garnigal | Entries tagged with therealljidol

Based on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

They played for our souls, Death and Life-in-Death. Diced and paid us no mind. We were as nothing to them. When we play at dice, we care for our stakes, worry lest we lose too much. But our souls, though dear to us, were as nothing to Death and Life-in-Death. And so we watched, adrift in becalmed seas.

We’d spent the weeks prior tormenting one of our number for the death of the albatross, spent the days on our knees, praying for salvation. And now there was nothing to do but wait, and watch the game.

We none of us wanted to die. But they played on, and one by one we dropped, as Death won each soul. Each soul but one. The last life went to Life-in-Death, and only as we died, as we watched him not dying did we realize our escape. For in death there is freedom, in death there is salvation.

In Life-in-Death, there is nought but wandering and grief.

And so I cry salty tears for the mariner, enough to keep the seas lapping at the shore, enough to keep the tides flowing, and enough to one day lead him Home.

They picnicked at the shore, with the sound of waves as a soothing background. The sun beat warm on uncovered heads and strong bodies, and they stuffed themselves to sleepiness, and lay about, chatting aimlessly.

She sat in the center of it all, the head of the family. The sons and daughters, granddaughters and grandsons she’d given up so much for surrounded her with love and compassion. Each took a moment to visit with her personally, though her eldest daughter never left her side.

It was the youngest granddaughter, a wee girl of 6, who asked the questions, for she knew no better.

“Grandmother?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Mama says you’re going away and you’ll not come back. Where are you going? Why shan’t you come back? Won’t you miss us?”

All voices stopped. Even the waves seemed to hesitate on their endless path.

Grandmother simply laughed. “Oh sweetness, this world is not made for old women. The work needed to keep us fed and clad is beyond our frail bodies, and even the air seems to press us down, so our backs become crooked. Better to leave this place for you young ones, to go to a world that is much kinder to their aged.”

Satisfied, the girl ran off to play with her cousins. Eldest daughter sighed and wiped away a few tears. “Never fear, my girl. I’ll be alright, and so will you.”

As the sun faded and dusk settled into eerie blue, the family had no more words left, and trailed away silently, with one last squeeze of hand for their beloved mother and grandmother.

Only the youngest ran off singing.

Finally, the eldest daughter rose from her hillock. “Shall I help you, Mother?”

“No need my girl. Be with your family, with music and stories by the light of the fire. Make some shortbread, from the recipe I taught you. I shall take care of myself.”

And somehow, the old woman rose gracefully, and stepped towards the waves. They seemed to sense her coming, reaching ever higher towards her, until they lapped at her ankles.

She watched the blue light for a long time, watched it fade to blackness, watched as the stars and moon lit the sea with silver. At that, she buried her arms in the warm fur she’d carried with her, buried her face in the silken pelt.

She changed.

She became silken, warm. She became light and fluid. She remembered her youth in this water, and with one last human laugh, she dove into a wave.

She jumped and spun in the air, taking one last look before she disappeared beneath the waves. Her eldest daughter waved, smiling and crying.

Waiting for her turn to swim away.

Is there anything more demoralizing than being unwanted?

“Take a hike, loser!”

“Get lost, geek!”

“Get bent.”

Is there anything more hurtful than being rejected?

“You’ve got nothing I want.”

“What is that? Eww!”

“Just shut up.”

Is there anything more frightening than a room full of your peers?

“What is she even wearing?”

“God, she’s such a brown-noser!”

“My mother made me invite her.”

At 15, these were the worst things I’d faced. I imagined every whisper was about me; my clothes, my hair, my books. I imagined every slight was intentional, nasty word was meant to drive me to tears.

At 40, I want to reach back in time and slap myself silly or hug myself breathless. No one cares about you as much as you think they do. No one loves themselves as much as they should.

There are many worse things to face than teenage rejection.

Since then, I’ve been in car accidents, lost family members, been fired and gotten cheated on.

These things are all worse than the things that made me cry at 15. But at 40, I know that I’m lucky, even in the worst things that have happened to date.

I’m safe.

I’m loved.

And every once in a while, I get to take a hike.

It was all over the newspapers, you probably read the stories. You probably know all the names, or think you do. Dates, times, sequence of events, it’s all there in your memory, taking up space that could be used for more important information, like your anniversary or who to vote for in the next election.

But no, you’ve devoted that space in your mind to the Trolley Problem. You’ve probably argued about it with your fellow workers, men on the street and in your local bar, maybe even with your own wife. You probably have an opinion, and you probably want to share that opinion with everyone you meet.

Hero or Villain?

Quick Thinker or Executioner?

But what do you really know? Do you really have enough facts to make that determination?

I know you don’t, but you’ll never listen to me. Who am I after all? You don’t know my name.

You might not know my name, but I’m the key to this whole story.

I was there you see. Front row seat.

Well, back row seat.

That’s right. I was man number 5.

Man number 5 wasn’t of much interest to the newspaper reporters, so you won’t know my name. I wasn’t the man in front, Dan Simmons, staring death in the face. I wasn’t the young lad in the middle, first day on the job, Vic Miller. I certainly wasn’t the signalman, George O’Leary, who leapt into action to save the day.

And I wasn’t the lost little lad, young Timmy Burls, in the wrong place at the wrong time, sacrificed to save the many.

No, I’m just man number 5. Nameless (Bob Smith), pointless. Just another man working at the yard, oblivious to the danger bearing down on me.

There’s some who’d say I spent my whole life oblivious. I grew up in the workhouse, you see. My mother died, my father couldn’t keep me. I had a name, Robert Smith, and that was about it. And even that was taken from me, shortened to Bob by the time I could speak. I didn’t know much about my family, knew nothing about the world outside the walls of the workhouse beyond what I could see and hear through the high narrow windows.

But I survived, despite it all, or perhaps because. I saw other boys and girls suffering, longing for something more, something they vaguely remembered. I just kept my head down and did what was demanded of me. Aged out and took my packet (two changes of clothes, a pair of boots and three sandwiches) down to the trolley yard and waited around until they had work for me. But I’d heard there was always work at the trolley yard, from one of the older boys visiting his younger brother (one of those fools yearning for more), and I was oblivious to any other options. I didn’t even get through the second sandwich before they hired me on as a strong and likely looking lad. I was 18 after all, and poor. An easy mark, willing to do most everything.

And so I did, working among the trolleys that were constantly moving around you, heavier than a cart and faster than a carriage. I learned to keep one ear and one eye open at all times, never relaxing my guard, even in the break room. Most men thought they’d be safe, as long as they weren’t on a track. Fools, I thought them, and soon many of them were fools missing body parts. Trolleys are wider than the tracks, you see. You back away far enough for the trolley to pass, and you find yourself squeezed by the trolley on the next track, the one you weren’t watching for. Or you find your knees taken out by signal flags sticking out beyond the sides of the trolleys, and woe betide you if you fall. Lucky to keep your head, once you’re on your knees in the trolley yard.

But as I say, I was young, I was obedient, and I was oblivious… or faked it well enough for the muckity mucks in their big offices to trust me. Stay uninjured, and eventually you get enough seniority to start telling the new young fools what to do. Stay quiet, and eventually you get to see and hear how those self-same rich boys in their fancy offices cut corners in the yard to save a penny, even if it costs a man his life. Stay oblivious, and eventually you get enough evidence to blow the whistle on the whole house of cards.

But how do you get the city to care about a bunch of hard-working, rough talking men and boys? So long as the trolley runs on time, who cares if Ned loses his hand, or Mike loses his leg, or Jim loses his head?

I might be oblivious, but I cared.

And I knew the trolleys, knew the yard.

And I had a plan.

Everyone in the yard knows that track has a slight uphill on it. It’s a right pisser when you’ve got to move a trolley on it. I’d been on the yard a long damn time, and I knew just how long it’d take to stop that trolley. I built in a few extra yards for safety, then sent the lads out to ‘repair’ that section. Went myself, too, just to keep an eye out.

Everyone with any experience in the yard knows that track. But George was new. And all he say was 5 guys with their heads down and a trolley headed for us. No way he could warn us; nothing you can hear over the sounds of rattling trolleys. And so he switched it.

Everyone in the yard knows the side track has a wee downhill on it. Why I didn’t choose that track to start with, it’s just a bit unpredictable.

Unpredictable like Timmy Burls. It wasn’t the first time I’d found him in the yard. The cutting corners extended to keeping our fences maintained. Not just our safety they didn’t care for, but the safety of the kiddos that can’t resist a break in the fence and the rattle of trolleys.

I don’t know if George saw Timmy or not, before he switched the tracks. He says he didn’t. Sometimes you can look out over the yard and miss the obvious because it’s not supposed to be there. Oblivious, like. But I know Timmy was wearing a bright red shirt, and I know George could see that track easy from the switch.

And I know George O’Leary and Big Tim Burls had been fighting down at the bar the night before.

So I got what I wanted, big investigation at the yard, lots of safety improvements, lots of stories in the newspaper.

But no one was supposed to get hurt.

So, hero or villain? I don’t know.

And I’ll just keep staying oblivious.

"Where are you from?" A simple question, with a simple and succint answer.

"Oh, I'm from Wingham, a small farming town in southwestern Ontario, about 2 hours northwest Toronto. I actually grew up on a farm, so I'm a total throwback!"
	"Well, my ancestors came to canada in the early 1800's from Britain. Mostly English and Scottish, with a bit of Irish and French tossed in for flavour. Definitely northern European - sunshine and I are not friends."
		"I work at Agfa HealthCare in Waterloo, as a Knowledge Management Specialist, which is one of those great titles that didn't exist 10 years ago and no one knows what it means. I like to describe it as 'making sure the right information is available to the right people at the right time.' But really it means I sit at a computer all day."
	"I live in Guelph with my husband and three year old. It's a total nuts and berries town, very hippy granola. Great city though, small town feel with city amenities. And just far enough away from family to avoid pop-ins."
"I'm so happy to be Canadian. My ancestors could have ended up anywhere! I mean, all the stuff everyone talks about is great - healthcare, personal safety, blah blah blah. But also tectonically safe, with BC being the exception. I can't imagine living somewhere that the earth occasionally tries to shake you off. Air hurts my face for 3 months of the year, sure! So humid you can barely breath for another 3 months, no problem! World trying to shake you off like an ant at a picnic? No thank you."		"Clearly, I'm from TV-land... or at least I spend a great deal of time there. All the best people are fictional, don't you know?"

So simple. (People are complex.)

So succinct. (Layers of hidden meaning.)

And you think you know me, know where I came from, know where I've been, know where I'm going.

You think you know what matters to me.

But you don't know me at all.

I'm coming from a place deeply hidden.

A place you'll never see.
Like the elephant,
Your touch only reaches parts of me.
and you're like me,
and I'm like you,
We think.

“Stay off your heel.”

“Stay off your heel!”

I spin again, and fall backwards again, and hear those annoying 4 words. Again.

“Stay off your heel.”

I grit my teeth, instead of indulging in the tantrum I so desperately want to.

There’s no crying in tae kwon do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I started TKD in my early 20’s, a few years after my boyfriend got involved. He was starting to slim down, eating better. He could run faster, was stronger. I was having a hard time keeping up, even just shopping at the mall or grocery store. Let’s not talk about the 10k hike we went on, how he had to slow his pace to accommodate me, and even then I was exhausted to point of tears by kilometer 8.

I’d always thought of myself as having natural athleticism. I drove my father nuts; I didn’t have to work at it to be a good ball player, and so I didn’t. But, as he’d warned me, it didn’t take long before the lack of effort put me well behind my peers.

Instead of inspiring me, that challenge made me give up. I had other interests, other activities. Besides, I could always go back… couldn’t I?

By 18, I was well-established as a reader, not a doer. While my younger brother played every sport he could find, supported and sometimes coached by our dad, Dad and I shared books and talked about politics, while Mom and I enjoyed theatre, from both the stage and the audience.

My boyfriend was a guy I’d picked up at a drama festival we were both involved in. We lasted through our last year of high school, past university, and into our first jobs and first layoffs. We hung out with friends, watched TV and went to the movies.

And then he found martial arts.

I’d forgotten how physical activity could give you confidence and self-control. How it gave you goals to work towards, made you stand taller. I was seeing all these benefits in him and more - his asthma was under better control than it had ever been, and he just generally felt and looked better.

I took a long hard look in the mirror - and didn’t like what I saw.

My natural athleticism had given way to softness and curviness, which in itself wasn’t bad. But the way I sought out the closest spot to sit down after only a few minutes of standing was. The way I ate without considering the quality or quantity of what I was ingesting was. And the way I was feeling - tired, dull, slow - that definitely was bad.

So I joined too.

I expected to progress quickly. After all, I was ‘naturally athletic’. To my dismay, I discovered that like most unused talents, natural athleticism fades with lack of use. Every belt level was a fight. A fight to the get kicks faster, higher and harder. A fight to move my body in unfamiliar ways and make it look natural. A fight to not back down from a sparring opponent.

But I did it. I learned the techniques, practiced them, fought opponents and myself to get my black belt.

And I was proud, and tired, and so I rested.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For three years I rested, while my husband continued through his second and third degree black belts and even tried out some other martial arts. I enjoyed my evenings at home by myself, and remembered how hard I fought to get back some measure of fitness, so I went to an exercise class, and did yoga, and even went back to baseball.

But I’m back now. 40 years old, married to the boyfriend and with a three year old. The husband wants to turn the three year old into a black belt.

And so I find myself on the mats again, learning again, how to turn, how to throw my foot out at head height for a spin hook kick to my opponent.

And being reminded, again to:

“Stay off your heel.”

This is not how I wanted tonight to go.

It started off great.

We sang, we played. We ate a good supper, and were getting towards the witching hour; the dangerous time of night when reading the situation right can lead to a smooth and joyful hour, but reading it wrong can lead to nothing but a fight.

We read it wrong a lot. After all, she’s only three.

Tonight went spectacularly wrong, though, more wrong that it’s ever gone before. She’s still sobbing, even now.

Like I said, it started off great. She was tired after her first day back at daycare, a little put out that her best friend Henry wasn’t there and wouldn’t be back until next week, but nothing that a few cuddles and some playtime wouldn’t cure.

She didn’t love all of supper, but what toddler does? She ate the mashed potatoes and the peas and corn and tried the ribs, and what more can you ask for. There was a bit of negotiation over dessert, but we won that one handily.

There was naked running and chasing and laughing and a nice long soak in a warm bath and then…

She zigged when I expected her to zag. And I was all alone, in front of an open net - but the puck was at the other end of the ice.

It was the battle of cleaning up, you see. Usually she’s great, sings the cleanup song, uses the net to to swoop up all the little floating toys with the sweetest giggles, pulls the plug and into a nice cozy towel.

But not tonight. Tonight was “No, Never!” and “I don’t want to clean up.”

And I tried to be rational. Maybe that was my mistake.

I kept my irritation in check, and reminded her we needed to do this before jammies and milk and stories. Nothing I said moved her, though. She was unyielding, a pillar of stone. Traits that will serve her well in the long run, yes. But negotiation and knowing when to back off are also traits that will be needed in the future.

Mostly by me, if tonight is any indication.

Anyway, we were at an impasse. She wouldn’t clean up, I wouldn’t back down that she needed to (not sure where she got that stubborn streak, no clue at all).

And I had a brainwave.

She’s three, right? She can talk, it’s time to learn about consequences, she’s headed headed off to school in a few months. Let this be a learning opportunity and a chance for me to get some insight into that mysterious little mind.

Let’s ask her what the consequence should be for not cleaning up.

I figured she wouldn’t come up with anything, not really understand the idea. But no, she instantly came up with a suggestion - don’t help clean up, no stories.

And I zagged again. I should have taken a moment, made sure she knew what she was saying, made sure she knew what she was really giving up. I should have talked it through, given her a few more chances to help. If I’d come up with a consequence, it would have been lighter, gentler; put some of the toys under the sink in time out, for example.

But I didn’t. She suggested no, she can live with the consequences.

And I said okay.

And I cleaned up.

And she started to wail.

Oh, she understood consequences all right. She knew I wasn’t about to back down. These weren’t sobs of anger, they weren’t screams intended to punish me or make me give in.

This was grief. This was regret. This was sorrow.

And my heart broke.

But I stood firm.

I smoothed lotion on her soft skin - she cried.

I dressed her for bed - she cried.

I gave her some milk - she cried.

I brushed her teeth - she cried.

I cuddled her and sang songs (but no stories) - she cried.

I laid her down and told her I loved her and kissed her goodnight and closed the door.

She cried.

She cried for 35 minutes, which both isn’t long and feels like eternity.

She’s quiet now. We all are.

I’m not sure what she learned; I hope she learned that actions have consequences, and that everyone helps out. I’m afraid she learned that consequences can be much worse than the crime, and that Mommy doesn’t give second chances.

I know I learned something. I learned I won’t give in, even in the face of heartbreak. But I also learned that I’ll rationalize a excessive punishment, that I’ll stand behind the wrong choice, just because I don’t want to look weak.

She zigged. And I wasn’t ready for it.

But I will be next time.

This one damn near killed me. I wrote three different things, and hated them all. This one, I hated the least. (Also, it's 7:33, and I have few options left).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes it’s easy. You’ve got your eye on the ball, your heart is calm, your breath easy.

Sometimes it’s a struggle. You let your eye wander, your heart is high, your breath comes in little gasps.

And sometimes it’s just not your day. You lose sight of your goal, your heart and head pounding, your breath is totally gone.

And the words fly past, racing, spinning, so brilliant they make you flinch away, make you shiver from their perfection. But you’ve missed the moment, and the words keep flying past, unreachable… and every time you try, every time you attempt that perfect phrase, that ‘bon mot’, every time you create something so close to almost good enough, you know that the next word, just at the tip of your tongue… Would be so much better.

( One Friend Deserves Another )

( Alive, but Struggling - Struggling, but Alive )

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therealljidol

So.

It’s 2016.

The world ended in 2012, but we haven’t realized it yet.

We’re so used to watching the clock - get up on time, get to work on time, get home on time, eat supper on time, go to bed on time - that we missed the fact that the world is burning around us.

Sure, we’ve got a cough from the smoke, but we can’t afford to miss a day of work.

We just keep going along as we always do. Laughing, crying, yelling at the kids, screwing the hubby in the dark to make it easier to fantasize that he’s actually Nathan Fillion.

But maybe, one day…

Something changes.

Something makes you lift your head, makes you step off the unending hamster wheel. Makes you realize…

It’s 2016.

And the world hasn’t ended.

And even if you have to get up on time, get to work on time, get home on time, eat supper on time and go to bed on time, there’s still time.

Time to do something for you.

Time to be creative.

Time to scream from the rooftops, “I am Ann! I have things to say! I have dreams to fulfill! My life is not over just because I have a job and a house and a husband and a child!”

My life is just beginning.

Just like Season 10.