on cherries and chipmunks

The chipmunk is continuing to prove to be elusive (look closely in the middle of the first shot and you can see it scrambling down the cedar tree), while the cherries are anything but. In fact, it's getting hard to leave the house without either being pelted by one (plop! goes another), or slipping on them. Yes, I suppose I should clean it up, but I'm trying to bribe the little munk into providing me with a close-up. So far, the third shot is the best I've gotten, but I'm not giving up! Yet.

simply put

"To the right, books; to the left, a tea-cup. In front of me, the fireplace; behind me, the post. There is no greater happiness than this." —TEIGA

what's old is new again

Okay, it's time to pull out one of my old humour columns. And not because I've been too lazy to write anything else. Well, maybe it is, but if it is, I ain't telling.

My local newspaper was kind enough to publish this column way back in 1999—hence the outdated political reference in the last paragraph. Wow, where has the time gone?

CONFESSIONS OF AN AVOWED READAHOLIC

It could be worse I suppose; I could still be smoking. But it's clearly out of control. I just can't stop. And temptation lurks everywhere. I mean, if I was addicted to alcohol, I'd just avoid liquor stores. But how can I possibly avoid reading? Just getting the mail poses a daily threat.

I should have known trouble lay ahead when I found myself having to explain to high school friends why a dictionary had been my favourite Christmas gift. Or earlier, during my 10th summer, when librarians finally stopped noticing my weekly 10-book drop-off. Or during university, when I ceremoniously declared to roommates that it was Margaret Atwood Day, just so I could skip classes and read her latest release.

There should be a support group for people who read too much, or too compulsively (yes, that includes those of us who feel guilty for not perusing—or at least skimming every section of the newspaper). Something like Readers Anonymous. And even if I no longer bought anything to read (I'm now at the point where I encourage people NOT to return what they've borrowed), I'd still have enough material to last me for years. So why did I recently subscribe to the local paper when it'd be a lot easier to avoid getting it otherwise? Am I a masochist to boot?

In my own defense I must say that I no longer keep track of all the books I want to read. Oddly though, that seemed to coincide with the season finale of TVO's Imprint (one of my favourite shows of course), which sadly left me as deeply in mourning as if a friend had gone on extended vacation. And daytime television, traditionally at least, used to provide a safe haven from the questionable behaviour of reading. Way to go, Oprah.

Being a writer doesn't help either. It just means having to revise my own words, which invariably leads to dictionary consultations (still more reading), and before you know it the whole morning's shot. Besides, writing is dangerous as well. Especially personal essays. They have a bad habit of revealing who you really are. It'd help if I was better at lying—but I digress.

Part of the problem I think is my obsessive need to complete a book once I've started. It's like hearing my mom's voice from years ago urging me to clean my dinner plate: "It's a sin to waste," echoes loudly in my head. Books even enter my dreams. I swear I can read in my sleep. My eyes follow the letters going by, although I can't always tell what the passage is about. One of my recurring nightmares, not surprisingly, has to do with books piling up higher and higher.

I've considered getting one of those T-shirts that says, So Many Books ... So Little Time, but as I won't publicly admit to any other vice, why start advertising my worst one? Maybe I should be registered as a dangerous bibliophile. On the other hand, I don't think it's completely my fault. Why don't bookstores and libraries post: DANGER. POTENTIAL ADDICTION HAZARD. ENTER AT OWN RISK warning signs? At least cigarette packs informed me of my foolish ways.

And speaking of libraries, once I discovered that I could put books on hold on my home computer—I went nuts. Apparently, bingeing applies to books as well. Now I keep getting these notices that they're ready to be picked up, all it seems, at the same time. And on the topic of computers, have you noticed that even the Internet does little to try to stop you from reading?

It's also occurred to me that the amount of time spent reading, writing, reading about writing, writing about reading, and even reading about reading (I'm a sucker for titles like How Reading Changed My Life), could be considered indecent. And that doesn't even include thinking about any of the above-mentioned items.

How on earth do other people manage? Maybe it's a good thing I'm unemployed; how else would I have time to read anything? (Uh oh, hope Mike Harris doesn't hear about this—he might invent a workfare program even for those not on social assistance.) Could I be paid to read? And of late I'm beginning to wonder if books somehow pick me, instead of me picking them, but that's another story. By the way, could somebody please remind me to cancel my book club membership soon? Thanks.

our cherries are getting ripe

So it's too bad I don't really like them, since we have five trees!

true life

"True life is lived when tiny changes occur." —LEO TOLSTOY

I think I'm in love

with my beach crocs. They are everything they said they would be: soft, lightweight, supportive (I can't wear flip-flops), cushiony, cool, and SUPER comfortable. You know how much I dislike the heat. Well, the only thing worse than getting hot in the summer is my feet getting hot, but I think these crocs will do the trick.

I saw my first pair of crocs in the home I clean every Monday, and while my initial reaction was that they were the ugliest things I'd ever seen (they were bright yellow), I gingerly slipped my feet in (sshh, don't tell!) and was surprised at how great they felt. So, I Googled as soon as I got home, and now I have my own.

They come in more colours than you can imagine, are reasonably priced, and hey, why am I not being paid for this promotion? Anyway, check out their website.

"We do not need to be shoemakers to know if our shoes fit, and just as little have we any need to be professionals to acquire knowledge of matters of universal interest." —GEORG HEGEL

couldn't resist

Now, I just had to show you the technically-not-a-mug (but a demitasse?) that I picked up a few years ago. It's always a bit of a thrill when I run across stuff in thrift stores that display my native tongue, and I thought this particular item was quite comical. The Dutch proverb loosely translates as: better half an egg than an empty shell. Snort.

my first meme—woohoo!

Thanks, Veronica, for tagging me. Hmmm, favourite mug. Well, unfortunately, I got rid of a whole bunch during one of my last moves (including the one about how most Scorpios get murdered—honestly, why would I give away a mug displaying a bright green frog with a bloody dagger through his heart kindly warning me of my destiny?), but I did manage to keep a couple. Including the one up above that a neighbour and friend gave to me, whom I'm happy to report, is still a neighbour and a friend even after a number of years and a move on my part (I ended up moving back to the exact same apartment last year).

but why ten?

Notice of course that there are TEN keys to success. Now why does it usually have to be 10 (or 7) keys, steps, rules, lessons, secrets, habits, ways or whatnots in those lists and books that they're constantly cranking out? Why can't it be 8, 9, or 11? Oh I know, those aren't the numbers we've come to expect, but that, in and of itself, would make me think that there just might be something to whatever program is being touted. Think about it. How can it always be a nice even 10? It often just makes me suspect that there are in fact fewer real keys, but that a couple were invented to round up the number. Anything with exactly 9 keys, steps or rules would make me trust it more. (I'm sure they're out there of course, but none come to mind now and I'm too lazy to check.) Wow, I'd say to myself, these folks may actually know what they're talking about. They didn't stretch it to make it an even 10, no, they're being honest and upfront and 9 is just what you need to achieve whatever changes they're recommending. And 11 steps? Now that would get my attention even more. That would tell me that just following the first 10 steps, while almost guaranteeing results, won't quite get you there. Nope, this program needs a bit of an extra oomph to give you complete success. A program with 11 steps—oh let's go wild and make it 13—THAT'S what I'd like to see!

Hmmm, but now that I think about it, if I were to see 9 or 11 steps in future, I'll think they've done it for exactly the reasons just outlined. No, from now on I'd better only trust it if it has precisely 14 steps. Snort.

the ten keys to success

1. curiosity
2. decisiveness
3. perseverance
4. empathy
5. flexibility
6. follow-through
7. humour
8. intelligence
9. optimism
10. respect

I like this list. I really do, regardless of what I say in the next entry. Snort. Unfortunately, I can't remember exactly where it's from, although I might have read it in Julie Jansen's I Don't Know What I Want, But I Know It's Not This.

gentle reminder to self

Couldn't resist this cheerful (yet slightly admonishing?) tile in a nearby thrift store a few years ago.

work is love

Work is Love made visible.
And if you can't work with love but only with distaste,
It is better that you should leave your work
and sit at the gate of the temple and
take alms of the people who work with joy.

— Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

can you see them?

The bird and squirrel I mean. The über cute chipmunk is proving to be equally elusive, but I'm determined to get a photo (preferably a close-up!) real soon.

A Start in Life (by Anita Brookner)

Who can resist a book (especially at 25 cents) that begins like this: Dr Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by literature. I'm not sure how much I actually enjoyed this novel (I found it exceedingly sombre, yet was so drawn in by the writing that I couldn't stop reading), but I imagine that not having read her work before it may have served as a good introduction. If most of her books are like this though, I'm not sure if I'd want to gobble them all up, or avoid them altogether. But before I decide, does anyone have a favourite Anita Brookner novel that they feel I MUST read?

My favourite passage (which probably says more about me than about the book):

But now things were different. Work was a refuge and she found herself unable to seek that particular sort of asylum. Work, she thought, is a paradox: it is the sort of thing people do out of sheer inability to do anything else. Work is the chosen avocation of those who have no other calls on their time. (p. 67)

longing

"If we are not capable of doing or having something we will not have an authentic yearning for it. It's as simple as that." —DEBBIE FORD

Not a profound statement perhaps, but when I read this a number of years ago it somehow helped me to realize that my longing to write was valid, and that I could probably even develop the skill to do so. It was very freeing for me, even though it seems a bit silly now that it almost felt like I needed permission first.

[note: insert dramatic sigh]

I'm having another one of those Who-Am-I-Kidding-I-Can't-Write-Worth-Crap days. Ugh. Still, it could be worse. On Really Bad days, I even consider removing Humour in front of the word Columns from the nice orange banner up above because I've decided that not only can I not write, but also that what I do write isn't the least bit funny. Not even a poke-fun-mainly-at-myself-because-it's-rude-to-make-fun-of-others type of funny. Oh, the verbal self-flagellation that goes on! Eventually it does stop of course, but I still haven't found an effective way to prevent it from starting up in the first place.

The one thing I've learned though is that wandering around in the blogosphere when you're having one of those days is not, I repeat NOT, a good solution in trying to convince yourself that you have at least a smidgeon of writing ability, and that pulling the plug on your blog is rashly premature. No dear readers, do not venture into other blogs on Really Bad days because you will soon realize that at least 1,041,410 other bloggers have the right to claim to be writers, whereas you, well, you have at most what can be described as a vivid imagination when it comes to judging your own level of skill. [note: insert another sigh here, with perhaps a hand-across-the-forehead gesture for extra effect.]

It's true though. There are many talented writers* in this blogosphere and there are enough days when the only way for me to keep on writing is by accepting the fact that I have to write, regardless of ability. Thankfully there are also days when I can look back at some of what I've written and deem it not too bad, but I suppose in the end it doesn't matter; I write because I can't even imagine the alternative of not writing.

* One of the first blogs I was lucky enough to encounter was Calvesgarden Calendar, and I realized right away that his was special. I'm in awe not only of his writing style (he has the loveliest metaphors), but also of his extensive knowledge of books AND the proper names of things. That, snort, won't be found here. And check out the other blogs in the sidebar as well—talented writers all.

leap

"One must be thrust out of a finished cycle of life, and that leap is the most difficult to make—to part with one's faith, one's love, when one would rather renew the faith and recreate the passion." —ANAÏS NIN

not many of these left!

This is one of the few wooden pedestrian bridges left in Hamilton. It's neat to be on it when the train passes underneath, but even when it doesn't I still like using them. Nostalgia I suppose.

the GO train—in my backyard!

whatever you do…

"In walking, just walk. In sitting, just sit. Above all, don't wobble."
—YUN-MEN

explanation

Remember the train tracks in the photo with the eagle? Well, I told you they're practically in my back yard, and they are! See the fence behind the sign below? They're right behind that—less than X feet (sorry, not good with distance) from my bedroom window. I like trains, but oh the noise, Noise, NOISE! You get used to it for the most part, but in the beginning, it was what you could call a real ear-opener.

And the sign? Well, follow the arrow and you get to my place. My apartment is around the back, but people kept knocking at either the front or side door, so we decided to make it a bit easier for them.

directions

prose

"Money, which represents the prose of life, and which is hardly spoken of in parlours without an apology, is, in its effects and laws, as beautiful as roses." —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

here a gap, there a gap, everywhere a gap!

Watched a new sitcom the other night and laughed so hard I practically spewed out my water when the would-be-employer said to the lead character something like, "Well, that's an impressive résumé, but it ends in 1998. That's quite the gap." Snort. FINALLY, somebody (even if it IS a TV character) with a larger gap than mine!

Don't you just love it when you see or hear something that relates directly to your own life?