Category: Uncategorized

Heh.

Sat in traffic for an hour. Inched along and got hot. Felt annoyed because the cars didn’t move even though they all had places to go. Then the traffic cleared up and I was late.

The Boomtown Rats were right. Have I said that before? I’m sure I have.

Felt sick all day. What else is new ragdoll, you ask? A fat lot of nothing. There was an ant in the house today. I got stuck in two traffic jams, one on the way to work this morning and another on the way to see the specialist for a disease check up. Almost had the runs at work, AT WORK! Am disappointed in myself that I haven’t been doing any writing. The new issue of Taddle Creek came and went and I didn’t hear anything about the two poems I sent. Bah!

Hey, at least I’m not dead yet. And Six Feet Under starts up again today. And the weather’s beautiful. And my garden is growing. It’s not all bad.

They are still alive. I am still attacking.

Ah, the Friday afternoon feeling crappy and lying on the couch wishing that it wasn’t so beautiful outside because you can’t move book that you can finish in less than two hours. Ah, Gemma Townley, taking a page from your sister, literally, and writing a predictable, unassuming book that will sell like wild cakes because people love chicklit, myself included. Ah, if it weren’t a way to pad my list, I’d leave books like this off completely. Ah, but if I were a bigger person who could actually concentrate while dealing with Wegener’s Granulomatosis. Ah, but if I weren’t so utterly and totally sick of watching television and bad movies. Ah, Little White Lies, you served your purpose. You got my mind off the disease for a short period of time and that’s all I can really ask of a book of your sort.

After three solid days of feeling like complete crap, I woke up on Saturday morning feeling much better. I had made plans with Zesty to make a trip to Humber Nurseries and buy plants for our front garden. We spent, ahem, loads and bought some really neat plants, Black-Eyed Susans, poppies, lavender, ferns, sweet little baby’s breath and some other stuff I can’t remember.

Now, keep in mind, I’ve never gardened before. Unlike Zesty, who should open up her own firm called Urban Girls Gardeners. She’s awesome. It’s like watching someone utterly and completely in their element, a whole new side of someone I’ve known now for the better part of twenty years. It was quite incredible.

Then I managed to go for a bike ride to see Manny, the osteopath, who ended up doing some wacky treatments where he wore a glove and stuck his fingers in my mouth. It was surreal to say the least. The man remains truly amazing for his ability to capture the essence of what’s wrong with my body: all of the places he treated are the ones affected by the disease.

By the time I got home, the RRBF was home so we went to our local pub and had dinner. We then walked around our old neighbourhood, visited the CD store, and he bought me a Wilco album (“Seventeenth”). We had just watched the documentary I Am Trying To Break Your Heart; it’s all about the recording of their record, “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.” All in all, a great Saturday.

Too much to ask even, that when I woke up this morning, I had energy. We went out to eat breakfast, got home, cleaned the house, went to see Cinderella Man (predictably good) and have made dinner. It’s amazing to feel like a normal person. A gift after the week I had last week.

Back to work tomorrow. Fingers crossed my good luck, good mood and relatively good health holds up. It’s back to the doctor tomorrow.

Joseph Boyden’s Three Day Road is one of those rare books that you read and automatically believe will become a classic of Canadian, if not world, literature.

Three Day Road tells the story of two Native Canadian men, Xavier Bird and Elijah Whiskeyjack, who leave Northern Ontario to join the army and fight in the First World War. Interspersed with Xavier’s story is the story of his aunt, Niska, who raised him.

It’s a haunting, intelligent and meticulously researched book that provides a very different perspective on the war. But it’s also a wonderfully genuine novel about the love of one woman for her nephew, for her way of life, and how the world changed the Native Canadian experience both by its modernization and by the evils of colonialism. Xavier’s life changes the minute he steps out of his canoe and into a world where bombs explode and morphine addiction becomes a way of life for many of the young soldiers.

It’s a book that deals with the heroic actions of the Canadians, of how it changed our national identity, but only in context to Xavier’s very real and very different perspective on life as a Canadian solider. As the tale circles around the relationship between the two men, Xavier, quiet, withdrawn, and Elijah, outgoing and with a talent for languages, they change in ways that Boyden carefully relates through how they deal with the war.

It’s a glorious novel, and one that I won’t be able to forget any time soon. One that resonates with you even though your stomach is churning and your own body refuses to rest.

My favourite phrase from Anne of Green Gables, “the depths of despair,” seems to sum up how I’ve been feeling the last few days. On Wednesday night, all seemed so hopeful as I’m blogging about Chicklit and other good things. Then at about 8 PM, everything fell apart, including my body.

I threw up everything in my stomach, and suffered awfully, ahem, in the other direction, and I started running a fever again. My body sort of collapsed on me just going through the regular motions of being a girl. And I’m still feeling weak, tired and mentally exhausted by it all.

At least I see the doctor on Monday and can find out what’s happening with the disease. I’m tired of being scared all the time.

Chicklit is five today. Five! I remember when that sight was born and I was posting as one of the very first contributors. Ah, and one of the articles that I’ve written that I actually like, about Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses and Billy Bob Thornton’s movie adaptation.

Oh, and the first time I got negative press in Bookslut, for the review I wrote of Steve Martin’s truly awful Shopgirl, was also courtesy of Chicklit. Go Chicklit!

My poetry class continues to go well. Last night I read another poem of the 12 I had written (one for each month, love poems); it’s called simply “April.” Again, the teacher said, “It’s really strong.” Which seems to be his blanket comment for all of my poems, not saying it’s a bad comment, but wish that the class didn’t sit totally mute for a minute before saying anything about them. Last night they spent a lot of time talking about me, and my reluctance to read out loud before really talking about the poem. Oh well, it’s all good experience. I wish I had the time to send more poems out—it’s something I’ll promise myself to do this summer.

Heh. Westminster Abbey is now giving tourists a pamphlet explaining the factual inaccuracies of The Da Vinci Code. I’m consistently amazed at the inability for people to grasp the fact that this book is fiction, which means it’s made up, not real, invented, exaggerated, and all the other wonderful things that flow from a writer’s mind to the page.