So Hip It Hurts

After months of relatively unsuccessful chiropractic treatment on my hip, Dr. Ho now thinks it might be my sacroiliac that’s causing the pain.
      “There’s something we can try…” he says with a grin that suggests he’s as reluctant to tell me as I’ll be to hear it. And he’s right, because what he wants to do is inject anaesthetic directly into the joint, and if the pain goes away, it will confirm the underlying problem.
     Understand, shoving this needle into the base of my spine is just part of the diagnosis.
     I don’t even want to think about the cure.

Image based on a drawing posted to The Dance Training Project.

The Potato Salad Mystery, part one

When Adela Littleshank came home that night, the last thing she expected to find was a container of potato salad sitting on her kitchen table.
     She checked the back door: still locked. She yanked her bedroom closets open, peered under the bed, and inched the shower curtain back, ready to shriek: no one. Yet, in the kitchen, this potato salad, provenance unknown.
     Not quite unknown, she corrected herself; the salad bore the label of a rather upscale deli.
     It’s an upscale hallucination, she thought, poking the container to see if it was real. It was, and in fact, enticingly cool.

Part two  *  Part three

J + R

It wasn’t the sort of thing I normally did, but there was this wall, you see, down a long alley off Queen . . . a dull expanse of pale brick under decades of dirt, until someone had discovered—who knows when—that the brick had gone soft.
     And so began a long crude chronicle of young romance, white letters scratched into the grime, the successes and failures of those long gone and those still hanging onto the memory of a piece of gravel and a few minutes of carving for the ages to see, perhaps wishing now it hadn’t been so easy.
Photo © 2010 by The World Beckons. All rights reserved.

The Heart of the Storm

Outside the plate glass window, the storm slings flinty chips of snow into the shocked cheeks of the New Yorkers. It rips at Whole Foods sacks of tinned kidney beans and kelp snack storm provender; it snaps up five umbrellas – two floral, one stripy – at the corner of Ludlow and East Houston in a single skip of what must be a cold, cold heart.
     But inside the storm: il laboratorio del gelato, where a dish of spheres awaits. The marble grey is black sesame, slowly showing a toasty warmth; the off-white is lychee, its sweet breath perfumed like a succubus.

Image: Lynn Huang on foodspotting.

Seasons in the Sun

To this day, I have trouble getting all the way through Seasons in the Sun. It started in 1974, and although I am pretty sure Terry Jacks was singing of cancer or suicide or something like that, his song enjoyed a perversely high rotation at our classroom parties, probably because it was so perfect for rocking back and forth slowly and hanging onto a girl as tightly as you dared, amazed at the heat two bodies could generate, and telling her so, saying anything that came into your head, just to draw attention from this strange thing you were doing.

These weren’t the parties we’d had in Grade Six. Something new had taken over, pulled close the curtains, and turned out the lights. There was music, but no one dared dance, and so the girls at the record player would conspire to set up the most unlikely couples in what they called a “snowball.” They’d announce the names, and I’d have to slow-dance with Karen Carstairs for an excruciating three minutes and twenty-four seconds, then Beth Parker, and finally Brenda Duffy, except the joke’s on them because Brenda was probably the only girl in class at all interested in me.

The Shadow Stranger

Behind you, a stranger waits in the shadows. Not with a knife in hand, not with oiled whispers, nor with a trenchcoat lined with knockoff watches and a tale of woe. A quiet stranger, a stranger like you but unlike, with a left side like your right and vice versa. A stranger who kneels beneath your chair and leans her forehead against the wall, who licks at its white leaded paint and tastes the white as darkness, and dark as light. She hopes you’ll play a record soon. The sound of all that silence in the room just deafens her.

Photo by Melodie McDaniel
For other posts inspired by this image, see The Mag.

The Truth about Rudolph

My young friend Carrie’s favourite Christmas song is Rudolph. I can’t blame her. She’s grown up in an era of ardent anti-bullying messaging, and is a really nice person to boot. But here’s the thing, Carrie: Exactly when in history has a member of a visible minority group reviled by dominant society and excluded from joining in any children’s games suddenly been hailed with shouts of glee for saving the day? “Then all the reindeer loved him”? Not bloody likely. Odds are they kicked poor Rudolph to death with sharp little hooves the minute Santa went for the gin bottle.

Image: Animated Film Reviews.

Snotty

She shuffles through High Park everyday. The homeless lady in the long, mustard-coloured coat carries a green pop bottle and puffs on cigarettes, drawing rapidly the way a child would. Profoundly phlegmmy, she death-rattles into reams of toilet paper, leaving streamers in her wake or piled upon a bench.
     These soggy wads are canine quesadillas: white-soft on the outside, chewy and salty inside. It drives me crazy, but just imagine the one-sided conversation I would have, perhaps catching her on my way back to my warm, safe home: “Excuse me . . . my dogs eat your tissues, and it really, really bothers me . . . ”

Image from: Dog is My Co-pilot

It’s a Common Phrase Down Our Way

“Heureuse-année, grand nez!”  Admittedly a gambit, I said this to the young guy at our local cheese shop. I hear him speaking French all the time.
     Holding a wedge of Applewood, he hairied an eyeball. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
     I persevered. “You know . . . it’s New Years, I say ‘heureuse-année grand nez!’ and you respond, ‘Pareillement, grande dent!’”
     “What language is that?’
     “Fren-ch.”
     He asked where I was from, but others had entered the shop, and now I was just the crazy lady monopolizing the cheese-guy’s time.
     “Tecumseh.” My last attempt.
     “Oh.” He smiled, wondering where the hell was Tecumseh.

Image from: CafePress

Gimme the conch, Bitch

For years, I’ve quoted from Lord of the Flies without ever having read it. Last Sunday I finally finished this classic, in all its exquisitely nasty detail and immediately pondered a scenario where girls rather than boys were marooned on that island to fend for themselves. Well, forget hunting and pigs’ heads on spikes.  The beast would just have to be mollified with coconuts and flowers. And everyone would be cleaner with braids. But if my memory of the mean girl Petri dish that was St. Gregory’s serves, there would still be a Piggy, and she’d end up dead anyway.

Image based on a photo by Tono Baluguer.

That Fixed My Wagon

I bought a wagon from Home Hardware when I moved into this neighbourhood and have come to depend on it as much as any suburbanite depends on his minivan. I use it to go grocery shopping, I use it to get Nola to her dance classes, I use it to return my empties . . . but when one of those proverbial squeaky wheels finally gave out last month, the wheels were literally off my wagon for weeks, and I was grounded until I could figure a way to detach the parts that had rusted together, and then find my bearings . . . again, literally.

More wagon adventures here.
Photo by PLR Photo.

The Sand along the Streetcar Tracks

Those drifts of sand along the streetcar tracks? They’re from an ocean that covers Toronto in an alternate dimension. The sand sidles over, fine enough to reach us; the more you dwell on it, the more you’ll fathom the signs. Shell stations. Mhm. A suburban drywalled street named “Water”. An unaccountable odor of washed-up, long-popped seaweed.
     Lately that ocean’s been welling up again, resurging. Grinding memory into longing, then – and there – into here-and-now, and soon enough you'll find yourself scanning the shelves of Loblaws for a can of sardines that still opens with a key, salt slipping down your cheek.

Photo: David Heyburn.

Puff, the Magic Dragon, in a land of cottage cheese

Puff the Magic Dragon frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee, says the song. Good thing little Jackie Paper mostly brought him strings and sealing wax instead of cottage cheese. The low-fat no salt added pressed kind that lurks in squashy packages. Even with the munchies, Puff would’ve turned his snout up at the sight of this cheese smeared sadly into pumice-like Finn Crisp Caraway Ryes. Maybe he’d have liked my cauliflower cottage cheese mock frittata though. If you kinda squint looking at it, I’d whisper to Puff, it’s almost shiny. And the purple is onions.

Greeting Rituals of the Men of Anthro

Sociology’s forays into affirmative action have succeeded well enough that our hallways are peopled mostly with women. Our washroom, however, is exclusively male. The carpet leading toward it – past my door – has been beaten flat by the purposeful men of nearby Anthro. Each negotiates the twice- or thrice-daily greetings this affords in his own fashion. One nods abstractedly. Another pretends we’ve never met. It makes me miss “Edward”, now retired, who used to exchange Latin tags with me on his tos and fros. “Sic transit gloria mundi,” I might say, and he’d return with a random, gleeful “Ecce homo!”

Loosely inspired by Laurie Leclair’s “Housebroken.”

Housebroken

Deep in the garden, I was well-hidden. That’s when I overheard Joyce. Boy, did she hate dogs. It was only through a thin guise of familial rectitude that she tolerated Snickers, her great-aunt’s moribund poodle. With auntie freshly dead and the pooch dispatched she spoke with impunity. “I don’t miss those little turds, that’s for sure!” She didn’t specify whose turds but rather turned the conversation to me. “My neighbour goes and takes all these dogs away from Indians and finds homes for them here . . .”
     I bit my trowel.
     “Really, I’ll take my hat off to her . . .” she demurred, bare-headed.

Image from DogPoopSigns.

Nature Morte

August’s sand has snuck under the door and settled itself in the corner. The stove’s sticky from September’s chicken, and pots of unexpired goods keep naively fresh. She’s gone, but only just, so the rooms still vibrate with the newly-empty. Clacking puzzle pieces, an iced and boozy tipple melting in a highball glass and a charm bracelet’s silvery scrape on wood, like a handful of tight-fisted but tumbling coins, all betray the ghostly remains of happier days. It is such an odd time of life; not dead but not really alive. A still life, waiting. And everybody else waits, too.

 Original image by Yvonne Boothroyd

The NHL Fan Lockout

NHL Commissioner Patrick Bateman today upped the ante in the league’s lockout of hockey fans, calling their demands “unrealistic and naïve.” The NHL is demanding that fans accept a long-term expectations cap, and is pushing hard for acquiescence to the owners’ agenda: an overpriced, overlong regular season of largely meaningless games, the embrace of the neutral zone trap, and playoffs that last until the start of hurricane season. Observers expect fans to roll over and capitulate quickly. A fan spokesman confirmed this, saying he does not envision strike action. “The only fight we want,” he said, “is on the ice.”

Image: Chris Young/The Canadian Press

My laptop was a cat in an earlier life

My Dell Latitude E6510 laptop, I am convinced, was 99% cat in an earlier life. Calculating, passive aggressive, needy, needling, and fuck-you indifferent. Which makes me, in an earlier life, a would-be animal abuser. (“Would-be” because, even in my ire, I realize that slamming 6.6 pounds of “durability, security, and performance” into the wall won't help.)
     The other 1% is pure heart-melting dog, showing up right when I hit “Turn off computer." The screen starts fading hopefully to grey, like a dog with its leash in its mouth, asking if I really mean it. And each time, yes, I do.

Image: Trollable.

She is My Daughter Too

Malala Yousafzai is a fourteen year old schoolgirl. For this, she was yesterday shot twice by the Taliban in Pakistan. As I write, she is in critical condition. Whichever God you pray to, pray for her.
     How has it come to this – that attending school can mark a child for execution? A spokesman for the Taliban (“the students”) says “Let this be a lesson.” Yes, a lesson, but not the hateful one he draws. “Malala is my daughter,” says Pakistani Prime Minister Ashraf. “She is Pakistan’s daughter.” And she is my daughter, too – and yours, if you believe in humanity.

Image: Hazart Ali Bacha/Reuters

Your Mess, Not Mine

In Kindergarten we were told we could use the paints anytime we wanted for our craft projects, provided we cleaned everything up afterwards: the brushes, the paint pots, the water jar, and any other mess that we made.
     My solution was to not make a mess in the first place.
     I stopped using paint and fell back on crayons for everything. Crayons were neater; and we each had our own set, so I would never be saddled with anyone’s mess but my own.
     The question is: did school make me this way or did I have these hang-ups going in?

Photo by Grzegorz Ślemp on iStockphoto.