The Romanian Bitch

The best place to start is from the middle. It was just two weeks after we moved into our new dream home when we had our first acrimonious discussion with settled neighbour. Brandon was two years old and had driven his battery operated car onto her driveway. She came running out, screaming and hollering, pitching a pointy finger within inches of his face.

I couldn't fathom what I was seeing or hearing at first, it's not possible for an adult voice to erupt in such manner of overreaction and hysterics towards a small child. I'm still flabbergasted as I steer my little boy off her property, tears of fear streaming down his face, and I'v automatically shifted into protective mother mode, bursting into a rant of obscenities.

"You fucking immigrant. You fucking communist, property-lined, territorial fuck wipe."

When I drink I get even. My language becomes vulgar, a certain finesse taking years to master, a rhythm flowing almost poetically, one word strung perfectly with the next, until there is no more breath, and my windpipes fill up once again with a new chorus of slang and rot. She has slighted this juncture in my life with stubborn malthought, her driveway meriting more regard over a little boy, and my memory of moving to my new house is now perverted by her face.

We are still unpacking our belongings while familiarizing ourselves with the new area; the salmon spawning creek aligning our properties, the homing pigeons flying circles above them, and learning neighbor's names, and their kids, which one steals, which one hits.

Our buddies, Steve and Dale helped us with the move, minimally enough to drink free beer and to relax on the front steps to ogle the new desperate housewives. Daniel and I drank, too, in honor of our awe-inspiring purchase, mentally pinching ourselves into the actuality of being here, finally, deep pride having four bathrooms instead of one, where there'd be no more disputes over who gets to poop first.

We starred at our new house, ran up and down the three level of stairs, investigated the creek nearby and laid down in surrounding field, gazing towards the bluest sky on this happiest of days, infecting all around us with absolute bliss, except for Ana. She didn't like the idea of us laying down in the tall grass behind her property, presuming we're passed out drunk, and watched intently for our next stupors from her bedroom window.

It became apparent none of the other neighbors drank, not even casually, nor did they sit on their front stoops, and it also became apparent who they allied with. No one came to welcome us or introduce themselves, keeping an assiduous distance between us, enough to peruse our stuff being loaded off the truck.

It flustered them having ordinary, middle-class folks move into their exclusive neighborhood without claiming to own businesses, or flying airplanes. They thought very highly of themselves, but hid behind false images of company leased vehicles, and tenant income, suites nestled far back in the garden, like a rotten apple.

Ana slurps in Jesus and Christianity and tries to force feed the rest of us with her enlightenment leftovers. Being the Christian she was, denoted a correctness in her actions, whatever acts they were, blessed they are by the Lord, and she will be saved from the likes of me. She doesn't fool us, though, hiding behind the robes of faith, allowing herself exceptions and interpreting her injustices as loving reverence. She's a methodical worshipper, a robotic demeanor with the good Book in hand, and memorized psalms ready for the plucking, as her mouth wags up and down,biblical proverbs fart out in cold stench of disbelief and betrayal.

Daniel and I are not ostentatious and don't need to impress anyone with our circumstance; some of our experiences are not pleasant, some are so fantastic that, to the layman's eye, may appear as a fantasy of our imagination. It truly is the good with the bad that keeps us committed to each other, despite growing bellies and expending youth, we keep each other in check, or in opposition, as necessary. We love our children beyond infinity and it will be a cold day in Hell before I ever allow this woman to onrush them again, even so, Daniel urges I cut her some
slack and let tensions ease.

I have achieved pure hate, an absolute repugnance towards this woman, and I yearned to hire a hit man to blow her fucking head off. I daydreamed about it, laid in my bed at night formulating the kill; the meeting of a junkie on the streets of Vancouver, the shotgun blast exploding her skull wide open, brain matter rocketing feet away from her body, a final gurgling breath, then silence. Sin swelled in my soul every time I saw her, heard her voice, a Hitler-hatred of Jews being marched to the the gas chambers disdain. He was requited, somewhat, as the ash floated in the air, transiently coloring the skies to obscurity, restitution for whatever drove him to his demented design, nonetheless, ensuing his personal gratification.

I erupted my hatred for this cunt every time I saw her in her yard, or in the street, I would shout "fucking immigrant, go home", then continue glutting profanity about Romania being a chicken-shit, communist country full of chicken-shit people, which was the worst calumny imaginable and usually she'd storm off unable to take anymore defamation, gratifying my own indulgence.

Their inferred superiority to us, to all non-Romanian nationals, which was more irritating when a bunch of them showed up, laying cardboard underneath their cars in case of oil leaks. They bragged how their yard is so much bigger than ours, how their daughters can speak English so eloquently, how they are better Canadians than Canadians. They required affirmation to owning the most astonishing house, full of beauteous things, with the most fragrant flowers ever to perfume and behold, dotted within a superlatively manicured lawn.

They actually kept cars in their garage, unlike ours, which was full of kid toys and bikes and camp gear. Ana complained about our vehicles being parked in our driveway and insisted we park in the garage, that is what they are for. She liked the emptiness of the street, with no kids, no vehicles, no noise and found something to complain about when her sense of order was broken.

Every item, small or large, had a proper place and she followed the instruction manuals exactly as written, as if she had grown up watching "Leave it to Beaver" stolen off Sputnik satellite feed. She spoke in manner which was demanding and onerous, and when she attempted to swear at me, she would say "fuck-on-you", which only spurned more loathing towards her iron curtain dialect.

The feud grew as she began blocking my kid's school bus from turning in the cul-de-sac, as she watched for the bus from her garage, then gunning it to the street as it approached my house. She threw cat poop in our swimming pool and one day, upon my return from work, there was a neat pile of cat shit in the middle of my yard. Ana had previously complained about my cat and the poop in her dirt, but we reassured her there were many cats in the area, and besides, we live near a creek full of coyotes and raccoons and strays. Daniel appeased her once by telling her he'd have a talk with our cat and she walked away content with that solution.

We also learned to charm her by remaining in her vaunt conversations, praising all their accomplishments to date, with nary a word in edgewise, again mollifying her for a few more days.


The shit continued to monument itself in my yard, along with dead rats in various stages of decay. A dead rat appeared in front of our curb one day, which we promptly hosed down to slide in front of her house. Ana hosed it back up to us. And so on. After awhile there wasn't much left of the rat, as it was shredded and mangled to unrecognizable bits and pieces on each watery journey.

The poop itself came in all shapes and sizes; big round lumps, long cylinders like popsicle sticks, harden gray pellets, soft and pliable, animal or non-animal, which I seriously deliberated.

She began speeding into the street, from the beginning of the cul-de-sac, straight through to her driveway, laying into her horn the entire time. She understood the standard speed limit on the streets of Surrey was 50km, and in like, drove this fast on our tiny road, confident she wouldn't be fined for speeding. Honking the horn was fair warning to all the children riding their bikes or playing hop-scotch, and she would not brake, easily plowing into them without perceiving an wrongdoing or remorse, after all, the streets are for cars, not for noisy kids. She prodded the children to the backyards, which were still full of rocks and debris from the home builders, certainly not appropriate for bike rides or play.

Still, when we finished landscaping and installing a swimming pool in the back, the kids would splash and laugh out "Marco Polo", Ana would traipse down to the pool deck and tyrannize the children to silence. They were not to be seen or heard, anywhere, anytime, in spite of being within the confines of their own backyard. She held no regard for other's property and went where she pleased, though if you put one foot on hers, she became defensive by such animosity and threatened to call the cops.

On this particular day, the warmth of the sun rejuvenating me, I felt like hero, like Superman, and I unflappably stepped into my family room, pulled out a music CD, and turned the volume up full blast. For the balance of the afternoon, me, the kids in the pool, Ana and her tea party guests dressed in their finery on the deck nearby, were entertained with KISS Destroyer.

Her strict behavior and manner is evident from a communist upbringing, a guarded life, thanksto decades-long rule of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, who took power in 1965, and his police state, becoming increasingly oppressive and draconian through the 1980s. Though Ceausescu was overthrown and executed in late 1989, former Communists dominated the government until 1996, when they were swept from power by an unruly coalition of centrist parties. Rampant corruption and lagging economic and democratic reforms chased her and husband to Canada, and though she came for freedom and opportunities to become a vital individual, Ana is unaware she has instinctively become what she has left behind.

She claimed the portion of the street in front of her house as their own personal property and would come knocking at our door if one of our visitors parked there. She argued and demanded they move, so we did to avoid further embarrassment, and Daniel and I found ourselves capitulating on many occasions for this very reason. Ana controlled us. She controlled the street like a military tank, ready to aim and take fire on anyone who tried to negotiate a fair democratic resolution.

On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, while Daniel and I mused in our garden and the neighborhood deliberately ignored us, the little boy next door was almost hit by her car, and witnessed by his parents. Ana had gone too far and was now being chastised by her one and only friend on the street, the mother of the little boy.

I enjoyed this immensely, the pay back, the moment when someone else recognized what was under the facade of fake laughter and fake gestures of community. I embellished the cries Ana made as she was berated by them, soaked up every last whimper and made certain everyone in the street saw my face of redemption.

It wasn't soon after the mutiny of Ana when the neighborhood initiated discussions with Daniel and myself, idle chit-chat about grass seed, driveway sealers, ordinary crap of little significance, yet in their own way, apologizing.

Camp Dead Whale

Their eyes roll back into deep crevasses, white marbles float behind fluttering lashes and fluttering sound within the lobby at the Institute. Their necks stretch for recognition, for guidance and instructions, as they dance their heads for reassurances of control. They sit in chairs or stand against walls, white canes appended alongside these children who have been inflicted with disease or abnormalities at birth, are waiting in muted choir.

They are going on a trip and will take ferry across the inlet to an Island paradise, to mulct nature and consequences, to pilfer things meant only for the sighted and, until then, reserved only by divinity and for not one less perfect. Sabrina waits amongst them and her daddy smears away the wetness that has uncontrollably escaped his throat and providence. He wants to leave immediately and tell them there's been a big mistake, but Sabrina has already found a chair to sit in, a familiar comfort has chastened her within fluttering lashes and fluttering sounds within the lobby at the Institute for the Blind, a deviation assented by no one.

Some arrest in complete darkness, while Sabrina nervously shudders her head, monitoring her surroundings and the other teens registered for camp. She is wondering which girl will be her roomate, since the rooms are maintained for two guests each. Her daddy wonders, too, and if Sabrina will need to chaperone a white caned kid with white marbled eyes. He wants to flee and desperately questions Sabrina, "are you sure you want to go?" But she is too excited to take trip to the lodge, where she will dwell by the water and float and kayate down streams that snake into the salty taste of the ocean. She is so bloody brave his heart aches.

This damned conflict restrains him from utter sorrow, yet he knows deep down inside his fear this is where she belongs. He lets go and waves one last wave, as the bus pulls out into the busy streets of Vancouver, winding down romantic traffic toward the ferry docks, until Sabrina can no longer see him. She could never see him.

She telephones us the instant they land on the beach and are escorted to their quarters. Our cell phone we gave her is fully charged and we anticipate it's ring, but not as quickly as this, to the exact minute of the itinerary of events. She already sounds different. She sounds older, like confidence. Sabrina says she is safe and that we are not to worry about her, it's a beautiful place and she has friends just like her, "eyes just like me, mom", and there's a hot tub and my friends are Kayla and Duck Boy.

In the background I hear faint sounds "quack, quack" and am convinced she is amongst retards. Blind retards. I whisper one last time, "do you want to come home?" Nod once for yes, two for no. God damned no good for nothing telephones. I accept her silence as an embarrassing conversation she must let go, and "mom, don't be afraid".

Wake up call is 7:00am, to ready the day for adventure and new beginnings. They blast the stereo system into each room, boom-boom-boom, announcers with military overtones, and military threats. Or so she thinks. She doesn't want to wake this early, but reluctantly drags herself out of bed towards the smell of breakfast and toast and jam. It's almost like blind kids can smell the skin of bacon a mile away, even under the cover of wild flowers and drift wood and dead whales.

Sabrina will stuff her belly with enough sustenance to last the entire day, enduring ocean cold waters, and computer-aid labs, and roomate switches and glitches, until she is ready to telephone her parents good-night. Today was a good day and she is tired. Her eyes are tired.

The next phone call is more frantic, as she annoyingly reports that someone has stolen her pyjama bottoms. She's almost blaming me, angered about this turn of event and what should I do now and make things right and it's all my fault. I'm beginning to feel pissed off. She says the girl who switched rooms could have taken them, the girl who is completely blind. I'm calming Sabrina down by telling her it's possible the girl didn't know, after all, she's deaf. Sabrina is momentarily silenced, formulating my comment and how harebrained that seems, eventually concluding how foolish she is being. She is searching her room while we speak, while the new roommate listens in on our conversation, and I immediately understand the Freudian aspect of this phone call.

The fact Sabrina can call her parents, furthermore, the action of searching, is far more revealing and enviable driven to someone who cannot seek out a garment at all, notwithstanding dial a tiny cell phone. Sabrina is spreading her wings, demonstrating how much of a peacock she really is, and finally reports , "Oh, there they are". The fact that she's a slob didn't even figure into the equation, but I had my suspicions.

I'm feeling a bit sorry for the girl who moved out, since Sabrina ransacked through her luggage, shovelling out her belongings in search of pyjama bottoms. I now envision some teenaged girl tapping her cane along corridors, wearing missmatched apparelle, items previously neatly packed to aid in her daily wardrobe selection. But Sabrina is not familiar with these sort of protocols, having some sight has excluded her from a level of correctness only the visually impaired can dispute or repute. Sabrina has never considered herself visually impaired, she has never learned the ordinance of the blind.

She is almost thirteen years old and her lodge-mates are sixteen, seventeen, older and wiser. But Sabrina has better vision than most, better advantage than most. Not everything is brailled and she knows it, now. She has never been amongst her fellowship, has always been lesser than the sighted kids at her school, being teased having to use special soccer balls, or basketballs adapted with bells within them, to rely on other sensory perceptions to play the game, to enable her to be in the game at all. She realizes now she has many bells in her eyes which have, hands down, appointed her a leader, a luminary despite her youth and immaturity, Sabrina is someone to be reckoned with.

And she will use this time well because the week will soon be over and she will eventually return to the life she truly resides, the life of preconceptions. This week she will savour in all her taste and smells and touch, she will soak in every moment of being what it is like to be the sighted one, the bully, the moderator, the wounded, the weak. She will become Sabrina at twelve years old.

In the morning the staff will bang pots and pans and yell for the teens to awaken, the dawn of a new day is approaching, and in the confronting likeliness of her mommy, Sabrina yells from within the warmth of her blankets, "We're blind, not deaf!". I know she will be well in any circumstance, any situation, any darkness.

This kid is my kid and I'm not afraid anymore.

Once Upon a Panic

Once upon a panic I worked in a one girl office, caged up like a lion at a second rate zoo, melancholy wearied by breathing time away and answering telephones for copier machines and calculator orders, equally as tiresome. The view outside my window was the parking lot and I formed phrases and words from acronyms on license plates; DHE 691 became "dirty, horny, easy, 69 once", amusing myself to drain the hours away in niggardly wages and unsolicited boredom.

I'm in my early twenties have decided to become an actress, or a screenplay writer, or a director, anything that will keep me from playing scrabble in my head, and I've signed up for an acting class from a man claiming to have directed many episodes of Danger Bay, or some other dull Canadian show produced with government tax credits for the National Film Board of Canada.

He conducts his class in his high rise apartment situated on the north shore of Vancouver, close to the ski hills and the constellations, and he plays up his connection to Hollywood so that we're all feeling tingly inside, anxious to become the next it factor. Vancouver has become a boomtown in the film industry, with many Hollywood productions coming north for the range of scenery, doubling as many U.S. cities or international landscapes, all in the comforts of a cheap Canadian dollar and flavourful beer.

Our acting teacher informs us of a production currently in need of extras and how this would be an ideal experience to witness a big movie production first hand. I attend the casting call and wait in the long lineup to meet with the casting agents, and soon learn the movie headlines Daryl Hannah, who is well known in the industry by now, especially after her role in "Splash" with Tom Hanks.

The movie is "Clan of The Cave Bear", a story of a young cro-magnon woman raised by neanderthals, and it's adapted from Jean M. Auel's novel, which I would read many years later on the sky train to work. Daryl plays the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Ayla, who is adopted by a bunch of dark, pudgy, short homo sapiens, and I fit the clan perfectly, except for my eyes which are eerily blue against the painted body tan I receive each morning before film rolls.

I am allocated to the Desert Clan, amongst many clans who gather at a ritual meeting, where others will meet the character, Ayla, who herself meets the only other person with blue eyes. It's not me, of course, as I am sent to the backdrop by the director himself, a notoriety I proudly pomp having been told, "you, get out of my shot", and I saunter off to stand with the likes of Creb, Broud, Droug and Zoug.

I wanted to stand up close to Daryl Hannah, James Remar and Thomas Waites, having grown up with celebrity fascination and adoration, to watch them perform, to watch them be real. I am familiar with James Remar and Thomas Waites, both were in one of my favorite movies, "The Warriors". James had a leading role, Thomas' appearance was momentary and unaccredited, but he previously starred with one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino, in "And Justice for All", little tidbits of information that somehow managed to trickle down to the peons.

Of course, I really couldn't recognize them at first because we're all dressed up like cavemen, but in time we'd ascertain the ones wearing the really nice fur skins were the big movies stars, and the ones wearing the thin cow leather, weren't. We film for three days on Bowen Island, a forested retreat just 20 minutes away by ferry from Horseshoe Bay, which is a perfect secluded location, without the bloopers of modern man mistakenly showing up on reel by poor editing.

It's cold when we film, we stand around most of the time waiting for the camera 'B" yell, and eat marvelous meals dispensed by the caterers on site, steak and baked potatoes, fruit salad, anything we wanted appearing out of the blue from the puny confines of a metallic trailer, like Houdini from a chained up trunk.

On one of the breaks I become aware I am standing near Thomas Waites and strike up conversation, asking him what it was like to meet Al Pacino. He is with a couple of other actors, and I will never understand why he did this, as he drops his hand down to grope at his crouch from beneath his fur skin and asks me "how would I like to meet this?"

There's a time and place for vulgarity and I'm not expecting it in the remake of the caveman epoch, nor am I expecting it from a movie star, as I glare at him disdainly. I believe he felt awful the second he blurted his words out at me, pausing in disbelief, wishing he could take the words back and chat up a storm about Al Pacino tomfoolery instead. But it's too late, I'm disenchanted by him and I've already turned away, blaming the cold for my gritting teeth. I have found a fire to stand by, to allow the rising smoke to flog me and cleanse the dirtiness off.

The next days would be the same, repetition of scenes and direction, watching all the little people scurry here and there, production staff rushing with purpose, then the bear comes out and we watch the trainer make him stand up and act grizzly. Upon the third day I am feeling weak and tired, having to wake up at five in the morning, racing to catch a ferry, having hair and makeup applied, only to wait around for hours skimpily dressed, soaked in morning dew.

I immediately recognize it, the hesitation of breathing, the heaviness in my chest as I gasp for air, untutored breath. I am having a panic attack and I'm feeling paranoid, trapped on a tiny Island without a doctor, without a hospital or a defibrillator nearby, which worsens my panic. People beside me have brought my predicament to notice and I am quickly escorted off to a dressing area, which is a large tent hoarding the street clothes of all the extras. I have decided to leave, now, because panic creates an urgency, no matter how mentally absurd it is, I am dying.

I have reached my car and have laid myself on it's hood, just to stop for a minute, to arrest my heart from imploding, when I am unexpectedly approached by a man wearing a huge fur coat, a coat of bear skin. I hold my head up and he cups my face, checking me over for injury, and agrees it has been a long day. It's James Remar and I will never forget his kindness, the embarrassment and awkwardness of myself, not knowing which pair of eyes to look into, his or the ones on the bear hood crowned on his head.

Today, when I see him in a television show, I am reminded of Bowen Island, the grunting dialogue, the hands rendering words and gestures, and how "Ajax" restored my adoration to actors and the movie productions.

I stand by the ferry dock, watching for it in the distant waters, a solitary figment swelling into a hull and superstructure as it sails closer, then the main deck encased in storm rails become visible, and finally the crew who will take me home, safe.

I stand on the banks of Bowen Island for one last time, and she comes to shake my hand and conveys it was nice working with me, though we never met on set. It may have been in my eyes, the fear, the isolation, the regret, the happy ending, as the panic disolves away into the horizon.

Daryl Hannah is going home, too. She walks away, so tall, so skinny and beautiful, like a Mermaid.

Fair to Midland, Fair to Midland

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.