Kerry Says

I have an overwhelming desire for a Mojito. This wouldn’t be all that strange if I enjoyed a Mojito. But I don’t really. I’m not a big fan of mint and frankly I don’t like drinks that require affecting an accent to order confidently. (A main reason why I do not drink the Thé-Keeee-La on a regular basis).

But this week, the idea of a sipping on a crisp, cool, white and green bevy seems an excellent idea indeed. So too the idea of buying flowers daily, and barbecuing EVERYTHING and walking for miles and miles and miles.

Shopping at the local fruit market also holds great appeal. While greenhouses and cross-pollinated bio-infused superseeds have made fresh fruits and vegetables accessible year-round, it’s only in the spring that I lust after asparagus or homemade raspberry pie (preferably both... with something hot off the BBQ... and a mojito).

In the words of the Birds (oh, and Ecclesiastes ): To everything there is a season.

I Do! 

I don’t have anything in particular I want to say today.

But I do have this peculiar need to say SOMETHING.

Sometimes I think it's the act of writing itself that is addictive. Marking up the world's white spaces with tiny symbols is what fulfills us.

Any meaning proffered is just a flukey kind of icing.

This is Dora.




This is Diego.


They are why I want a puppy more than ever. 

The Conservative government has listed the following five top priorities for its time in power on the Government of Canada’s web site. (They are not listed alphabetically so one would assume they are listed in order of importance):

• Accountability
• Lower Taxes
• Crime
• Child Care
• Health Care

What these terms mean to me:

Accountability = Bureaucracy (all those wonderful hoops to jump through)

Lower Taxes = Money

Crime = Punishment

Child Care = Our Future

Health Care = Sustaining Life

So what I understand the top priorities of my federal government to be are:

• Bureaucracy
• Money
• Punishment
• Future
• Life

No... I'm not the least bit concerned.

Words so pleasing to the ear, it’s a wonder that you don’t hear them more often:

• Demitasse
• Melodious
• Conundrum
• Auspicious
• Spectacular
• Cantankerous
• Extraordinary
• Felicity
• Doldrums
• Forgiven

…to the scent of cherry blossoms.

I spent the weekend in Washington surrounded by hundreds of trees with blossoms ranging in colour from pristine white to deep blush pink. The bark of the gnarled trunks and branches shines sliver in the sunlight and glows slightly at dusk.

They are lovely, but it is the smell that I can’t get enough of. The whole of D.C. is blanketed in an aroma soft and subtle and delicious.

I brought home a bottle of perfume that tried to capture the scent and put it on today. But it is false and manufactured with an undertone of alcohol and without the depth that many trees all blossoming in unison provides.

Still I can’t stop smelling my arm at the crook of the elbow where the scent is strongest.

A junkie will take it however she can get it.

Well it’s a Pentax actually.

I’m going to pick it up tonight, then in two days I’m going to use it to shoot Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C. and hopefully come home with something pretty enough to hang on my walls.

I am excited.

I love trips; the packing, the planning, the overspending.

A new city gives you the desire to actively participate. You want to go to the zoo and the museum and the park. You aren’t annoyed by the parades, or the people selling junk on the street. You want you some of that junk. You dress up to go to the mall and the grocery store just so you have a chance to wear each of the way-too-many travel outfits you’ve put together and stuffed in your suitcase.

In two more days I’ll be in the air. Two long and endless days.

What I don’t love?

Waiting

I had one of those mornings. The ones where you get up and you think you detect just the slightest sense of purpose skulking around in the deep dark recesses of your soul.

I cultivated it as best I could. Actually bothered to scrub the schmutz off my feet in the shower, used the blow dryer, wore nice pants. And it seemed to blossom. Yes today was a day I would get something done.

I left the house one coffee to the good and with the anticipation of a sausage McMuffin bolstering me along. I brought along Virginia Woolf for the streetcar ride and managed to get lost in it despite the chatter of morning commuters.

As I entered the last leg of my journey, breakfast in hand, I checked the pulse of my purpose. Still there, stronger even then it had been an hour ago.

But somewhere between the elevator and my desk, it vanished. I don’t know where it went. I don’t know why. But it was gone entirely. Almost instantly I was nonplussed by my fragrant greasy snack and immune to the good news that my computer was functioning properly for the first time in weeks.

Even the crossword hidden deep within my Toronto Star isn’t tempting me.

When you can’t even bother to slack off at work… that my friends is what I call terminally blasé.

A Headline from CBC.ca:

Seal hunt to go ahead, despite protests by Bardot and McCartney

You mean Bridget Bardot doesn’t hold sway over Canadian domestic policy? Shocking.

Oh and Sir Paul:

Less protest, more Martha My Dear 'kay?

When I was in my third year of high school (and certain I new decidedly more than everyone else) I created a series of short stories featuring a character named Bo-Red.

For the record I did not create the character itself. A friend of mine (who also new more than everyone else) created him during a particularly uninspiring English class because she was beyond bored, she was Bo-Red (clever huh?).

He was a stick man with one arm and a huge head who could only be conjured with a red BIC pen by slightly caustic 16-year-olds who felt their time was wasted listening to the words of their elders.

He was conjured a lot.

But it was I who gave him a back story, made him a super hero, created him a woman to love and a nemesis.

In one particularly memorable story, Bo-Red saved Harry Connick Jr. from a lifetime of Vegas sideshow acts after he was tricked into signing a contract by the evil Black Jack (clever huh? Vegas… Black Jack…. Get it? It’s CLEVER).

This one stands out to me because it’s the one I actually submitted for grading in an arrogant and childish fit of “you’re so out of touch old man you won’t even get I’m being (what I think is) Ironic” pique. Earned me an A.

(Channeling arrogance and childishness is a key step in the creative process. Discuss.)

Anyhoo, I mercifully grew up a bit, realized how little I actually knew and school began to interest me again. Bo-Red was relegated to the back passageways of my memory.

But several frustrating days of server shutdowns, invalid pathways and multiple corrupted file copies have left me unable to do anything remotely productive at work. I’m feeling irritated, unfairly put upon, and about five years old.

And ol’ Bo is glowing in my mind’s eye.

Will he make his grand return today? Will the next chapter of his life unfold?

Find me a red BIC pen and we’ll find out.

Of all the terribly tacky traditions North America has foisted on the feast day of St. Patrick, none was as delicious as the Shamrock Shake.

A frosty mint delight, in its heyday the Shamrock Shake was a St. Patrick’s Day must. Though its colouring was slightly putrid and mint is a sorry substitution for chocolate, this was the IRISH shake and we were proud to have it and to call it our own.

It was extra special for this Irish Catholic girl stupid enough to always give up sweets for Lent. You see, giving up fighting with my brother was too difficult, and my HILARIOUS suggestions I give up smoking never went over well with my mother.

No sugar for 40 days in a row… well 6 days at least (everyone knows Sundays don’t count) was tough for this addict… very tough.

Evey year, just when I thought I’d never survive it, came St. Patrick’s Day. A day smack dab in the middle of deprivation in which ethno-cultural obligation meant my parents, and God apparently, looked the other way as I sucked back 12 ounces of sugary goodness.

The Shamrock Shake, a reminder of life’s little overindulgences just when the endless days of sacrifice may have led me to forget.

You were a true hero of hedonism in a puritanical time and I salute you.

And I haven’t forgotten you. Yea, though the cruel masters of the McDonald’s Corporation decided that among all of the high fat, though not particularly high quality, items on their mighty menu, you (along with the McLobster) would have to go, I have not forgotten you.

I searched for you even today in fact, at the McDonald’s at Yonge St. and Queen W. But to no avail.

Good thing too -- It’s freakin’ freezing today.

For those who have never torn their cornea, I don’t recommend it.

For those who have, Yow! No?

I spent most of last week recovering from having my eye split open on a leisurely trip to the nation’s capital.

I will spend a good deal longer recovering from the knowledge that my eye was at one point actually SPLIT OPEN. Ugh.

This happened in the midst of shopping for wedding dresses with a friend. I am her maid of honour and while it's sad I had to abdicate my shopping duties to lay alone in a dark room, it's not all that surprising considering my past actions in positions of honour.

Here’s a sampling:

• Coming down with the Chicken Pox during my first turn as a flower girl (Sorry Janet)
• Coming down with Strep Throat during my first turn as a junior bridesmaid (Sorry Pam)
• Fainting on the altar during my first turn as Godmother (Sorry Clara, and the entire congregation of Emmanuel Lutheran Church)

It’s not that the joy of my friends and family ALWAYS makes me sick, just more often than not.

This time at least I got my trauma over and done with over before the big day….

I hope.

Back in high school (the day as it is oft’ referred) my friend’s uncle used to make her mixed tapes.

Now this was not your “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll” lovin’, Molson drinkin’ uncle. This was the only slightly older uncle, the one who was away at university, and lived with his girlfriend, and drank Heineken. This was a cool uncle.

Anyway the tapes… He used to send her collections of songs from time to time in an attempt to wean her off the sugary pop tunes that made her, and all her friends, waste our meager allowances and fill our brains with lyrics like: “I spend my money on lottery, My favourite number is 1 2 3”. (Thank you Calloway)

His tapes were full of songs by Joy Division and the Smiths and the HouseMartins.

I loved these tapes.

Now I can’t tell you I loved them because of the music. At the time, I knew very little about music and had, at 15, only just concluded (thanks my brother’s constant derision and numerous forced listening sessions of Led Zeplin IV) that the New Kids on the Block really did SUCK no matter what all my friends and Much Music seemed to think.

Instead, I loved them for their cases full of cramped male handwriting, because they came by post from the big(er) city, because listening to the music of grown-ups made me feel grown up (because at 15 I thought 21 was grown up.)

Listening to these tapes made me feel like a little kid staying up at the end of a dinner party when the adults start talking about politics, or neighbourhood gossip or other topics they wouldn’t usually speak of in front of the kids. I was mesmerized by the dark lyrics, the angry guitars, and melancholy. I felt myself getting wise listening to those tapes. I felt myself getting older.

There was one tape in particular I remember. I think it was the first one I liked for the music, not the idea of the music. Some of the songs I heard for the first time on that tape are still my favourites today. I can’t remember all of them. (These weren’t the cheezy 60 minute tapes you know. These were the 90 minute Memorex tapes. These were hardcore) but I do remember a few. Go give ‘em a listen won’t you? You’ll be glad you did.

• Annie Get Your Gun – Squeeze
• Sing Your Life – Morrisey
• Birdhouse in your Soul – They Might Be Giants
• Love Will Tear Us Apart – Joy Division
• The One I Love – REM
• Something That You Said – The Beautiful South

9-- The number of dollars I paid for new tights

7-- The hour of the evening when I bought the new tights

10-- The hour of the NEXT MORNING when they ripped after being harshly brushed up against by ... air

9-- The number on the 1-10 scale of intense irritation where I am currently situated

9475(x infinity) -- The number of times in my life that I will go through this process again

grrrrr

Tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day. I am a single woman.

These two facts may indicate to some people that it's time to stop reading lest they become blinded by the white hot rage emanating from the anti-love diatribe that's sure to follow.

But rest assured your eyes are safe. I love love. And I love Valentine's Day.

I love it in all its shiny, ruby, candy-hearted, sappy torch-song glory. I love the grandness of it. The cherubs. The sparkle. I always have.

I love the idea of little tiny cards and wee presents. The thoughtfulness of it. The carnations from your father, the candy hearts left on your desk.

I love the sumptuousness of it. The rich, dark chocolate, the silk and oysters and wine and roses.

Those who feel it unworthy due to its commercial nature be damned. No it's not necessary to do something for the people you love just because it's February 14th. But it's nice. It's nice to tell the people you love that you love them. And it's nice to hear it. Any day, even that day.

Whenever I hear people bemoan the tawdriness and tackiness of V-day I am reminded that the single most romantic gesture of I have ever witnessed happened on a Valentine's Day.

When we were 19, a friend of mine fell for someone. He had a girlfriend and there was no indication that that was going to change. But she fell anyway, the way you sometimes do. She decided she wanted to let him know, and Valentine’s Day seemed the right day to do it.

Many of her friends tried to dissuade her. It wasn't going to end well. It would be embarrassing. She wouldn’t get anything out of it. But she didn’t want anything out of it, except to let him know she thought he was funny and perfect and wonderful because she thought he might like to know.

So she found the perfect card (simple, beautiful and blank) and hand picked and arranged a dozen white flowers. And she wrote a message sweet and simple and signed her name and brought the flowers over to his house herself.

And when she knocked and found he wasn’t there, she left them on the porch. Left them there for him to laugh at, or groan at, or throw away or brag to all his friends about. But he did none of those things. What he did was tell her that it was the sweetest thing any one had ever done for him.

And he stayed with his girlfriend and her life didn't change, but she had spoken truthfully about love. At 30 I can't say I've ever done that. Not so earnestly or with so little to gain. But every time I think about it I'm inspired to. There's nothing tawdry about that.

So I was listening to Michael MacDonald this morning (there is NO shame in it) and all of a sudden I could see in my mind's eye my 3rd grade K-Way jacket.

(Navy blue, with the white and orange stripe, and a Participaction patch sewn on the front.)

I could actually hear the swish it made when I swung my arms. I could SMELL the nylon.

More importantly I felt the ripple of pleasure I used to get when I flipped it out of its pouch and slipped it over my head. I LOVED that jacket. I thought it was cool. I thought I was cool in it.

I feel cool now just thinking about it.

It's not a terrible way to feel at 11 o'clock on a Tuesday morning.

So a problem arises in your life. Not a major long-term problem, but problem enough cause you to worry over it, then and worry some more and figure and plot and fret.

And you come up with a variety of rash solutions, more drastic than necessary. But immediate action seems the only option. (Operate, operate, that limbs gotta go!)

But you hear this tiny little voice in your head, the one that refuses to shout saying “Just relax a minute. Take ten minutes to just sit on in it. Everything will work itself out.”

And it seems like the worst possible response to this mini-crisis. But for whatever reason you don’t just hear it, you listen.

And shortly thereafter things work out. Easily, perfectly, almost as if by magic.

And in the words of DodgeBall’s Peter La Fleur: “It feels phenomenal”

The intellect is forced to choose: Perfection of the life, or of the work. -- W. B. Yeats

To be happy is to be content is to be satisfied is to desire nothing more.

But if you don’t desire more than that, you cannot hope to achieve it.

But to desire more than that: more than a happy life, good friends, nice surroundings and a true appreciation of all these things and what they mean to you, seems vain and ugly and greedy.

Is it better to accomplish something great at the expense of being unable to savour it; Or to leave no mark at all except the small happy dent of a tiny little life?

It's not really a question for the mind Willam, it's a question of the heart.