Woman on the Verge of a Meltdown

Four Savannah Kittens at Play. Photo: Michael Broad https://www.flickr.com/photos/michael-broad/

I’m a woman on the verge because two seven-year-old cats rule my home, Paco, the half-Siamese below, and Teika in the second photo. In addition, my assertive move to combat this fiasco was to add four kittens to shift the power balance, to infuse some clear thinking on the subject. More cats will shift the impasse when the house votes on its grocery list each month. Less power to the presiding queens! I’m a woman on the verge because I’m going to let that feline six-pack thread its way through my whole world. I will spend much of my day…

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Sitting Quietly

    While I was sitting quietly, I thought about our discussion of Blaise Pascale on Roadmap this week. I ran across the name ‘Blais’ once. It was an ex-employer’s surname and the ‘s’ was silent, so you pronounced it as if you were spitting a bit of lint off your tongue. It didn’t have the command or sophistication of so many French words and names. To me, it was like calling your son ‘Milieu’. While I was sitting quietly, I startled myself with a cough and realized that I was getting sick, again. Then I remembered the husky-voiced star…

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Checking In From Another Track …

Dear Scotland Co-Retreaters, It’s so nice to hear how people are doing since our writing retreat in Forres, Scotland. I wasn’t going to update anyone, thinking, ‘Everybody knows enough about my messes already.’ I’m not good at familiarity with people. Again, let’s scratch that. So damned sexy! Being back in Canada has been like hitting a stone wall–without the buffer of two drams of whisky and a beer chaser. I’ve fallen and flailed, boob over shoelace, toe over head, yelling ‘WTF’. Unfortunately, as I repeated myself, my request appears in a thought bubble about four inches above my head; there is no…

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How Do You Change When You Are Writing?

How do I change when I am writing? With great difficulty. It depends on three vital points. Where am I writing? While on the Skytrain with hundreds of bodies—a few religiously unwashed–pressing against me, cutting off my air. Do I sit between a staunchly stoic older couple in a tiny Aquabus, which heaves against the water en route to Granville Island? Perhaps I am in a meeting in the matchbox-sized grey Quaker church opposite my place. How am I writing? The options are my phone, laptop, a pen, or using my best friend’s phone with the voice activated android assistant….

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I Wish Someone Had Told Me …

Be Wary of This. I slipped my favourite t-shirt over my head. The one that said, ‘Got coffee?’ Only minutes later at school, I broke a fingernail clawing against a cement wall. A wild-eyed, dark-haired woman–dubbed the ‘Rogue Grammarian’ on TV–ran at me with a huge red pen in hand. I fainted–right after wishing I had worn the eraser-necklace they gave all students to protect themselves. “Seeing these will soothe her,” the profiler told us. I woke up on a gurney and the Police gave me tiny sips of filtered water in a paper cup. Grounding myself wasn’t easy. My…

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Prepping for Scotland

Dear Owner of Victorian Mansion, Hello, as it were. Is your establishment the one that makes Downton Abbey look like a cheap doll’s house? I sincerely hope so or one might feel compelled to change plans. Did you catch that? I’m using the pronoun ‘one’ like Queen Elizabeth.  I thought it brilliant and classy of me. Thanks so much for the info on taxis, buses and trains. You are awesome. A quick question. Would it be safe to walk from the Forres bus stop to your address? I’m travelling on a strict budget and, as I’ll be running on weird…

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“Personal Ad” – New Blog Post by Terry Gibson

Multi-faceted, passionately aloof woman, lover of foreign accents (or bad copies of same), known to do stand-up comedy in front of dozens, and then be dubbed the ‘quiet one,’ seeks a fellow human being to adore or enjoy the following: Silence for days on end. Then, without warning, I will burst out singing. Who knows what and who knows when? Still laments a long-gone and sordid affair with–yes, I’ll say it–the common daily mail. My pupils still dilate and hands shake at the thought of each single piece. Envelopes were big and bright—canary yellow, green like lime, crimson red or…

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The Landlady – P.K. Page

Through sepia air the boarders come and go, impersonal as trains. Pass silently the craving silence swallowing her speech; click doors like shutters on her camera eye.   Because of her their lives become exact: their entrances and exits are designed; phone calls are cryptic. Oh, her ticklish ears advance and fall back stunned.   Nothing is unprepared. They hold the walls about them as they weep or laugh. Each face is dialled to zero publicly. She peers stippled with curious flesh;   pads on the patient landing like a pulse, unlocks their keyholes with the wire of sight, searches…

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A Chance Encounter

I ran into an ex today at Union Square in San Francisco. He’s not looking too good since our split. Since being lonely, and with the economic downturn, he’s taken to walking people’s pets to make money.  You think he picked up the wrong one?

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While We’re Blinded by the Haze of Summer . . .

Teika started her new mini-blog, “Sh*t Teika Says” and pecked this out for us with those bear paws of hers. (Good job, T.)   Five Things I Hate About Summer I wait all year for spring and the blessing of my jumping and suddenly enthused hormones. It’s now July and even hotter, if you get my drift. I still haven’t quelled my urges. I started stalking the black short-hair opposite my window ledge. The humidity drives me crazy. I can’t seem to drink enough water! This leaves me with cotton mouth which makes me livid. Add some of liver and…

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