follows.

*

I was coming home on the bus the other day when one of the more violent storms hit. The stress is a bit amped up at that job lately (not necessarily a bad thing, but an adjustment to be sure) and the atmospheric pressure did nothing to help. That particular time I escaped getting soaked, but not getting panicked. The flash and boom were simultaneous and I sat there, peering out through the fogged window at the sheets of rain chanting Faraday cage, Faraday cage, Faraday cage, willing myself not to touch any metal surfaces.

*

Traveling in Montreal is precarious enough without fear of electrocution. Those bridges, especially the Champlain and the Mercier, seem set to crumble and I hold my breath as we cross them even in fine weather. When we must cross during a storm - oh my. My pilot is unflapable, but I am all aquiver. I want to pray for safe passage, but to whom? Sometimes being a non-believer is a real bitch.

*

Yesterday, another storm. Fierce, but fast. It was gone halfway through my commute. I was sitting, looking out at the sky as we inched along. The clouds over in the direction we were headed seemed greenish and odd. As if another, stranger storm was up ahead. Traffic was immobile. I pulled out my earphones to see what I could hear. Sirens, actually. Off in the distance. We got closer, eventually, and those weren't clouds.

A fire was clearly raging somewhere in my neighbourhood.

Shortly it became clear that getting out and walking was the quickest route home.

The fire turned out to be at the end of my street, a couple of blocks from my place. An old, abandoned motel was burning. The main road passes in front, and was blocked off and full of red trucks. Hoses snaked along all the roads around it, water pluming out trying to reach the dancing flames. A sizeable crowd had gathered, snapping photos, filming, observing. Our local security officer held court in their midst. I see him at the library sometimes, he's quite a character. I can just imagine him waxing nostalgic about The Great Blaze of '11 in the near future.

*

Today was the first day since spring that felt cool. Yesterday I wore a little jacket in the morning. Two days ago I saw a leaf fall. It was still green, but in tumbling from that branch it signaled the very start of the end.

Summer, with its relentless heat and lashing storms will soon be over.

Rosaceae Fragaria

Fragaria sp. "Parker Earl" by Deborah Griscom Passmore c.1892-1909

June is a fragrant month. You catch their perfume before you even see them: every corner market sets out baskets of edible rubies. Heavier than they look, and bursting with juice, it is best to eat them immediately lest they spoil before you taste them.  Grass sprouts all vibrant and wet, only to be mowed down, releasing that familiar green scent. Flowering trees wave their blossoms above the sidewalk, bathing pedestrians in botanical pheromones. Wild rose bushes grow thick with thorny protection and produce deceptively insubstantial flowers which can, none the less, send out powerful apian invitations.

Walking through the city is a pleasure in June.

+++

Did you know that strawberries are not berries at all, but rather fruiting roses?

+++

Along comes July to wilt us all. The word on the street is "humidex". Bright greens fade in the field, waiting for August to paint them gold. The air is heavy with moisture, and blue skies quickly turn deepest purple - clouding over at a moment's notice, flashing with electricity and pelting the earth with rain. July's perfumery consists of sun-baked sidewalks, chlorine and the savoury saliva-inducing sweet-burnt scent of barbecued meat. Which is tortuous for those of us without access to a porch or yard. I'm always looking for things I can drench in bbq sauce.

The strawberries are looking puckered and soft at the fruit stands, and it seems as if their season is coming to an end. Don't pass those suckers by though, even when they look a bit sad they're still good for freezing, blending and baking.

This is what I plan to do with the ones sitting in my fridge - Strawberry cupcakes. Mine won't be to celebrate a birthday (well, I could celebrate a little, since I do know a couple of sweet July babies) and I may add coconut. I don't relish turning on the oven, but one of those sudden summer storms just hit so maybe it won't be so bad. Besides, who can resist... just look at them:



Photo from The Muffin Myth


* Edit to add: I made those cupcakes Tuesday and they were DELICIOUS! Sadly I didn't have a ripe banana so I used Earth Balance instead of butter because that's what I did have on hand, and I tossed in a bit of unsweetened coconut. Totally lovely. Needless to say, they're already gone.

I spy with my little eye



A springtime image by David Peterson of Mouse Guard


+ Some purple hyacinths in an old honey jar, next to the window. Stems reaching, flowers beginning to fold in on themselves, heady scent starting to fade.

+ A boy on the bus, with foot-long eyelashes which are completely incongruous with his thick stubble.

+ Unspeakably scary news from the other side of the world, of trembling earth and colossal waves. Just like that, out of nowhere, for so many people everything is gone.

+ A couple, on the corner, trying to take an arm's length photo. Laughing because instead they took video of themselves posing.

+ Pigeons bathing in the street-side lakes that had formed overnight, as the city temporarily thawed. Whole parties of pigeons gathering at the pool, dipping under the surface before popping up, feathers askew, spray fanning out around them.

+ An office, on a mezzanine, reached by spiral staircase, overlooking the library, inside of a museum, with a window looking out on busy streets and falling snow. A place where one catalogues 16th century dresses and 18th century books. In a word, heaven.

+ A café, done entirely in white. Blinding: stark, bright, white. White wicker, white tables, white walls. Glass cases full of tiny delectables dusted with the green crumble of crushed pistachio. Customers wearing tweed and cashmere, sipping espresso from tiny white cups. A small white dish with two maracons.

+ A chunk of ice, hanging precariously over a doorway. Water dripping continuously. Will it shrink, or will it fall?

+ A suitcase, open on my living room floor. A passport, a pair of strappy shoes with height (I have to practice wearing those...), a sun hat, a book. A trip I would never have planned, but am grateful to be invited on.

+ An accidental glimpse in the mirror beside the coffee maker in the office kitchen. Dressed this morning by going: what is on the top of the pile? Grey cardigan it is. Hair coiffed at desk, after removal of hat + coat, and pulled back into a static-defying ponytail. Make up? Not really. But in that glimpse: rosy cheeks, happy eyes, as-if-on-purpose hair with just the right flyaways. How many times do we look in the mirror and not want to change a thing? Not often enough.

+ A paperback in my purse, for reading on the bus. A great cover. Purple, naturally.

Smoke and Mirrors: Short Fictions and Illusions by Neil Gaiman

Words Planted Like Seeds

Today is a mirage. A preview of spring, nothing more. By Sunday all this will be frozen over again, encased in ice, piled high with snow. For today, however: icicles shrink, drain pipes gush and heads go hatless under a cloudless sky. I feel a breeze in my hair and it makes me shiver but not from cold. It's like a shard of June has broken off and fallen backwards through the seasons. I wonder if, later this year, we will come upon the fragment of February that it replaced. I wonder if we will go to sleep hot and sticky, in a world of parched grass and air conditioning only to wake up facing a blizzard?

*****

On Tuesday I entered the vault. When I heard that I was invited to visit a bank archive I thought yawn and ah well, it'll look good for class.

*



I had to be escorted into the elevator by my obliging tour guide; the service elevator is the only one that goes to their floor. Not up, as I'd assumed, but down and into an old vault. We stepped through the giant metal door as if entering a submarine. We're under land though not water; a subterranean instead.

I was surprised by how lovely it all was. It felt newly renovated. Despite the lack of windows it appeared to be a calm and comfortable place to work. Just three people in the department, all bookish and bright.

There was a storeroom full of treasure. I don't know what I expected. I think I'd imagined that all I would see would be reams of graphs (printed on dot matrix, with tear-away edges) showing how the piles of gold belonging to the bank have grown over the years. And this is when we signed a contract with The Prince of Darkness... see how dramatically our dividends increased after that quarter? But of course it was not like that at all. It was dusty old ledgers from the 1820s and artwork purchased by the bank and prototypes of typewriters all gleaming brass keys encased in wood.

The treasures were remarkable, of course, but the best bit was when my host sat me down to show me what she does every day. From outside looking in (not that you could, not that deep underground) it would not appear terribly exciting: cleaing old things, typing away about them in a database. But when she told me about it she beamed.

You are writing the history of the bank, of the city really, and of the items in our collection. This database is it, it's the record. I love my job.

*

I checked out the little museum on my way out. It's on the main floor and open to the public, unlike the rest of what I'd seen. There were more stories under glass. Crumbling bank notes from before Canada had its own currency; lovely 3D pictures of the construction of the Old Port (made of cut paper and little strips of wood); a handcarved letter opener.

*



There are things in that vault, solid artifacts with ID numbers, a monetary value and a spot on a shelf. But the reason they matter is because they are placeholders for stories. They whisper, in their hidden lair under the cobblestones of Old Montreal, even if the only souls who hear are the archivists in the next room. It is a library like any other, a treasure trove made up of words whether they are printed on a page or whether they hover, invisible, in the air.

*****

I wish I were an athlete but I am decidedly not.

The truth is, the snowboard won. I get these ideas, I think that maybe this time I will take to something immediately. I will show natural talent and I will swish down the hill in style. And then, of course, reality hits and I am flailing in the snow with a large chunk of fiberglass strapped to my feet, on the verge of tears. How did I get to be so delicate? Have I always been this way? Everybody falls. Everybody gets back up and tries again. It is the only way to improve. I know this, I knew this before I inched up the bunny hill on the motorised ramp. It made no difference though, each time I collided with the mountain I felt the breath and starch both get knocked out of me.

Why does it have to hurt so much? When can I go in and drink hot chocolate?

*

Just once it would be nice to be able to impress him. Just once it would be nice to see pride in his eyes rather than patience and pity. He spent the whole car ride back with his hand on my knee saying You did so well, I'm so happy we went, You should have seen yourself on that last run, but somehow I had trouble believing him.

The next day I expected my tailbone to ache, but it didn't. The rest of me was sore though. Especially my arms and my fingers. All those times I had to hoist myself back up, doing backwards push-ups on a moving board.

People asked how my weekend was and I found myself telling them that I went snowboarding. Just like that, like it was a fun outing and not abject humiliation. Everyone cooed and said Oh my, that must have been hard! I'm too scared to try. Are you any good? and I found myself chuckling and saying No, not really, but everyone sucks at first. 

I guess I'll probably end up doing it again, won't I?

*****

The past few days I've been trapped in my couch. I started reading Room and could not stop. Interruptions would not cease: work, making supper, sleep, hygene. I would have preferred that they leave me be, to read for as long as it took.

It's not really my favourite kind of book but it is the kind that requires you to stay up with it, holding a flashlight if necessary, asking over and over what happens next?

The language is deceptive. It seems simple but it isn't and it is now imprinted on my brain. I hear myself thinking in the cadence of a five year old and urging myself to be scave. If that sounds a little too precious, or if you think that books narrated by children are not your thing, I bet you would be surprised by this story. I bet you would be charmed and drawn in and moved to the edge of your seat. Or then again, maybe you wouldn't, but I was and I'm glad.

Internet Whiplash. And snow. Not in that order.

It was snowing gently on my walk to work this morning. Something I'd never realized before moving to colder climes was that under the right conditions snow actually falls in tiny, perfect flakes. Cartoonishly perfect. Exactly like those paper ones we cut out.

I think the first time I noticed this was sitting in a car and seeing them land on the windshield in little piles and slowly melt against the glass.

I have this idea that I'd like to take a photo of them, the way I see them as I walk along, against my dark purple scarf. I keep meaning to bring my camera out with me when the conditions are right, but somehow I never do. 

+++

Have you ever gotten whiplash on the internet? What I mean by that is you go along reading your usual list of sites, maybe a clever writer here, a webcomic there, all regular daily stuff, but then someone links to a site that's new to you (without warning, possibly) or they write something out of character and suddenly you are blindsided by grief. 

Yesterday I found myself here, directed from here (not a site I read a lot, but on occasion), and I continue to feel haunted by what I saw and read. 

I am warning you now, it is a devastating story. It starts off breaking your heart and then just gets worse. I'm not sure what I think of making a photo documentary of someone's life in that way. I'm still thinking about it though, and about Julie, which is perhaps the whole point. 

[Note: If you are curious, but worried, you will probably get the idea by following the link and reading the introduction. That part, and much of the rest of it, is safe for work, as they say, but there are parts that are not and there are parts that are just too difficult to really look at regardless of your surroundings.]

It's probably a natural reaction to witness a thing like that and be horrified and then, quickly, to start thanking your lucky stars. To watch your own woes shrink to the size of those snowflakes, and then melt away. It would be nice to think that this change was permanent, that it was a forever kind of thing and that from this moment forth I shall never again be petty or take my good fortune for granted. Oh, but it doesn't work like that. I'm sure I was petty again within about fourteen seconds.


Why is this weirdo standing next to me at the crosswalk, GO AWAY WEIRDO. 

What do you mean you don't have the plum doughnuts? 

The zipper on my tall boots snapped off. The whole world is conspiring against me again, isn't it??? 


It's too hard to be raw and grateful all of the time. But it is good to be reminded. 

I want to say something about the more important reminder, that of human suffering and the cost of privilege (aka "good fortune") and what on Earth can we do about it all? 

But I don't think I can without sounding preachy and being a complete hypocrite. Because what do I do? I try to be kind and mostly I'm wrapped up in my own worries. Like everyone else. 


+++


Walking home from yoga tonight the temperature had dropped. Despite the earlier flurries, the morning really hadn't been terribly cold. That's another thing I learned by moving east; the coldest days are the clearest ones. Sun at the window lulls you into lighter fabrics, more exposed skin, maybe even a skirt. Don't be fooled though, it's a trick. Cloud cover acts as a blanket, trapping the heat. It's better to wear skirts when it's snowing, and snow pants when it isn't. Go figure. 

It actually sounded cold - the drop in temperature meant that the snow was squeaky underfoot. It's quite pretty when it's that cold though. The stars come out, and the places where the snow is left untouched glitters under the streetlights. All those tiny, perfect flakes. 

Recap: 

December - Blur! Pretty lights, good food. 

January - Blarg. Three weeks of convalescence (so far). One thing after another and I am feeling all Victorian and consumptive. I even had to postpone a long-awaited voyage. Curses.

February - Brrr. It is deep winter. Snow is piling up to the eaves and we are tucked away inside. Except when we have to go out and then we wear the clothing equivalent of puffy comforters. I'm still not fully well, and I have some trouble sleeping. So I am awake, sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night. I feel like Moomintroll - awake when all the world is hibernating. 

Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson

Struck Dumb

I've taken a vow of silence. 

Not to get closer to god, but because if I speak I end up having coughing fits that turn my lungs inside out. Nasty allergies morphed this week into a nasty cold. Poor me, right? Not since that one time when I was twelve have I smoked a cigarette, but still I sound like a 90 year old with emphysema. 

No point in seeing a doctor. The same thing happened last year and I went and all he did was give me something to help me sleep. Which I never took anyway. I just have to wait it out with lozenges and endless pots of Cold Formula tea. And silence. But enough about my gummed up alveoli. 


****

Earlier this week I was getting my lunch in the break room at the office. It's up on the second floor and the window was open. Someone walked by on the sidewalk below, sending up an operatic chorus. I poked my head out to catch a glimpse of this passing Carmen but no one was there. 


****


The annual arboreal fireworks display has commenced. I know, it's such a cliché to get excited about leaves. I don't care.


I grew up on the west coast and so everything east of the wheat fields was "Back East" and made me think of knee socks, ivy creeping over brick and maple syrup. This time of year it's true. This time of year I can just about convince myself that I live on the set of a made-for-TV Halloween movie. It makes me forgive all my seasonal ailments. 


****


Adrien and I went for breakfast this morning. He brought a newspaper as I am mute. I wanted to write about how the loss of one sharpened all my other senses. But then I remembered that speech is not a sense. It feels like one. 


In the car I pulled out my notebook and asked him questions at a red light. 

"Is this a new cd?"

"No."

"It's all achy songs."

(Raised eyebrows.)

"A good ache."

(Smile.) 


Some of the music he listens to gives me a lovely, terrible ache. The kind of feeling that comes from having a hopeless a crush. It's nothing to do with the lyrics, most of which I don't even know. It's the music itself, the lowing melody. 

If Adrien's musical tastes could be distilled into one word, that word would be "catchy". 

If my musical tastes could be distilled into one word, that word would be "unsurprising". I wouldn't say that I have bad taste - who says that about themselves? - but I am not edgy. Still, Alissa convinced me to go out last month to see Juliette Lewis and that felt slightly edgy. Although that admission likely just proves my lack of edge.


Here is one of the songs from Adrien's mix:






****


Whenever we're out and I see a car pass by with BC plates my heart gives a little lurch of recognition. 


****


Je n'écris jamais en français. Pourquoi? Ma vie ici est bilingue. J'aimerais voir plus de films et livres qui sont bilingues. Je veux dire, un mélange. C'est comme ça ici, en réalité. Souvent les conversations sont un mélange. Des mots anglais répondent des mots français. Et l'invers. Des phrases moitier-moitier. Des accents, des anglicisms. 


Aujourd'hui j'ai vu un panneau pour A&W qui offrait: 
"1 oncle burger pour 3.00"
Ça fait bizarre. 


I never write in French. Why? My life here is that way. I'd love to see more films and books in both languages. Mixed together, I mean. It's like that here, in real life. Conversations are often a blend. English words answer French ones. And the other way around. Half and half sentences. Accents, Anglicisms. 


Today I saw an ad outside A&W that offered: 
"1 oncle burger pour 3.00"
Which sounds odd. 


****


On the way home today a car passed in the lane next to us, revving the motor. It was an ordinary sedan, newish maybe, but it didn't look sporty to me. Still, the motor gave a satisfyingly predatory grumble and the two dress-shirted men in the car gave war-cry whoops each time it did so. I looked over at them, wondering how much fun it can be to tease an engine in traffic. 

I forgot about them, though, when a bus whooshed past stirring up fallen leaves. A whirlwind of copper and gold. 


Somewhere above the woollen cloud cover some passing geese honked their solemn fair-well. I wanted to tell Adrien but also didn't want to cough. And my notebook was tucked away. So I'm telling you instead.

Teacup diary entries

I made soup on Monday night. That's how I know summer is over: soup bubbling on the stove. I don't have a recipe to share, it's Whatever Is On Hand soup. Squash, potatoes, carrots, rice. A bit of spice. Quite nice.

****

Yesterday I went into a Polish bakery. It's just a couple of blocks from the office, and I'd been told it was worth it.

It was. 

I've never been to Poland but I love little shops, like this one, that beam you directly from the sidewalk in Montreal to a counter in Warsaw. Inside it was dark and glittery, lots of wood panels and glowing glass cases. The natural history of pastry.

I waited my turn, after a lanky business man (sausage on a sandwich) and two burly construction workers (cake from the display case).

I just wanted one doughnut, just one little afternoon treat. It's not my fault they had three different kinds: apricot, plum, cream. And also, it would be cruel to get one for me and not bring some home to share. I'm not that cruel. 

So when I said: One of each. 

She said: For only a little bit more you can get six. 

And I said: Two of each!

Is there any softer bite than a freshly made doughnut? I think, next time we meet, I will have powdered sugar on my chin.

****

On the sidewalk near my building this morning a stylish man greeted me with undue familiarity.

I don't know him. Do I?

"Hi Katherine, how are you?"

He's very friendly but I'm not Katherine.

"Yes, yes, we met just the other day! At your apartment! I'm the new owner, your landlord introduced us."

"I really don't think it was me."

He seems unfazed by my inability to remember him. I'm sure he's confusing me with someone else, even though he knows my apartment number. I remember my landlord picking up the rent check the other day and he was alone. No introductions were made. The stylish man walks off chuckling, wishing me a good day. I walk off, perplexed.

****

There is a corner in the storage area of the staffroom at the library where all of our Christmas books are kept until the Festive Season begins. The shelf is a mess of red and green spines shoved higgledy-piggledy. Even though today is the 16th of September I lingered.

****

A Scottish gentleman who is new to the area borrowed the library phone today to contact Bell for a telephone installation. His fluffy grey hair was styled in an unnecessary comb-over and his navy blazer went well with the dinner plate sized spectacles.

His voice was soft, and lightly accented.

"No, I don't have a phone number, that's what I'm telling you. I won't have one until you come set it up for me."

"I'm sorry I can barely hear you..."

"Yes, I have an email address but as I say, I won't have internet at the house until you come set it up."

"No I don't have a phone number yet."

This went on for about thirty minutes, poor guy. The fact that his new home was completely disconnected from any form of telecommunication was apparently beyond comprehension for the customer service agent.

We all shook our heads and gave the patient gentleman grim smiles of encouragement as he battled on.

****

Some people have such a great deal of presence that they fill any room they enter right up to the ceiling.

Someone like that was here today, working for an hour or so. She's lovely and funny and I like her very much. But she can, as Marilla Cuthbert so aptly put it, talk the hind leg off a mule.

I asked her where she was going on vacation and fifteen minutes later I'd said not a word but she was still telling me about her plans. Shortly after that she segued into her impending surgery.

I'm not sure that she paused the whole time she was here.

As soon as she left we slipped into a comfortable silence that gave way to the distant patter of rain.