My father died, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the beginning of November. I said good-bye to him on Sunday night and we assured each other that we'd see each other tomorrow, and then... then he was gone forever.

The world is a strange place, without him in it. I walk through each day surrounded by a fog. One moment, I'm fine and cheerful, and then suddenly I can't stop crying, for no reason other than the sun is shining and the sky is blue and he's no where around to enjoy it. I've grown terrified of saying good-bye to people; I am suddenly, painfully, aware that each parting may be the last time we speak. Life is brief. Life is fragile. No matter how many years we are given, it is never enough.

But life, as brief and fragile as it is, has the remarkable capacity to persist. And so I find myself pregnant, even while I mourn the loss of my father.

Please forgive me if I don't write for a while. Or, if I DO choose to write, forgive me if I don't make much sense. My head is too full of the mysterious interlocking duality of life & death to worry about the fiddly little things -- plus, if I'm not dealing with my sorrow and ruminating on the nature of existence, I'm throwing up my dinner.

Seriously. When the universe wants to teach me a lesson, it never does it in halves.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. - Anais Nin

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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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September appears in the latest issue of Branta! Read, comment, enjoy!

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Running in the woods...


Discovering a new lake & an old canoe....


Drinking tea with new friends.

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The nearest museum is preparing to move exhibits and remove clutter. As part of this noble goal, I volunteered to help prepare items for storage. This meant taking each item, writing a detail description, measuring it, recording the accession number, and packing it safely into a box.

L & I were partnered together. We were directed towards a crowded, cobwebby alcove, long-forgotten by the outside world, where a bizarre collection of items had been stashed. We cheerfully started our task. She wrote descriptions as I looked for accession numbers (which, by their very nature, are put in obscure places, so that the public won't see them). We logged a series of books, a couple of 1920's cash registers, two skinny accounting machines, and then turned our attention to the items on a the top of a cupboard: glass lamps, a blowtorch from the early part of the 20th century, and a scale. We pulled these items down and, as I started to climb back to the ground, my hand fell on an artifact that had rolled out of view on the upper shelf. I picked it up and turned to show L.

We both lapsed into laughter.

It was brass and wood. With a brass nipple. And a rather phallic shape. And a plunger. And it rattled.

There was no accession number, and it was tarnished and old, but what the hell was it? How do I describe it? The words "Victorian penis pump" leap to mind. I threw out a few adjectives as I measured its length and girth (bwahahahaha!) and we bandied back and forth some theories regarding its use -- medical object? Mining implement? A tool for "curing" (fingers crimping) "hysteria" (more fingers crimping) with a "hysterical paroxysm" (fingers cramping from so much crimping), in true 1890s fashion? Yi yi yi! With that thought, I hastily wrapped it in tissue and packed it away. And washed my hands.

I wish I'd taken a photo... seriously, you find the strangest things in museums, which is why I love them so.

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Monday: I begin preparations for NaNoWriMo. (translation: scraps of paper with story ideas and cryptic messages begin clogging my briefcase and pockets.)

Tuesday: The rain stops for a little while, and we go for an evening walk through town. Jupiter is blazing in the southern sky. I am reminded that I am small, and I think of Carl Sagan's quote, "We are the way for the Cosmos to know itself."

Wednesday: The Child Haven dinner on Wednesday night is a delight. The tables are full of cheerful people, the plates are full of yummy food, and the night is full of inspirational conversations. With lots of great stuff for sale and for auction, and the proceeds directed to a good cause, how could one NOT have a wonderful time?

Thursday: We go to see 'Where the Wild Things Are', and enjoy it immensely. Dinner beforehand is good, too: Thai food at a restaurant I'd never visited before, but certainly will again soon.

Friday: I wake up with a sore throat, rockin' headache, and plugged sinus cavities. Blast! I was having such an enjoyable week... ah well. A cup of hot lemon with honey & cayenne pepper will knock this wretched pestilence from my body. I turn off the computer and go back to bed, wearing snuggly flannel PJs.

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ONE
How can I possibly have forgotten about NaNoWriMo? Shawn mentioned to me that Scrivener is offering some great deals to novelists who want to try the program out over the course of NaNoWriMo, and I've been wanting to give the program a test drive. This is the perfect venue to give it a whirl! His comment reminded me that yes, I ought to join the fun, because the nights are dark and long and we have no cable. So, I've now signed up with plenty of stories to tell. I can't wait for November to begin!

TWO
Child Haven Dinner is tomorrow night! If you're going, I'll see you there!

THREE
Upon careful consideration, I think Grimace must be an inflamed gallbladder. It would explain his name.

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I've started posting my artwork at Fox & Bee ... enjoy!

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Our intrepid adventure girl Spider is involved with a fantastic group called Child Haven International, which provides food, shelter, education & support to needy women & children in India, Nepal, Bangladesh and Tibet.

Well, this coming Wednesday (October 21, for those with a calendar and a hankering for numbers), join her for the Child Haven International fundraising dinner and auction, beginning at 5pm at the Upper Florence Filberg Centre in Courtenay.

You’ll enjoy a delicious vegetarian Indian buffet while helping help raise money for eight children's homes in the countries of India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and Tibet. Plus, sales tables and a silent auction of exotic items will provide a perfect opportunity for Christmas shopping! Tickets are available at Blue Heron Books and Laughing Oyster Book Shop. Tickets cost $20 for adults, $10 for children and are free for children under ten.

Come and enjoy a tasty dinner, and support a good cause!

When: Wednesday October 21st, 2009. Doors open 5 pm. Dinner served at six o'clock.

Where: Upper Florence Filberg Centre, Courtenay

Tickets: Available at Laughing Oyster Books and Blue Heron Books.

Adults: $20
Children: $10
Children under 10 years old: FREE

And for those of you that aren't nearby, but are still interested in (a) helping out and (b) eating really great food... Child Haven holds fundraiser dinners all across Canada, so check their website and your local events listings for more information.

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