The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Ya Put The Lime In The Coke

My upgrade ran out and I could not come to a decision about whether or not to renew it. So many other obligations which were more pressing than my personal vanity press. I need curtains, I need skin cream, but somehow I have returned: prodigal wannabe with dry skin and naked windows.

Not that an upgrade would cover either necessity, mind you. I was about 1500 gift points away from a one-month reprieve, but I couldn't bring myself to review anything. I've had other focuses. The freedom from writing here gave birth to other indulgences, like reading a couple half cracked books on the nightstand and dabbling in my own poetry (always leaves me feeling frustrated and embarrassed, knowing that it is lacking, that it needs more than I have to give it). I've kept up with reading my favourite journals on this site but I've noticed that most of them seem to be on the same wavelength as I am, writing only occasionally, everyone full of worry and dissatisfaction. Infectious.

The past couple weeks of silence on my end have not been entirely uneventful. There have been things to note, perhaps only to myself, but it hasn't been all dishwater and drizzle.

* A woodpecker flew into the dining room window and was injured. A yellow-bellied sapsucker, actually, who was clinging to the side of the deck looking stunned and defeated when I spotted him and rushed out to see if he was alright. Not alright, I determined, and like a girl, I ran to M. to ask him to handle it. I've always been wary of outside animals, unsure of how they will react to me. M. has always been the one to deal with that sort of thing, marvelling at the mole in my sister's yard who was stealing strawberries when we threw them to the fenceline, while I squealed in a mix of disgust and terror at the tiny, flattened rodent as it noiselessly lifted and carried the berry away. We could not figure out if it was actually injured or if it was just old and winding down, but neither of us wanted to see him ravaged by neighbourhood cats who were trolling yards looking to indulge in springtime murder. We put him in a box which we'd filled with paper and a tea towel and prepared ourselves for his demise, thinking we'd done the humane thing in giving him a peaceful passing. Nevermind that two huge giants were looking in at him as he shuddered in terror, he still had the tea towel! We dubbed him 'Big Edie', after watching 'Grey Gardens' and deciding that his behaviours were much like the wacky matriarch of the Beale family. M. fed him maple syrup through an eye dropper and put a wedge of orange in the box as well. These birds like sap, M. said, having researched it online, though he came up empty on the bugs they also like to feed on. The next morning, Big Edie was not dead at all, but looked almost perky, though still unable to fly. Day three, Big Edie is still hanging on, drinking more water, sitting in M's desk, head turning side to side with each new noise. He let me stroke his tiny head and had the decency not to shudder. By day four, when he was still alive and still unable to fly, we realized we were likely going to be owning a woodpecker, but with three cats (all of whom appeared disinterested in the bird, though I'm convinced it was a ruse), and the realization that we'd be taking on another pet who would require constant care, M. contacted a local wildlife rescue reserve who advised us to bring him in. That afternoon, we drove the fifty kilometres to the reserve, woodpecker on my lap, and I stroked his little head and assured him that all would be well. I tried to see it from his point of view: never been near a human, never lived in a box, and now suddenly, traveling in a car. What the hell? We got there, a beautiful huge barn surrounded by squawking chickens and geese and a gorgeous little pot-bellied pig named Lucy. Swine flu did not enter my mind as I stroked the wirebrush hair on her little head and swore off bacon forever. Of course, the wee one was terrified of the pig, and the birds and even the barking, wiperblade-tailed dogs, but I was in my element, even trying to make conversation with the chickens who slowly moved toward me. We left after being told that if Big Edie recovered, we would be invited back to free him back into his natural habitat.

Unfortunately, the veterinarian called us the next day to tell us that Big Edie had a dislocated wing which would never properly heal. A decision was made to euthanise the bird. M. was quite affected by this, having cared for this bird and developed the inevitable attachment. I think he regrets taking the bird there, maybe wishes Big Edie still sat in a box on his desk in his office. Nothing to be done now, and at least Big Edie didn't die by way of hungry cats or raccoons. It was more peaceful. There was no real drama, and he got to ride in a car.

* I read 'Eat, Pray, Love' and readied myself to hate it. Most of the feedback I'd been given by those who had either read it or started to read it was not favourable, but I pushed on with it and decided to form my own opinion. Truth be told, I really, really enjoyed it. I think I almost wanted to hate it so that I'd be part of the larger group, but in all honesty I can't deny a strange kind of head-nodding, heart-pulsing affection for it. To be clear, I did not read it with the idea that it would solve my myriad of problems, nor did I think it would inspire me to run off to India so I could meditate in an ashram. I read it because I'm in a phase of life where peace, and the pursuit of it, makes good sense. I am still part cynical twenty-something, don't get me wrong, but I'm also entering the next stage of life where all the cynicism has stopped comforting me. It happens to the best of us. I want to read the stories of people who have lifted themselves out the life circumstance that is spiritually killing them. I am no longer impressed by 'woe is me' writing (though it tends to be my specialty, I know it). While I am admittedly a tough sell on all the talk of religion, I do believe there is more to people than flesh, blood and angst. Something ticks inside, I feel, and not just muscle. I read that book and I understood every bit of what the writer was talking about. She was self-deprecating, sarcastic, humourous, and she didn't get worked up about the colloquial style in which she wrote. I think it took courage to be that honest about not liking her life, even though most of us would have been happy to have it the way it was. She'd had moderate success as a writer before her depression took her life over, had money, had a man, and still hated everything about her life. I get that. I do not have any of the things she had but I believe that none of it would ever amount to true happiness. What I lack is the courage to run off and learn how to live purely. I was also jealous of her freedom. That said, I mostly like my life and the people in it, but I loved the perspective the book gave me. Things tend to fall into place with a little effort on our parts. If you settle for the lot you presently have in life, then it is all it's ever going to be. Ultimately, we make the choice about how to live our lives, and how we feel about it. Many of us have the ability to exact a change if we don't like where we are, and yet the sense of comfort and familiarity of our individual misery keeps us tethered to it. Like examining it without action is ever going to change it. Strange.

* I borrowed 'Definitely Dead' from the library. Charlaine Harris novel, the show 'True Blood' is based on the books. I borrowed it despite it being the sixth in the series and the fact that I have not read the first five. I had to do it because I find myself attached to the show, have watched some episodes more than once, and because my friend A. is a Twi-hard, a Twilight fanatic who gets irritated with me and my silence whenever she prattles on about it. She knows my silence means 'Please...sit down!', and she often goes on about 'literary snobs' without naming me directly. I suggested she watch 'True Blood' if she really needs a vampire fix, but this was met with a defiant snort. I realized that if I really want to debate the superiority of one trash novel over another, I might actually need to read one. I also borrowed the DVD of 'Rebecca', an Alfred Hitchcock film I'd never seen with Joan Fontaine and Laurence Olivier which was based on a Daphne Du Maurier novel. Loved it, wished fervently for the hair, fashion and makeup of 1940 to return to our lacklustre, lazy, fat-assed society and found myself attracted to sixty-nine year ago Olivier. I also borrowed 'The Secret'. I know. I feel the judgment coming from many, but the truth of the matter is that there is nothing to lose by investigating. Nearly every cynic I know, each eye-rolling, 'harrrrumpphing' naysayer will always tell me that I am a negative person, that I need to visualize my goals and start being more positive, not realizing that this is essentially the message of The Secret. I, too, am a cynic, and I have done my fair share of eye-rolling over it, but again, I can't lose by actually giving it a try, right? And, it was free. I think what cinched my decision to borrow it was that I have actually been trying out the secondhand fundamentals of this exposed secret and I've gotten results. My interest piqued, I let my suspicions take a breather and I decided to see where I could take it. My negativity and suspicious nature has been boring me for ages. It bores me in other people, too. Time for something more productive, I think.

It better work.

*In tandem with my resolve to read and watch more inspirational material is a bit of focus and general happiness. It might be fleeting, but I have been happier than I have in a while. It might have to do with the poem getting published, or it might have to do with the climbing temperatures and the beginnings of daffodils in the garden , but I am feeling lighter, overall. I am coming closer to arriving at a decision about whether or not I will pursue school rather than looking for a job that will lead nowhere. I don't want to talk too much about it, though. I find that talking about these things often delays my actual decision to do. I've been applying for jobs here and there, but nothing has come of it so far, and I've decided to interpret this as a sign that I'm supposed to be following a different lead. I am tired of sidestepping opportunity in order to do what feels easier. This does not mean I am not riddled with fear, though, it's just that I live with fear anyway, so why not try to reinvent myself to spite it?

*Been drinking more Coca-Cola than usual, but have been putting lime wedges in it. This is far superior to that bizarre variation they were selling a couple years ago with the simulated lime flavour. My rule of thumb for food these is days is to eat as naturally as you can. Sure, Coke is basically just sugar, and is in no way good for you, but generally, the rest of my diet is pretty good, so I allow this vice, plus, the lime will prevent scurvy.

*Am seriously considering using my breadmaker. I've had it for about ten years and have never used it. It was a gift, given to me by my old boss who received two as wedding gifts. I don't know why I haven't used it.

*I am working on restoring (okay, painting) my old antique vanity for the wee one's room. She likes to look at herself, likes to pretend she's a princess, so when I mentioned giving it to her she went wild. It is currently yellow, but by the end of today it shall be white, with black knobs. I need to get to the hardware store to buy brushes.

And now I have to go make her lunch. Seems M. fed himself and actually listened to her when she said she wanted me to make hers. I offered!, he insisted, feeling my exasperation.

Just so you know, I'm sighing over here.

think positive, think positive, don't yell, picture daffodils...