My first best friend was Dawn. We instantly became friends because she had a crush on my brother, yet after a few months decided she didn't like him after all, and still came around to keep company with me. We talked about boys, learned to inhale cigarettes properly, drank our first booze together, which was her dad's homemade apple wine that had fermented into vinegar instead.
We were about twelve years old and in grade seven and I remember becoming concerned about going to junior high school and whether or not we'd still be best friends. This ached me tremendously, since I already experienced her cold shoulder, her fleeting presence whenever she felt like being with me because one of her other friends was too busy. My mom said she was a fair-weather friend, a saying I didn't grasp at first, as Dawn regularly called or came by on rainy days. But then, I didn't understand lots of things my mom said, things like "you made your bed, you lie in it", or "don't eat raw potatoes, they give you worms".
Dawn enjoyed watching me squirm and fret about our friendship, providing a sense of power and ownership, which she regularly exercised by turning off and on my tear ducts, emotions I couldn't hide by immaturity alone, or by her relentless intimidation of not being best friends.......but just friends. I liked the sentiment of having a best friend, the one who was superior above all, yet Dawn didn't view me as such, and our relationship would continue simply by events in her life; when she got mononucleosis, or when she needed a Maid of Honor for her wedding.
She was the same age as me, but in a lower school grade because she failed grade one. Our last summer together was spent in heedless youth and appearance, without the looming talk of makeup and brassieres. We played tether ball, and pulled legs off crickets to watch them wiggle, and we'd save the carcasses for the evening's bon fire at my folk's house, throwing them into the flames to hear them pop.
The days were long and there was a constant hiss in the air from a variety of fauna captured by the sun's heat, or hiding under huckleberry bushes or ragweed, the fields and bogs profuse of untended growth, as we impulsively trampled paths, not caring where they would lead us, not realizing we would never be able to go back again.
In the Fall I entered junior high school, leaving Dawn behind, and I met several new people and made many friendships, and began grappling with algebra and D.H. Lawrence, compulsory studies which would later abate from memory once the final test scores were tallied. I joined the Year Book Club and the Smoker's Club, now being addicted to nicotine, we teenagers met at each recess bell to drain cigarettes down with spasmodic sucks before next class.
I would often cite my daily activities to Dawn, my verbal diary, and she'd listen with open ears, astounded by such independence of personal lockers and a counsellor who'd talk to us about menstrual cramps and the importance of hygiene. She desperately wanted to go my school, hating the elementary antics of the kids in her class, hating being stunted from growing up and being left behind with armpit farts and the Partridge Family Christmas album.
Dawn was always looking at herself in the mirror, fanning her face to and fro, gazing at herself, right in front of me. I watched on, conversing with her reflection, as she stroked mascara on her lashes, feathered blush on her cheeks, and I'm puzzled why she thinks she's so bonny. She isn't ugly, but she's not spectacular either, she's skinny and has marbles for boobies, with big puffy hair and huge slices of gums mooring her teeth.
I'm not interested in makeup yet, but I'm drawn into her visions of glamour and model runways, how she's going to make lots of money and have fabulous clothes, then her face lights up and the pinkness of her mouth spills out into the mirror.
My new best friend is Joanne Lucas and we met in French class, where I purposely mispronounced words and phrases, garnering laughter from the class, which eventually got me abolished to study period. She began smoking with me at Smoker's Club and I liked her right away, her uncaring sense of what other's thought or teased about her curly mop top. We enjoyed each other's company, and began having sleep overs on weekends, getting to know the families, becoming family.
She lit fart missiles, scorching the crouch of her jeans in the process, and she played classical piano, lessons she dreaded taking, but was forced to do, along with bible study every Sunday morning. We had nothing in common, except the total lack of interest in ourselves and appearances, which was to say, I didn't think less of her playing fuddy-duddy music, and she didn't think less of me being a Protestant destined to Hell.
Dawn and I see each other from time to time, she invites me over for tea, but when I get there I'm tasked in making it. I know her house inside and out, where all the condiments are, where all the secrets are kept and why her mom stays in bed all day, occasionally getting up to peel potatoes for dinner.
Dawn doesn't like surprises, can't wait for Christmas morning to open presents, and sneaks into her parent's room to scavenge in closets and drawers, often to discover all the new clothes she'll be receiving, then models them for me. She thinks it's hilarious having beforehand knowledge of these gifts, but I feel sadness for her, for not knowing what it feels like to open up a box, to tear away at the pretty paper, unfolding the unknown amongst gleeful yells and the suddenness of surprise.
Dawn feels sadness for me, too, she says "I'm a frump, but have such a pretty face regardless of being chubby". She is embarrassed by my comical demeanor, deems it's unsophisticated, and often excludes me from her other friends, but it is my ability to make her laugh that keeps her calling me up for tea.
She is dressed down, the flaws on her face are visible and it doesn't matter if I see them, her words are not delicately chosen, she wears me like her mother's closet, a cognition keeping her grounded as she waits for me to pass the teapot, a thousand times of us and the easiness of summers keep her fair to midland, fair to midland.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Back to Higher Grounds
I didn't even know he had brought a woman with them until I stepped out of the tent and into the morning breath of the lake. I heard a woman's voice, but I wasn't certain where it came from. It didn't project in a manner one is used to hearing a woman's voice; crisp, feminine, clean. This voice sounded dirty and drunk and far away.
Steven brought her to our camp site for the day, promising to take her boating, and knowing Steven, she probably anticipated a large yacht, with endless drink. But at 9:30 in the morning, she had past the point when it didn't matter, sleepy-eyed with Bloody Mary stains already on the front of her green shirt. She couldn't keep her head held up, it bobbed sideways and forward and back, as she spoke, her face aged and limp, excess skin flapped where her cheeks should have been and her eyes drooped in and out of consciousness.
Steven is also drunk and can barely stand up without swaying to the beat of his heart, which amazingly still pumps, despite the alcohol poisoning. He is skinner and we know this means he's drinking heavily again, not eating, not sleeping. He seeks out sex with whomever will have it with him, and it usually is the likes of this woman here now, pissing away my expensive suntan lotion over the boozy stink of her shoulders and arms, preparing for the sun in the whispers of insanity.
She has scabies or herpes or ringworm, something on her skin doesn't look right. I'm not certain which one it is. But I do know it's not normal to have sores on the skin, open wounds, which are now lathered in sunblock. Did she know what day it was. Did she even know it was morning. For all I wanted to say, but didn't, was how could you be so drunk already on this fine Saturday morning.
I don't know if Sabrina and Brandon understand what's happening, do they realize this woman is not normal, or that we've got company. They are happily playing in the park nearby, swinging, diving down the slide, hidden from the realities of stretches of time and hurt and what it does to one's body. I don't want to be like that, ever. I wish, a little, there had been a slide for the kids at home. You can't run away from time, but you can hide it's mistakes, sometimes even pretend they're miracles. Or blame it on the rain.
By the time we're in the middle of the lake she has already passed out. Her head is propped backwards, her hair is wallowing in the wind, curly like the wake of the boat, splashing and spurning white lather. It has only taken us mere seconds to reach the center of the lake, the motor has sung it's lullaby to her, and the kids are shouting for the wake board to sail them above the watery depths. I turn the music up louder, surround sounds of heavy metal guitars and drums, all seven of us captured in the tiny frame of the speedboat, where there should only be four. Somehow the music made it better, made it safer.
She awakens to the pop of a cooler bottle, as I release one cap after the other, pop, pop, the fizz escaping like a genie, her eyes widen as she receives this offering from me, a perfect stranger. We have only just met, yet I know everything about her, everything I need to know. She is content with this boat trip, and probably will have sex tonight with Steven, his reward for taking her to a place she has never gone before.
Deep in the bouncing flickers of light, like ghost flickers, guarding the mountains and cliffs bearing white crosses where divers have plunged to their deaths, she keeps her eyes open just long enough to witness their last moment.
Darren, the other hapless soul, decides to wear a lifejacket and mistakenly puts on Sabrina's. He doesn't realize it's too small, only being comforted by a floating device that's supposed to save his ass because he's convinced we're all going to drown. He frantically pulls the safety buckles together, yanking at them so that they connect, but they do not reach, his waist is much too large for this jacket. He finally resolves to death-gripping both sides, until I pass him a drink, the jacket suddenly flaps open in the wind's current and his mouth is now soothed by the bitters of the flavoured cider.
He is more normal than most drunks. He's a half drunk, knowing when to start and stop drinking, knowing where the money is that pays for the booze and the meals, and the girls. At this point I'm wondering about this woman, and where she came from.........and who she came with.
There are other boats on the lake and they have already stirred up a chop, small churnings of the water that can propel a high speedboat into a hammer. The backs of the my legs are bruised from the banging of the waves, as I crash in my seat, uncontrollably bouncing in the air, kept in the boat by the sheer grace of gravity. I turn back to make sure she' still there, alive. Occasionally, she will open her eyes and smile, holding tightly to her bottle, missing her mouth by inches, the cider flies out to the tow line that links Sabrina to me. This is all too much now. I can't have this, I can't have this person here, enjoying my day, enjoying my time. This was supposed to be about me.
Sabrina holds on and motions thumbs up and wants to go faster. But I can't watch her and drive and think and worry and ponder and be angry and give up at the same time. I push the throttle forward, faster and faster until we are no longer boating. We are now flying. And Sabrina is smiling like an angel, like the God's have smiled down on her pretty face and said, "today, you will see what we see".
The boat begins to crackle on the waves and I've become aware I'm the only one not smiling, but I'm also the only one driving and can feel the uncertainty beneath the gears gripped by my hand. We are going too fast and I pull the throttle back down, hard, as we dead stop into a large wave approaching Sabrina's path.
She rips the goggles away from her face, furious we have stopped and yells that we've just missed a good one. The wave passes us and she rocks up and down, as Daniel tows in the rope bringing her closer to mother's relief and buoyancy. He recognizes, as any good palm reader would, I am not enjoying this ride and proposes we all go back for more cider, and without even discussing it, Darren and the woman are abandoned on the lake shore.
Darren jumps off the boat, jeans and running shoes intact, while she flops into the floating tube, just barely, and spreads herself out for balance. She looks like starfish, pink arms and legs protruding overboard like dead weight. We can't bring the boat too close to shore because the rocks will damage the hull, and we slowly release the rope, allowing the tube and it's cargo to float to the sandy beach. Steven wants to stay on and go for a ride, a faster ride. He never used to be this brave.
We start the motors, one, then two, taking the boat out of neutral, and within seconds we have once again escaped to the liquid sun, camouflaged by the reflection of ancient craters, monuments Steven will undoubtedly forget because I already hear pop, pop, pop.
The lake shore pushes away from us, until it curves and loses itself into hidden harbours and evergreen forests, until we are deep in the lake and horizon blue, with not a cloud in the sky, nor the woman.
Steven is so fulfilled to be with us, in this time and place, didn't matter where or how or when or what, he bursts into rants of yesteryears, releasing bits of contorted memories. He still thinks we're related by marriage, though it has long since entrenched itself up on the ridge wth the other divers. Daniel and I are merely acquaintances of someone else's vows, where he won't let go and won't let us forget.
As Sabrina carves into the water, slicing it into two, we are also content to have Steven with us right now, both who are infecting us with gallant laughter. Brandon doesn't want a turn. He's still afraid of letting go and being tossed amongst the fishes and seaweed and monsters, and as we steady ourselves to catch another breath, Steven requests that we take him back......back to Darren and the woman, where he belongs.
And as he stumbles and trips over rocks, falling into the water, rushing, surging to the shore, I realize he has finally let go. Darren pulls him up and carries him out like he's a wounded soldier, battered by the realities of life and family, and they disappear into the trail ushering them back to their existences, back to higher grounds.
Steven brought her to our camp site for the day, promising to take her boating, and knowing Steven, she probably anticipated a large yacht, with endless drink. But at 9:30 in the morning, she had past the point when it didn't matter, sleepy-eyed with Bloody Mary stains already on the front of her green shirt. She couldn't keep her head held up, it bobbed sideways and forward and back, as she spoke, her face aged and limp, excess skin flapped where her cheeks should have been and her eyes drooped in and out of consciousness.
Steven is also drunk and can barely stand up without swaying to the beat of his heart, which amazingly still pumps, despite the alcohol poisoning. He is skinner and we know this means he's drinking heavily again, not eating, not sleeping. He seeks out sex with whomever will have it with him, and it usually is the likes of this woman here now, pissing away my expensive suntan lotion over the boozy stink of her shoulders and arms, preparing for the sun in the whispers of insanity.
She has scabies or herpes or ringworm, something on her skin doesn't look right. I'm not certain which one it is. But I do know it's not normal to have sores on the skin, open wounds, which are now lathered in sunblock. Did she know what day it was. Did she even know it was morning. For all I wanted to say, but didn't, was how could you be so drunk already on this fine Saturday morning.
I don't know if Sabrina and Brandon understand what's happening, do they realize this woman is not normal, or that we've got company. They are happily playing in the park nearby, swinging, diving down the slide, hidden from the realities of stretches of time and hurt and what it does to one's body. I don't want to be like that, ever. I wish, a little, there had been a slide for the kids at home. You can't run away from time, but you can hide it's mistakes, sometimes even pretend they're miracles. Or blame it on the rain.
By the time we're in the middle of the lake she has already passed out. Her head is propped backwards, her hair is wallowing in the wind, curly like the wake of the boat, splashing and spurning white lather. It has only taken us mere seconds to reach the center of the lake, the motor has sung it's lullaby to her, and the kids are shouting for the wake board to sail them above the watery depths. I turn the music up louder, surround sounds of heavy metal guitars and drums, all seven of us captured in the tiny frame of the speedboat, where there should only be four. Somehow the music made it better, made it safer.
She awakens to the pop of a cooler bottle, as I release one cap after the other, pop, pop, the fizz escaping like a genie, her eyes widen as she receives this offering from me, a perfect stranger. We have only just met, yet I know everything about her, everything I need to know. She is content with this boat trip, and probably will have sex tonight with Steven, his reward for taking her to a place she has never gone before.
Deep in the bouncing flickers of light, like ghost flickers, guarding the mountains and cliffs bearing white crosses where divers have plunged to their deaths, she keeps her eyes open just long enough to witness their last moment.
Darren, the other hapless soul, decides to wear a lifejacket and mistakenly puts on Sabrina's. He doesn't realize it's too small, only being comforted by a floating device that's supposed to save his ass because he's convinced we're all going to drown. He frantically pulls the safety buckles together, yanking at them so that they connect, but they do not reach, his waist is much too large for this jacket. He finally resolves to death-gripping both sides, until I pass him a drink, the jacket suddenly flaps open in the wind's current and his mouth is now soothed by the bitters of the flavoured cider.
He is more normal than most drunks. He's a half drunk, knowing when to start and stop drinking, knowing where the money is that pays for the booze and the meals, and the girls. At this point I'm wondering about this woman, and where she came from.........and who she came with.
There are other boats on the lake and they have already stirred up a chop, small churnings of the water that can propel a high speedboat into a hammer. The backs of the my legs are bruised from the banging of the waves, as I crash in my seat, uncontrollably bouncing in the air, kept in the boat by the sheer grace of gravity. I turn back to make sure she' still there, alive. Occasionally, she will open her eyes and smile, holding tightly to her bottle, missing her mouth by inches, the cider flies out to the tow line that links Sabrina to me. This is all too much now. I can't have this, I can't have this person here, enjoying my day, enjoying my time. This was supposed to be about me.
Sabrina holds on and motions thumbs up and wants to go faster. But I can't watch her and drive and think and worry and ponder and be angry and give up at the same time. I push the throttle forward, faster and faster until we are no longer boating. We are now flying. And Sabrina is smiling like an angel, like the God's have smiled down on her pretty face and said, "today, you will see what we see".
The boat begins to crackle on the waves and I've become aware I'm the only one not smiling, but I'm also the only one driving and can feel the uncertainty beneath the gears gripped by my hand. We are going too fast and I pull the throttle back down, hard, as we dead stop into a large wave approaching Sabrina's path.
She rips the goggles away from her face, furious we have stopped and yells that we've just missed a good one. The wave passes us and she rocks up and down, as Daniel tows in the rope bringing her closer to mother's relief and buoyancy. He recognizes, as any good palm reader would, I am not enjoying this ride and proposes we all go back for more cider, and without even discussing it, Darren and the woman are abandoned on the lake shore.
Darren jumps off the boat, jeans and running shoes intact, while she flops into the floating tube, just barely, and spreads herself out for balance. She looks like starfish, pink arms and legs protruding overboard like dead weight. We can't bring the boat too close to shore because the rocks will damage the hull, and we slowly release the rope, allowing the tube and it's cargo to float to the sandy beach. Steven wants to stay on and go for a ride, a faster ride. He never used to be this brave.
We start the motors, one, then two, taking the boat out of neutral, and within seconds we have once again escaped to the liquid sun, camouflaged by the reflection of ancient craters, monuments Steven will undoubtedly forget because I already hear pop, pop, pop.
The lake shore pushes away from us, until it curves and loses itself into hidden harbours and evergreen forests, until we are deep in the lake and horizon blue, with not a cloud in the sky, nor the woman.
Steven is so fulfilled to be with us, in this time and place, didn't matter where or how or when or what, he bursts into rants of yesteryears, releasing bits of contorted memories. He still thinks we're related by marriage, though it has long since entrenched itself up on the ridge wth the other divers. Daniel and I are merely acquaintances of someone else's vows, where he won't let go and won't let us forget.
As Sabrina carves into the water, slicing it into two, we are also content to have Steven with us right now, both who are infecting us with gallant laughter. Brandon doesn't want a turn. He's still afraid of letting go and being tossed amongst the fishes and seaweed and monsters, and as we steady ourselves to catch another breath, Steven requests that we take him back......back to Darren and the woman, where he belongs.
And as he stumbles and trips over rocks, falling into the water, rushing, surging to the shore, I realize he has finally let go. Darren pulls him up and carries him out like he's a wounded soldier, battered by the realities of life and family, and they disappear into the trail ushering them back to their existences, back to higher grounds.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
2010 Winter Olympics Whistler
After watching the 2006 Winter Olympics on TV, and noticing many events had several empty seats in the audience, my sister wondered "Where are all the people?" Well, she believes many people can't afford to attend these events simply because of the cost -- airfare, accommodations, etc.
The 2010 Winter Olympics was awarded to Vancouver, British Columbia - Whistler http://www.vancouver2010.com and she hopes that someone who lives in Prince George, Sudbury, Halifax, or even International visitors, can plan to attend these Olympics if some of the expense was absorbed by kind citizens in the Vancouver area, by opening their homes for "free accommodation". Expectantly, as 2010 approaches, hotel rates will rise, will be limited as folks around the world travel to Vancouver/Whistler to attend these exciting games.
She wants to set up a registry, similar to a chap in England who wants a registry for their 2012 Olympics.
-quote-Live in London and like an Olympic athlete? Host their family!14:38pm 17th February 2005
Thousands of people will have the chance to offer free accommodation to families of Olympic athletes if London hosts the 2012 Games, it was announced today.
The 2010 Winter Olympics was awarded to Vancouver, British Columbia - Whistler http://www.vancouver2010.com and she hopes that someone who lives in Prince George, Sudbury, Halifax, or even International visitors, can plan to attend these Olympics if some of the expense was absorbed by kind citizens in the Vancouver area, by opening their homes for "free accommodation". Expectantly, as 2010 approaches, hotel rates will rise, will be limited as folks around the world travel to Vancouver/Whistler to attend these exciting games.
She wants to set up a registry, similar to a chap in England who wants a registry for their 2012 Olympics.
-quote-Live in London and like an Olympic athlete? Host their family!14:38pm 17th February 2005
Thousands of people will have the chance to offer free accommodation to families of Olympic athletes if London hosts the 2012 Games, it was announced today.
Olympic inspectors, in London on the second day of a crucial tour, were told the Home Stay programme would form an important cultural bond aimed at enhancing the Olympic spirit.
The venture proved such a success at the Atlanta and Sydney Olympics, particularly for British families, that London 2012 planners want to repeat the experience.
Simon Clegg, British Olympic Association chief executive, said: "This is going to be a voluntary programme where we are going to ask Londoners to make accommodation available free of charge.
"This worked very well in Sydney and proved to be very popular. We will try and match up people's cultural and sporting interests and language skills to offer a unique cultural experience for athletes families visiting London."
"This worked very well in Sydney and proved to be very popular. We will try and match up people's cultural and sporting interests and language skills to offer a unique cultural experience for athletes families visiting London."
Mike Lee, London 2012 communications director, said: "Because of the nature of the communities here, every national Olympic committee will have its own community here."
Clegg believes that London has found a winning formula with the design of the Olympic Village in Stratford, east London, and the overall accommodation to cope with the influx of visitors.
He said: "With the accommodation we wanted the efficiency of Sydney, quality of living and accommodation in Athens and to create a carnival atmosphere as in Barcelona in 1992.
"Athletes are here to compete not to commute." Olympic inspectors are on a whistle-stop tour of the sporting venues where the London 2012 Games could be staged.
By the end of the day the International Olympic Committee's powerful evaluation commission will have travelled to major London venues earmarked for various events. -end quote-
Sounds interesting, sounds feasible....except the hard part. Getting the word out. Next thing I know we've bought a domain name WWW.FREEOLYMPICACCOMMODATION.COM, and now someone has to create a webpage, and now we need a host server thing-a-ma-jig and that costs $20 per month, and it's the cheap one. Not being webpage savy, luckily the host has really nice publishing tools and I managed to create something half way decent. Now all I have to do is wait for my activation notice and we're good to go.
Since this a non-profit organization, purely of our time and desire to ensure everyone has an opportunity to come to the 2010 Olympics, donations towards server fees, etc. would be appreciated.
Sounds interesting, sounds feasible....except the hard part. Getting the word out. Next thing I know we've bought a domain name WWW.FREEOLYMPICACCOMMODATION.COM, and now someone has to create a webpage, and now we need a host server thing-a-ma-jig and that costs $20 per month, and it's the cheap one. Not being webpage savy, luckily the host has really nice publishing tools and I managed to create something half way decent. Now all I have to do is wait for my activation notice and we're good to go.
Since this a non-profit organization, purely of our time and desire to ensure everyone has an opportunity to come to the 2010 Olympics, donations towards server fees, etc. would be appreciated.
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