It’s been about 6 years and I don’t
remember much except that I was
lucky she chose to die when I
was planning my holiday. I guess
I’ve always been kinda lucky with
death. One Uncle died while
I was returning from a motorcycle
trip so I was able to swing by for that.
Another gave me a much needed
mid-week break at work. My Grandma
though, she laid in her hospital bed
breathing raspy, short filled breaths
that gave an odd smell matching
their odd sound. It was a sound
you’d think would be easy to
fix, like an obvious gash or broken
bone, but they evidently couldn’t.
So she laid there feigning sleep
while we filled in the spaces between
her breaths with our own sounds
that too, needing fixing. Together,
it was a terminal symphony.
When we reached the end of
that day’s round (played as a round
or course, as it often didn’t know when to
quit) I jumped on an intermission -
“No, I’ll stay with her. You guys
go and I’ll just sit here for a
while and meet you at home. I’ll
call if something happens.”
As they left I felt a weight
removed. Now it was just me and
Grandma, like it used to be when
we’d sit there watching her stories
or when I bothered her in the
kitchen while she fixed beans
or peeled dutch potatoes. She had
opened her eyes just briefly in
the 24 hours I’d been there, but
I knew she could hear. I don’t
think she moved once either.
So I pulled my chair up a little
closer and, somewhat uneasily,
held her hand. I’m not big on hand-
holding. Part of that’s a guy thing but
a bigger part is that it’s just the way
I am. She knows that too. As I
sat there comfortably with her hand
and her raspy breathing and that
odd smell, I found an odd ease in
the rhythm of it all and soon dozed off.
The previous day’s drive had caught
up with me I guess, and I headed straight
into rom and awoke, seemingly,
as quickly as I had nodded off. It
was surprising, that instant I woke,
and I sensed a strange absence.
My eyes fixed on the source
of that sound that had earlier
sent me off …and I waited for it.
And waited. Math never came
easy to me especially as a kid (I blame
Mrs. Gafuik) so it took me a while to put
the two two’s together to figure out
that that raspy breathing had come
to a stop. A dead stop.
After it sunk in I realized her hand
was still in mine. It was dry, but I
wouldn’t say cold but more room
temperature. And I didn’t think to
move it, which is weird because
most kids holding a dead hand would
want to move it even a little. The
clock told me 40 minutes had past?!
I quickly got up and figured it best to tell
someone what happened so I went out
into the hall and started toward the person
at the desk mumbling something about
“…she stopped breathing. I fell asleep
and didn’t know but she must of
stopped…” to which the pink-gowned
girl seemed relieved and said it was ok
(which I thought was weird as someone
just died ….but like I said I’m not good at
math) and she talked about how my
Grandpa is probably still awake which
got me thinking about calling him and Mom…
so I did. And I didn’t go back in there
either. I stayed in the hall
while everyone else went in,
and I just paced around the front
lobby reading and rereading stuff they
had on the walls and thinking about
how the funeral would be in a few
days and then I’d get home almost
to the day that I had planned on leaving.
And I’m thinking how convenient
her death was, and how perhaps
she waited for me like she did when I
was a kid getting distracted
doing my kid things, and how luck
probably had very little to do with it.
lucky with death
28 01 2012Comments : Leave a Comment »
Tags: death, grandma, poems, poetry
Categories : poetry and photography
when silence sounds
24 01 2012What do you have when silence sounds,
when breaths are heard and night resounds?
When meaning stalls and promise fades
while voices trail as if not made?
Or what of steps that measure not
between the places least forgot
but lie across (so freshly pressed)
a Winter’s coat exposed? Undressed.
And what of life (that Grand Routine)
at quest for something more pristine -
is it enough to warrant hope?
To stave the end enough to cope?
I’ve heard it said “Death is built in.”
A saving grace or life’s chagrin?
(There’s no need to commit right now.
Discuss amongst your group.) And how
about that face? That look, threadbare…
that found me in the window’s glare?
Forget it now …the clock has turned and shown its pace
while sleep impedes the answer that I seem to chase.
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Tags: poems, poetry
Categories : poetry and photography
ooops
4 12 2011I got a little carried away the other day/night and did a bit too much ‘leg’ stuff. In my defense I was feeling better as the headaches and nauseousness had somewhat abated, however it certainly didn’t permit me to go about my regular routines ….of which I did. The result is a more swollen knee. Yea me. Sunday is the day of rest though so I kept the housecoat on, played some trombone, watched a wonderful (which doesn’t imply happy) movie called Goodbye Solo, got far enough into The Book Of Negros to make a gift decision (the yea’s have it) tidied up some of this and that and was somewhat satisfied with my manoeuvrings over a small bit of poetic verse.
And heck, it even rhymes!
how’s that for old school
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Tags: books, knees, movies, poetry
Categories : poetry and photography
a cat
10 11 2011A cat.
A hat.
A Louisville baseball bat.
A swing.
A miss.
One hell of a noise and hiss.
A look.
A grin.
Kids. The original sin.
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Tags: canadian poems, kids, mischievous, poetry, the cat and the hat
Categories : poetry and photography
algebraic consequences
26 09 2011
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Tags: algebraic consequences, poetry
Categories : poetry and photography
whew…
11 03 2011
Image from IMDb
Adjustment Bureau is a waste of time kids. It boils down to breaking free of your pre-determined path only to be given another one. What joy. I suppose I should of wasted my $8.50 on some big screen special effects via Battle: Los Angeles …but I knew that ending before it began so I spared myself the grief. I am looking forward to the Marvel/DC flood that seems almost upon us though, at least for some big screen, rattle your bones action that is. Perhaps I’ll save my buttons till then.
My knee has been sucking for the longest while lately too, which sucks because I can’t ‘move’ like I’d like to, and it seems that on the days when it’s not too bad it only alternates with my sucky neck. I wonder if I whiplashed myself or something. Can that happen? I’ll google that later. Maybe it’s time for some sort of sensual massage or something.
Speaking of limited flexibility, this video got me a little concerned about my lack of mobility. I know it’s me …and I know I should put the effort into working on that aspect of my health. I’ll blame my culture ;) Us Canadians are made for the cold it seems …stereotypically of course. But if I had some warm weather for longer than the few months it’s around then maybe I’d stretch out of that ‘under the covers fetal’ position that I’ve become so accustomed to. No excuses though, and I suppose I could turn the heat up in the house.
Image from Wiki.
I did watch something called Amal a few days ago. It’s a Canadian film set in New Delhi and is one of those feel good movies that reaffirms the idea of people being good for the sake of being good. Rent it if you get the chance. I was inspired half-way through to write a little ditty (that I hate now but I’ll post anyway…) so if that’s any indication then there you go. I also, after digging around on a high-school buddies facebook page not so long ago, came across the fact that a girl I went to school with called Padma Viswanathan, is a successful novelist. Neat! Anyway, I picked up one of her latest offerings called ‘The Toss of a Lemon‘ and have just started into the first 60 of some 600 or so pages. I’ll give your the verdict when I’m through (which knowing me may be a while) but so far so good. The sad thing though is that I hardly remember her, and I have the feeling we were in both High School and Junior High together. Lol, such is my much forgotten youth. Maybe that’s why my achy bones are coming back to haunt me.
Image from Wired.com
And what about that Karma! (smooth, I know) But consider this article by Jonah Lehrer describing a study that shows how women (and men I’m sure too) cast themselves into roles based on expectations and not abilities. We seem to have had interest of late regarding International Woman’s Day and how they, women that is, are still behind the gender 8-ball when it comes to business and pay equality. And so I wonder, why couldn’t you make the case for affirmative action based on the phycological need for inspiration? There may be some science behind it.
Image from Conscious Entities
And while talking about things I know nothing about maybe this post might interest you. It’s one of those blogs that when new posts come up in my news reader, I kinda shy away from until I can get a few minutes …or rather hours, to take a good look at. Lol, and even then… Anyway, it’s about how we quantify experience, or at least try to, and aside from giving you answers and a great history lesson on the progression of different thinkers, it also leaves you with as many questions. It seems I’m still drawn to Peter Lynds idea on consciousness being tied into a way of perceiving. The way he tosses away ‘instants’ just somehow makes me want to throw out ‘numbers’ and ‘words’ as well.
I mean, can you really prove the number one as being ‘one’ thing? Ditto for the word ‘one’ for that matter; what exactly does it mean? Or are they simply things we just notice …much like that voice or those thoughts and experiences floating through our brains all the time.
Stupid brains.
—————————————————————–
When you strip it all away -
when the image falls and the
pride recedes to shame,
you find the truth.
The tears. You find yourself,
and in that reflection, hope.
You find a song so simple.
A color true. You find the world
as it once was. And as the
tree whose greatest majesty
lies buried from sight,
so too is the strength that
springs you forth again.
Comments : 3 Comments »
Tags: adjustment bureau, affirmative action, amal, canadian poetry, conscious entities, consciousness, flexibility, indian culture, international woman's day, jonah lehrer, karma, padma viswanathan, peter lynds, poetry, stretching, the toss of a lemon, thor, yoga
Categories : articles, books, movies etc., current events, poetry and photography, religion, spirituality, philosophy, sports, fitness and health, the other stuff
swept into life…
24 12 2010
Comments : 3 Comments »
Tags: canadian poetry, clouds, death, earth, heaven, impermanence, life, poetry, wind
Categories : poetry and photography
old days
19 11 2010A few excerpts from Chapter 10 of Gorky’s My Childhood (translated by Ronald Wilks)…
“When I’d taken up my position I watched the grown-ups trying hard to show they weren’t bored and the strange and suspicious way the watchmaker’s face changed expression. It was oily, and seemed to run and flow like liquid. If he smiled, his thick lips moved towards his right cheek, and his small nose also travelled about, like a boiled meat dumpling on a plate. His large protruding ears moved very strangely. At times they rose with the eyebrow of his sound eye, and then dropped down towards his cheekbones: I thought that, if he’d wanted to, he could use them like hands and cover up his nose. Sometimes he would sigh, stick out his black tongue, round as a pestle, nimbly describe a perfect circle with it, and lick his thick greasy lips.”
“Long afterwards I understood that to Russians, through the poverty and squalor of their lives, suffering comes as a diversion, is turned into a game and they play at it like children and rarely feel ashamed of their misfortune. In the monotony of everyday existence grief comes as a holiday, and a fire is an entertainment. A scratch embellishes an empty face.”
————————————————————–
The following poem was inspired by something in Chapter 11.
the old days were young days;
weighted with memories half-
formed and wrought of emotions
pieced hurriedly together.
they were measured by
untrained eyes and with
hands smooth, naked of time.
they were of fears unwarranted.
they were of naive intentions,
few regrets and steeped in
simplifications that have long
since been reformed.
they were shells of what we are
yet, eerily, what we are.
and still we find the need to reminisce.
of days themselves …or is it truth we miss?
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Tags: canadian poetry, childhood memories, Gorky, Maxim Gorky, My Childhood, old days, Penguin Classics, poetry, Ronald Wilks
Categories : articles, books, movies etc., poetry and photography
