In which I B surprising

I am resisting, with everything in me that has the strength to resist, making B be for books.  I am not so predictable as that! No, I am surprising and capricious, and for that reason, I give you:

An Ode to a Bookmark

 

O, little bookmark

Tattered and dear,
How delighted I am
To have found you here.

 

My memory is fuzzy

I’m sure I forgot
Just where I was
In this confounded plot.


It is very short, but sometimes that is very sweet.
I've spent the day thinking about the bookmarks that litter my home - the favourites I use again and again, not because they're special but because they feel right tucked in a book.  I use postcards, grocery receipts, strips torn from napkins, promotional material from publishers, and those plastic ones with cheap wool tassels on you can buy from school book fairs. My favourite of these is a Garfield one that says, "Cats are keen, cats are great, cats are clean they lick your plate." And a Peanuts one showing Snoopy on his doghouse. It says, "I love this place".  Only I lost that one, as I left it in a book I returned to the library. 
This may sound odd, but there is a bookmark that stands out in my memory, and it is the one my dad used from as far back as I can remember. It was stamped leather. I don't remember what I once said, since the letters have faded, but as he only read one book at a time (great serious tomes of history, mostly) he only used the one bookmark, and it had become so smooth, so supple through use and age, but it never lost its earthy leather scent.
I like finding someone else's bookmarks in old books. I imagine something about what they're like based on the bookmark, and wonder what else we might have in common, and if they've maybe read this other book I'm reading... .
I'm not the only one, as this website attests to.  Check it out; it's fun, sometimes humorous, sometimes touching reading.

In which A is for alarm

In which A is for Alarm

It’s the crack of dawn.

Actually, it’s before the crack of dawn.  If I had a rooster, it would still be sleeping right now. But I don’t have a rooster; what I do have is crickets. They wake me up by chirping incessantly and repetitively until I silence my phone, whence their simulated sound come. The rooster I don’t have would make a mental note to itself to eat those crickets at some point during the day, before they have a chance to try their same nasty trick again tomorrow morning.

I thought the sound of crickets would be more soothing than, say, a shrieking air-raid siren but I was wrong about that. Don’t get me wrong – I far prefer the sound of crickets to shrieking sirens of any stripe, but as a person who jumps out of her skin if you say “Tess!” in a quiet room, I think anything above the sound of a snail’s glistening slide would be startling at 6 o’why-am-I-awake.

Are you familiar with Snooze Button Mathematics? It’s the built-in wiggle room you give yourself the night before when you set the clock, and the negotiations you undertake in the morning when the crickets summon you from the blissful arms of…. something wonderful I can never really remember when awake, but anything dreamt of must be wonderful, mustn’t it, because you are, after all, asleep. The morning negotiations go something like this: Do I have to wash my hair this morning?  No = 15 extra minutes. Did I remember to pack a lunch last night? Yes = 5 extra minutes. Do I know what I’m going to wear today? Yes = 5 extra minutes. Did it snow last night?  No = 10 extra minutes (no scraping time required)

And so on, hopefully netting an extra half hour during which my pretend rooster and I swat at the crickets every nine minutes, and otherwise snuggle with great delight into the pillows which suddenly feel like the most comfortable place on earth (they weren’t as cooperative the night before during the tossing and turning portion of the program) (that’s Murphy for you).

Alarm means ‘anxious feeling of danger’ or to inspire that feeling.  Isn’t that a terrible way to begin the day?

The Golden Hour

The Golden Hour

 

There is a golden hour when the colour of light is like a beautifully soft rose velvet shot through with slender gold filaments, muted with time. It reminds me of something I’ve seen in a painting, but I can’t remember where.

 It touches the landscape in the time before dusk. There is still light enough to be called day, but has the faded sepia tone suggesting age. The hours are older now, and biding their last strength for the spectacular burst of sunset.

There is a beautifully limbed tree in view from my kitchen window. The gilded rose of light brushes softly down one side of its trunk and drapes itself in a languid puddle on the ground. Rows of tiny willows marching along behind wear golden crowns, their scraggly heads given borrowed majesty.

 

With the light comes a beckoning, a soft call to be still, to absorb this gift of gentle beauty. To me it is like the footprint left behind when God walks through His garden in the quiet time of the day.

Ruins: a story in five sentences

 
Five Sentence Fiction from Lillie McFerrin Writes in which a story is told using only five sentences, inspired by one word.
This week's word is: Ruins.





Ruins

Five guests sat in an awkward silence so complete the ticking of the clock on the upstairs landing sounded like an ominously insistent metronome. One of the gentlemen tried to distract himself by watching to see if he could hear when the dust motes landed on the coffee table. He couldn't. Anyone entering the room just then would never believe that only moments before, the house had been filled with a cry of surprise followed by exclamations of horror, then wails of disappointment that brought all five friends in a swirling tangle of flying skirts and carefully pressed trousers to the kitchen where they piled up against each other in the doorway with one indrawn gasp of disbelief at the sight of a cat daintily licking buttercream icing off its paw. It was sitting like a queen on her throne atop a carefully crafted three-tiered birthday cake.

 

Of ducks and harbours.

While playing 'Dodge the pothole' on my way to work in the morning, I see a beguiling sight.

I drive on a major roadway - Canadians will know what I mean when I say it's a 400 series - which in my neck of the woods follows the south shore of the big lake. In one section, a low bridge takes us over a charming harbour (where rests a lighthouse and a pirate ship, two very cool things in close proximity). Despite the cold temperatures and general miserableness of this year's winter weather, a portion of the water on the inland side has remained open in a crescent shape.

I noticed what at first I thought were rocks dotting one segment of the arc right where open water meets ice. The water was very low, or so I thought, for rocks to be poking out like that.  Good thing nobody would be attempting to navigate a dinghy around there today.  Each day I noticed the rocks had a peculiar shape, but we zip by so very quickly it's hard to take in the details - particularly when the tractor-trailer pulling up beside you is insisting on his right to your lane - ... and then I finally realized: not rocks, but ducks! Or geese! Or gulls!  They were birds of some sort!  Sitting with their feathered little bums perched on the ice, dangling their webbed toes in the water, all in a gentle, curving row, like wee black gems on a necklace.

Every day, there they are, sitting in the exact same spots. It looks like the exact same number of them. I wonder, is it the same birds, morning after morning?  Are they frozen in place?  Do they need rescuing?  What is the avian version of a St. Bernard? If they all tried to take off at once, would they lift the frozen harbour with them?  Would any of the time-stressed people on the road with me notice such a thing?

These are the thoughts that fill my mind as I head to the big city to start my day of work.

From Linkin Park to Vienna

Happy Mardi Gras!

Lent begins tomorrow.  Are you giving anything up?  Taking on something extra?

I'll be starting a new job on Monday. I have to be there at 8am. That's feeling penitential after a year of not leaving the house until 9.25 for a 9.30 start. The interviewlette resulted in a job offer!

Hopefully it's not a misunderstanding.

On a piece of paper on my desk is written out a daily regimen for the next 40+ days. There's very little time for sloth and idleness (eh, Phipps?). I will also, if I have to strap myself into the chair, finally read Dante's Inferno. It's been gathering dust on the bedside table for 6 months. I know... pathetic attempt to hog the last brownie.

Giddiness has settled in. One shouldn't attempt to compose when one is feeling giddy. I can't seem to help myself though, as it is also enabling my procrastination habit.  I have four articles due by Thursday.  Four!

Also, one should select mood appropriate music when one is attempting to create thoughtful prose. Eve 6, Finger Eleven, Three Days Grace are conducive to dancing in the kitchen rather than productive reflection at the desk.

Calling Herr Brahms... Herr Brahms?

The blip that was February

Like Ross and Rachel, I've been on a break. My job came to an end as January wound to a close. There were no prospects (the interview of the disco ball lip gloss turned out to be for a job already given to an internal candidate of that institution. Ah well.) and all I knew was that library jobs are more scarce than a Republican and a Democrat who get along. I also knew, somehow, that I was going to be ok for the month of February. Along came the proofreading gig that plumped my wallet nicely, and a cheque I'd forgotten I'd be receiving this month.  You know what?  I was fine for the month of February.

Figuring that job searching would take only so much time of every day, I decided I was going to write. Seriously write. Every day.  What happened?  Dear Reader, I did not write, beyond what obligation required of me. I didn't bake bread like I thought I would. I didn't master pie crust, clean the windows, scrub the oven, empty and organize the closets or finish The Inferno. And I don't feel guilty. Well, ok, maybe a little. I must have been internalizing the stress which causes me to freeze, somehow. Plus, I realize that for the year in New Town, and my year here in Lake Town, I haven't had any holiday. I've worked two years straight.  I know... woe to me. 

The result is that while I haven't been productive during these last 23 days, I feel ready to tackle life once more.  Today I started back supplying in school libraries - a challenging job sure to produce humorous anecdotes. Last week I went on  yet another interview, this one so short I'm not sure it qualifies as such. Do we call a very short job interview an interviewlette? If we'd met over coffee, my drink would still have been too hot for me to drink it by the time I left the building.  Regardless, it looks like I may have a placement for the rest of the school year with the school board. The library coordinator told me today to brace myself because the state of the library I'll be at beginning next week might cause librarian heart failure. I look forward to that.  Good thing I'm ready for a challenge!

Coincidentally, Lent begins next week. This year I'll be giving up the internet for entertainment purposes. I want to spend time doing the things I didn't do during my time off - I want to reinstitute morning prayer with the Liturgy of the Hours, spend more time on creative pursuits especially writing. It's funny for someone who lives a quiet life alone, but I want to slow down.  Be more deliberate in what I do, and be more present while I do them.

Where ever you are and whatever you're doing, I hope  you're warm and content.