Doing Jigsaws on April 28

I sit on a dining room chair,

 softened by a plump cushion,

 while I do jigsaw puzzles on the lap top.

I am thus distracted,

but soon I see the world before my eyes

break into pieces:

Grain elevators, farmers’ fields, the house across the street,

the forsythia bush in the garden,

 all fracture away.

I should get outdoors:  

maybe take the dandelions to pieces in the front lawn.

But it does nothing but rain: the grey clouds themselves  are breaking in pieces.

The sky falls onto the pavement and drains away.

Still I can choose how big my  fractures are:

Cut in two? That would be you and me,

but we are severed irretrievably,

thereby giving the lie to that simplicity.

Maybe 20?  When – too young to be anything but stupid – we took

different forks on the same road and thought we could join up later.

Or why not 176? Yes, much more challenging:  

your timelessness

broken into the days I have lived

since you ceased to be.

And I think how odd it is … life smashed into death just like that…

But unlike that puzzle, which defies remaking,

 Any jigsaw on the computer will do.

For I am slow, patient and persistent

The fragments will  jump together  eventually.

The picture will reform.

But, except in my dreams, you and I don’t jump together.

When I awaken, you are gone, and

I am fat with grief and broken in pieces.

L. Harris May 2, 2011

Anniversary — turning the year

This year’s poplar leaves are falling,

and today the northwest wind

hastens them along.

One leaf  heaves and jerks

at the end of a bare branch.

It will, of course, yield to the wind’s erratic breath,

or the inevitability of its little weight

but perhaps not  today.

 All timing is so chancy.

 You felt that little off-beat in your heart

almost all your life,

that little valve fluttering hopelessly,

 as you went to ground.

 And this dark wet windy fall,

I wanted to plant spring bulbs

where they planted you

 in that glorious autumn

we all remarked on last year.

 I wanted snowdrops to come

all green and white

 next spring

out of the earth which is cherishing you.

 But the time between desire and action

was too long:

I found there were no snowdrops left on the

shelves to buy.

 

And my heart’s timing, like yours, was off again.

October 15, 2011

Carpe diem or just waste it in solipsism

Procrastination is my bête noir, my nemesis, my irritation.  Here I am writing this blog bit when I should be calling the references sent by potential contractors willing to build our much dreamed of summer cottage.  If I am ever going to get it out of my imagination and into reality, I need to bite the bullet, gird my loins, suck it up, throw caution to the winds, take a flying leap and phone a bunch of strangers for their opinions.  It does not help that for as long as I can remember — and my parents let me use it — I have hated using the telephone.

 

So far today, I have made pancakes for breakfast and reorganized my recipe binder (no more recipes for Harvest Crunch peach upside down cake, fettuccini with whole cranberries, orzo- and cherry tomato- stuffed lemons,  or gorgonzola and mint pizza).  Then I spent over an hour on the Globe and Mail crossword puzzle— thanks to Google, it is now completely filled in.

Moments ago, I cast my eye on my two jewellery boxes that badly need sorting – do I really need papier maché earrings from the 70s? And is the missing half of several others going to miraculously reappear?  Like odd socks in the laundry, highly unlikely.

Muddying the waters is the fact that the more capacious of the two was given me by my ex-husband in his favourite, but my most disliked colour — black, which might sum up in a nutshell why we are no longer together, but that is another story.

 

Greg gave me the other smaller one – a lovely wooden box made by a craftsman in the mountains of North Carolina.  Which should be the box for up-to-date stuff and which to use for old keepsakes?   I wandered out to the kitchen and cut up an apple.

My priorities need to be focussed: Perhaps taking small steps will help me on my telephonic way.  I have printed up the lists of names the builders sent us. Now I will compose a list of identical questions. Then I will phone one person from each list.  Then I will re-blog!

But first I’ll take pictures of some of the things I’ve referenced in this blog.

Popcorn pleasures - two more four-star flicks

Several years ago I decided to spend money and time only on four-star movies. That is why, over Christmas, I made a point of getting Greg and myself off to see Margin Call and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy — each having received the requisite number of stars by reviewers in the Globe and Mail. 

The former, directed by J.C. Chandor , is about the imminent collapse of an investment firm (loosely modeled after Lehman Brothers, according to Wikipedia)  in 2008.  The latter, directed by Tomas Alfredson, is based on John Le Carre’s 1974 novel about cold war espionage.  Both directors are relative unknowns, and yet both have constructed memorable must-see movies.

I was struck by how similar the two films were despite their different settings and plots. In both films, a character uses the word “system” to describe the work they do. That tweaked my attention. Each character understands that a system is an abstract set of rules and procedures you learn in order to succeed, in other words, nothing to do with human relationships, loyalty or concern for others, but just a pattern to follow. That seemed to be the moral matrix common to the two movies.

In both the secret service and the investment firm, employees are being let go. However, in each, a dismissed employee has the key to a necessary secret about the system and what will bring it down:   it is in information in a briefcase in TTSS and in a USB memory stick in Margin Call, both of which are handed off to someone else to solve.  In both films, a recently retired or laid off employee is forced back to work to solve the crisis.

Both films show hierarchies comprised almost entirely of men at the top and woman in menial roles much further down.  The one woman in management in Margin Call is invited to fall on her sword, as it were, by allowing herself to be made an example of by being fired. A female cleaner in an elevator is ignored, as the partners talk over her head literally and figuratively, as if she is just part of her cleaning cart.  A female operative in TTSS literally loses her life when she is shot at point blank range in an interrogation room.  In another chilling scene in TTSS, a young mother nursing a baby is accidently killed by a nervous assassin. No sacrifice by the female has any meaning; whatever value they have or embody is utterly disposable or ignored.

Members of these male hierarchies are ruthless, manipulative, uncaring, unfeeling, uber-competitive, untrustworthy and not worthy of trust. Just a great group of guys … In TTSS, towards the end, a large sign, handwritten in red  letters and stuck on a fence proclaims, “The Female Will Rule”  …  but not just yet (and would it be any better?)

The chief image I remember from Margin Call is a set of elevators going up and down relentlessly – a not-too-subtle symbol for the fortunes made and lost in the stock market. In TTSS, it’s the spy-turned-teacher killing an owl - a symbol of the feminine - in one swift blow.  Each carries a sense of the coldly inevitable.

 In addition, in both films, there is a feeling of claustrophobia.  Time in Margin Call is breathless; the action occurs over 38 tightly wound hours.  Despite earning  —and spending — a small fortune annually, the traders spend most of  their time cooped up, whether in  small rooms at work or in dark bar-rooms. No one is shown in a relationship with anything but their work. The characters are imprisoned by their lifestyle and moral choices; the boss’s dog dies and is buried, along with the man’s humanity, in a small shallow grave, outside the home he shared with the woman who is now his former wife (the implication being he has a new trophy wife).

The story in TTSS is told via flashbacks which seem to tighten and reduce the space and time in which characters move. The settings in TTSS include the offices of  M16, housed in a series of low-ceilinged rooms, which for some reason, I recall as being underground and painted a disheartening shade of green.  There are interrogation rooms and prison cells in Moscow. Back in Britain, a tawdry hotel rooms serves as a meeting place.  As in Margin Call, there are not many shots of being out in the open air and when there are, danger lurks.  The mole, imprisoned behind barbed wire, is shot when he ventures outside for a breath of fresh air. A character in Margin Call , outdoors at the top of the office building, threatens suicide.

Towards the end of Margin Call, the Jeremy Irons character looking into the future, before the present crisis has even occurred,  says something to the effect that after all the dust settles (i.e., people’s lives are ruined), there will be a lot of money to be made picking up the pieces. 

These movies, whose directors are outside the mainstream, portray what we would like to consider is outside our personal comfort range:  the banal offhandedness we have in inflicting misery on others – usually for a supposedly higher purpose.

'Twas the night before Christmas

December 24th. The night before Christmas.  I've been to church at St. Mary's,  the little church in Brinsley, a four corners so tiny even people living around here don't know where it is. However this evening, there was a traffic jam with the United Church-goers at the end of the road. Not very often that happens - unless we schedule our bazaars on the same day at the same time!

This year we have had a skiff of snow and it is cold out, but one year, it was so mild the cattle were still in the fields after dark and you could hear them lowing - not mooing, but lowing, just as in the carol! They were noshing on turnips still in the field.
Speaking of which, I am going to have some more tourtiere and maybe some cheese... and if we have any more Lindt orange dark chocolate, yes, some of that... then hang up my stocking. I wonder what Santa/Greg will put in it this year...
I am not sure who besides a select few reads my blog, but in any case, Merry Christmas to you all and a prosperous new year in 2012!

Dispatches from North Middlesex #9

Things are changing in Parkhill. 

On Main St., Kelli’s Family Restaurant has been sold. There is much speculation as to the nature of the new eatery. Rumour has it the owners are from west of here, perhaps from as far away as Chatham – and may be French. The previous owners were Greek, but spanakopita, tzatziki, and other delectables were never on their menu, alas. The signs in the windows now advertise “Want Home Cooking?” We in the low mobility exercise class don’t know if this indicates the new name of the restaurant or the nature of the cuisine. The chef is said to have worked at the casino in Windsor at one time, so we are expecting great things.

The shuttered dinner theatre is in new hands as well. A steak house will rise from its ashes, although I am being metaphorical as, unlike a previous incarnation of Kelli’s, it did not burn down. The marquee has been advertising an ABBA night on May 23 for the past three or four years, so this development is a welcome change.

And wonder of wonders, the Saturday Globe and Mail is now for sale at the gas station downtown; there are only six copies, so it is wise to get there before noon. 

Our little village is expanding its horizons in other ways too. Over at Tim Horton’s, a customer placed an order, then went out to his car and returned with something in his hand, sat down at a table in the corner and appeared to say prayers. At exercise class, we concluded he was probably a Muslim and definitely evidence of our growing cosmopolitanism. In fact, the North Middlesex Christian Ministerial Assn. in which Greg is an active participant, may need to expand (and change its name) if this trend continues.

In the meanwhile, preparations are underway for Christmas. Lest anyone think we are overdoing the cosmopolitan thing, it is still called that here, not Holiday Season. And there is a nativity scene on the piano at the Leisure club. I have been tempted to wish people a Blessed Advent but felt that might be going too far in the other direction. Going to extremes is frowned on around here.

In any event, no sooner were the boulevard gardens and hanging baskets put to bed for the winter, than it was time to decorate Main St. for the Santa Claus parade. The sturdy ladies of the Horticultural Society collected greenery from the woods at someone’s farm outside town. We then decorated the planters at the new parkette across from Kelli’s and hung swags on all the public buildings. Aesthetic ability was welcomed but not necessary (much to my relief, as my offering looked as if Dr Seuss constructed it). 

Being able to saw thick branches and climb ladders in the wind was more a more sought-after skill. As the new president of the Hort said, “If anyone has anything to say about our decorating, they can do it themselves next year.” So far only a couple of bows have been stolen, and nothing has blown away. 

The men attach the wreaths on the lampposts downtown, and this year, sadly, they did a sub-optimal job. They failed to fluff them before hanging them. I have the same problem with my man and our artificial tree: You really do need to stand the little branches up for an effect of fullness. However, those who decorated the pine trees beside the Post Office did a splendid job of stringing the lights – as one of my neighbours said, “They look like proper garlands.”

The Santa Claus parade was a great success again this year. It is always held in late afternoon, while night is falling. Unfortunately, Greg and I were attending (a rather unaccountably well-lit) Advent carol service at the cathedral, so we missed it; as a result, my information is somewhat second-hand. Apparently the pouring rain let up a bit, and the street was lined with spectators.

 I must run now and finish the four mince meat pies I am making for the St. James Christmas bake sale.  The first year I was here I donated two dozen sticky buns. I felt quite proud of myself until I saw the other ladies hauling in stacks and stacks of baked goods. I am still not attempting such a feat, but I am rather pleased with my pastry.

One small serpent in the garden: I always fortify the mincemeat with lots of brandy, but when I looked this morning, we had none left, I suppose after too enthusiastically flaming last year’s plum pudding. I asked Greg if I could use some of his Drambuie or single malt scotch of which there seemed to be a plentiful supply.  For some reason, this otherwise mild-mannered man said, in no uncertain terms, that I could not. Goodness, was he still harbouring hurt feelings about my assessment of his tree fluffing? I hope not. He has agreed to brave the howling wind and the first snowfall to get me some brandy from the liquor store later this morning.

Shelved

 

This Christmas there will be no flames.

 

We are subdued.

 

The best we can hope for is a quiet undecorated dinner.

 

 

 

I feel guilty but not remorseful.

 

I  am puzzled by my failings and

 

I am not quite sure what to do

 

with all the ragged pop-up memories.

 

 

 

I can't paste them back together,

 

but I can't throw away the book either.

 

So this year everything will be neatly shelved, 

 

for being tidy keeps serenity intact.

 

 

 

Lorna Harris (December 1, 2011)