Best Movies of 2011

I don't have television so there are no Oscars for me tonight apart from on the web. Maybe it is my age, maybe it is a deterioration in the overall quality of most movies but I view Oscar night now as a long drawn out yawn with too many commercials, a sycophantic host and self-congratulatory side bits which border on extreme narcissism.

I have a lifelong passion for the movies, going way back to when my uncle owned a cinema in a small town in East Cork and I got to see !!free!! every movie he showed. The A movie, the B movie, the newsreels, the cartoons and the serials on Saturday afternoons. I also have quite an enormous collection of movies. Some I never tire of watching.

One of my biggest disappointments of this past movie season was The Artist. I just don't get what all the fuss and hype was about. I found it melodramatic and cliched. And if that was the point, so what. Not a good point pour moi. A close runner up to FAIL would be Midnight in Paris, with an appalling Owen Wilson (attempting to channel a jaded Woody Allen) in the lead and featuring cardboard caricatures of the greatest literary figures in Paris as a supporting cast. Please. I was seriously offended.

On the other hand, I loved Monsieur Lazhar an amazing story of a Grade 6 class in Quebec whose teacher commits suicide. The child actors in it were brilliant. I also loved Beginners which starred Christopher Plummer as a widower coming out of the closet after 45 years of marriage. Hugo was a delight, loved loved loved Martin Scorsese's homage to movies through the ages and even caught his own (a la Alfred Hitchcock) cameo in it. The 3 D effects were incredible.

Tree of Life and Bridesmaids were also in the enjoyable lineup of movie pleasure for me this past year.

But overall a disappointing season but some of that can be blamed on the unavailability of good foreign film showings here in Newfoundland. To my mind, there is nothing like the big screen of a movie theatre for showing such treasures.

Before Everything Fell Apart.

I can't begin to tell you about the birthday gift my daughter gave me this year. She had painstakingly gathered all the long forgotten and unwatched-for-30-years home movies ever made of 'the family' - her family - and shipped them away to be made into DVDs. These movies were made in the first 10 years of her life. Movies of her and her sister's first steps, of family Christmases, of trips to the beach, of travels to Ireland, of swimming, of a cottage, of a much remembered trip to South Carolina with my then teenage brother and sister and our two young children.

There are cherished snippets of my mother before she died and of my grandmother. Movies of a brother's wedding where our daughters were delectable flower girls and the wedding reception in our house. (His bride died tragically young). And many more.

It is right up there in the exalted list as one of the BEST GIFTS EVER. Thank you, sweetheart if you are reading this. A million thank yous.

Here is something I wrote in an attempt to crystalize my countless emotions in watching the DVDs.

The Way We Were

Were we that young?
Were we that loving?
Did that song say it all
About the way we were?

The story of each scene
Takes my breath away
More than it did then,
At the way we were.

My parents light up
And my granny too
Surrounded by love
In the way we were.

And those little girls
In their frothy dresses
Giggling and laughing
By the way we were.

The screen flickers on
With our loving glances
I switch off and mourn
For the way we were.

Movies

God, I love movies, I always have. And write reviews on line and even published articles. And in the past couple of weeks I see clearly what some movies have become. Tripe masquerading as greatness, never more in evidence than in that gob-smacking win by Martin Scorcese for best picture for the regrettable and forgettable "The Departed". Awful bilge.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0407887/usercomments-1447

And then I watch The Diary of Anne Frank for the umpteenth time and it still holds true, nearly fifty years later and the effects of the viewing linger on for a few days. Like all good movies.

Why doesn't Martin aspire, yet again, to something as good as Goodfellas?

Across A Crowded Room

See Part 1 HERE
See Part 2 HERE

Ah, isn't the journey always more interesting than the destination?

I knew in my heart this intermission was going to be one of those fragile floral tealights, the ones that float in a tub and last but an hour or so. There was going to be no wide ranging, long distance affair with him. And I surprised myself by being fine with that.

So remembering the words of my rebellious old Granny: we only regret the things we don't do, I made the snap decision to just enjoy the company of this gorgeous man for whatever kind of time he could offer me and throw all caution to the wind.

And what a time we had over the next few days! He was heading for New York early Tuesday so we set about just enjoying some touristy things and each other over the two days that were ours: Sunday and Monday.

He never talked about his fame – all the movies he'd been in, the plays he had done - I had not been aware of the extent of his roles until after he had gone. Instead, he shared his writing with me, his love of art, his desire to break free of familial restraints (aye, there's the rub for any woman seriously involved with him, I thought) and his desire to live globally. Scotland was just too insular a place to contain him.

We succeeded in creating a psychic haven for two in those incredible two days. The outside world did not encroach. I don't know what cell phones, blackberries and Ipads would have done to us if it were today.

I've watched some of his movies over the years and, yeah, okay, did a bit of bragging: Guess what? No, you didn't! Yes I did!

With the re-awakening of my memories I recently google-tracked him and found he is alive and extremely well and still performing and has added pages and pages to his life's work, including a fresh young wife, art exhibitions, additional movies, TV series and many books of both poems and memoirs. He is still marvellously handsome, still causes me a slight stoppage of the heart just looking at his gorgeously aged face and I would drop everything just to spend a wee bit of time with him.

And as to the rest of it?

He was a man who lived and breathed poetry and extolled and revelled in the beauty of the female form. Add that component to anything else you're imagining and you've got it.

Je ne regrette rien.

Downsizing Part XV or Dither and You're Done.

The more I work on this, the more I love it.

Catch up Day.

Well, the dump is open all day, limited hours in my wee town out on the Edge of the Atlantic.

So I look around me and my eyes fasten on my enormous collection of VCR tapes. Enormous, you say? You have no idea. I have maybe 2,000 movies scattered on these bulky (often 4 movies on a tape)suckers, all labelled and indexed carefully.

And now I shamefully report these have all been unwatched for something like 14 years now. I think I taped every episode of Saturday Night at the Movies when Elwy Yost was doing his gentle, professional interviews of all these old timers (performers, directors, technicians) before they died off. The only one who was doing so. I had planned to have a periodic movie night with a feast of these old classics. Alas, that never happened. When you're an aficionado, it's hard to find your equal nutbar twin. Most have no time for the old black and whites. And "restored" to colour? Oh please.

So I tackled the deep green shelves today. These held a triple layer of these tapes. Times 4 shelves.

I knew the only way to do it was to take out a row of garbage bags and start pitching without looking. If I lingered, it would be game over. Ah, you're definitely going to want to see this again, oh look, another Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, James Stewart. See? So seven full garbage bags later I think, I could donate these, oh someone would love these, I should Kijiji these as a freebie.

You catch my drift. Stall tactics. I slapped myself. Hard.

I loaded all 7 bags in my car and drove to the dump. I told Brian, the dump-man, what was in the bags (You have to do this, they don't want household waste) and he said, hang on a minute, there's a real old fellow I know living in the back hills, he's a right old movie buff, do you mind if I take all these for him? With the winter coming on he'll be thrilled!

I mentioned I may have 7 or 8 or 10 more bags to follow and Pete says, even better for the old fellah, he'll love them all. Bring 'em over when you can!

And oh, yes, as I drove my empty car home I realized the "old fellow in the backwoods" was a year younger than me.

Letting go is not easy but it can be done if you don't stare.

Conversational Booby Traps

It seems I'm always being taken unaware by conversational booby traps. It must be a comedy to be around me. I think to myself, privately, was I sometimes so unaware as a child to learn how to extricate myself from such entrapment? I could have been, though I can tell you I didn't miss much, I was your silent listener with a book behind the sofa or lurking at the top of the stairs, soaking it all in.

To my utter shock, I was caught a few times recently.

Example 1:

An acquaintance who has never been to my house grabs some DVDs off my shelves and announces:

A. "I am borrowing these."

WWW: "Well, actually, I never lend out my movies"

A.: "Don't you trust me?"

WWW: "No, it's not a matter of trust. I base this on past experiences..."

Friend standing by: "Oh, you can trust her. I'll vouch for her."

A.: "See how ridiculous you are?"

A marches off. With my movies. I still don't know what I could have said to her.

Example 2:

I tell a friend here I am going to Toronto for a few weeks as another friend has offered me her downtown house.

F.: "Oh great, I've always wanted to hang around downtown Toronto! We'll spend some time, you can show me your old haunts. Great!!"

WWW: "Well, the house is a bit small, my granddaughter might want to stay...."

F: "Oh, I won't be in the way at all, just point me towards the subway!"

WWW: "And I'll want to entertain my friends and gabfest, etc."

F: "I'm dying to meet your friends, see what your Toronto life was like..."

Why am I always afraid to say NO out loud and vehemently?

So here I am now, still shy of a couple of movies a month later, and with a Toronto flight unbooked.

People pleaser. Yeah, I know. But how to stop? Is there some kind of lingo I missed out on?

Measuring a Life

I officially took possession of Tiny. I use the word Tiny as a comparative to Sprawl which is my existing dwelling. I am sprawled out over:

(1) A saltbox house
(2) An off the grid cabin.
(3) A large garage
(4) A barn
(5) A baby barn shed.

I take measurements of Tiny. And then took them again, blinking in disbelief. Nothing from Sprawl quite fits, I think. And then I think: Help!

I look at the freshly painted walls, a lovely lemony shade. And fresh carpet, kind of grey-blue. And then I look out at the southern exposure view, lashings of sunshine. I look up at Signal Hill in the distance. And think: this is truly perfect. You won't need drapes, says the Administrator, as nothing overlooks you. There are lovely white opaque blinds on the windows, you can keep these if you want, he says, they're brand new from the previous tenant who never quite moved in as he had a heart attack and stayed in Ontario.

He tells me I should be around next weekend as there is Easter Dinner for all the residents in the community recreation centre downstairs. Free. What? I ask. Oh, all festivals throughout the year have a free dinner for the residents, he responds. Bonus.

I texted my friend who introduced me to this building a few years back and we met for coffee. I'd forgotten how much we laugh together. How alike we are in many ways.

Her place, similar in layout to my apartment is zen like in its simplicity. I aspire, I tell her. Tips, please.

In this new age of digital access, physical books and movies become redundant, we agree. What are my treasures? Pictures, my writing life and its accoutrements.

What defines me? How do I measure my life without the extras?

PS As I write this there's a film crew, cast and extras of 12 around my house. Filming a wedding scene. Using two of the bedrooms and my living room and many outside shots. They're all so young. Well, yeah. I don't see too many elders making movies, do you? Shame, really.

Reflections

Back to the blogworld after quite a sabbatical for this screen sucker. I temporarily suspended most of my cyber activities and it wasn't the delirium tremens experience I had anticipated. I missed reading others' blogs the most. I thought quitting Lexulous would be a cause of the shakes and the jitters but it wasn't at all. FaceBook posting I kept to a minimum and refused to open links from others. AND why does aforesaid FB involve so much WORK on my part?

I took the two steps back from this and came to the conclusion I only like it when the posts are personal: don't send me recipes you haven't made and photographed, don't send me links without a comment as to how it has affected you, don't post décor pics unless it's your own house you're talking about or books you've read or movies you've seen. But most of all don't post pics and movies of animals and babies and weddings unless they, erm, are those that are part of YOUR family. I mean why should I care about strangers' dogs and babies? Why should you?

I'm not saying I'm immaculate in that area either. There was a time when Lolzcatz or whatevers had me frothing and posting. But not anymore.

Point is: Distance is required to have a good look at ourselves and our activities, cyber and otherwise.

I wrote, I read. I walked. I spent time with Daughter who is now (I'm still trying to process this delightful life's surprise) actually living here. We went to a concert on Saturday afternoon and then she said: "I know you want to see "Philomena", Mum - let's pack the day up tight - do dinner and then see it!"

And we did. And it was all good. Very good.

And "Philomena"? - run to this movie. It is brilliant.

Here's my review of Philomena

Words for Wednesday 2/27/19

This past month's Words have been hosted by River at Drifting Through Life.
Thank you River!
Go visit her to see what others are doing with the words. And join in. I often feel I can do nothing around these words and next thing a story evolves taking me by surprise.

This week's words are:

1. passport*
2. movies*
3. puffed*
4. complete*
5. transport*
6. bleach*

and/or:

1. avenue*
2. helicopter*
3. fair*
4. clearly*
5. foolishness*
6. ability*

The transport truck dropped her off at the Clarenville turnoff, 250 kilometers from home. Right by Bleach Avenue which had a Tim Horton's and a McDonald's opposite the intersection.

McDonald's then. She shrunk down a little and ordered the kid's meal. It came with a toy helicopter and she carefully put it into her knapsack. The woman behind the counter was giving her a bit of stinkeye. As if she had some kind of weird ability to see her insides. Oh no, here she came around the counter and now she was leaning over the table.

"Are you okay, duckie?" she said, "I don't know you from around these parts. To be fair, this is clearly none of my business, but I get the feeling there's a bit of foolishness going on here?"

Stupid nosy woman, puffed up with her own importance. Why did running away look so completely easy in the movies? A passport to freedom, getting away from everything, those awful bullies, that horrible school, her stressed out mother, her crying little brother.

As the woman stared her eyes didn't look so hard anymore, but now, oh no, she felt her own flooding with tears. And next thing, embarrassing as all get out, the woman had her arms around her rocking her a little.

"It's okay, duckie," she said into her hair, "I have a daughter your age. I can read trouble from two miles away. Now give me your parents' number and we'll call them. Everything will be fine. You wait and see."

Lessons

A time of reflection in the last few days, away from the whizz and bang.

(1) More than you would think really despise this season.

(2) More than you would think absolutely adore it.

And it has nothing to do with family or friends or being alone or not.

Now that I am older I censor myself more, do you find that? Less revealing to those younger than me. More revealing to those my age or older. I tamp myself down when talking with family, conscious of being boring with same old, same old or forced cheeriness. I would observe this phenomenon in elders as I got older myself. A contrived jolliness, less revealing, more dismissive of aches, pains, heartbreaks. Even though the heartbreaks hurt worse as I age and they get swallowed down. For fear of...more. It must be just fierce to be old and all one's peers gone. No one to talk to. Fear of being abandoned by those younger as too much of a downer? Perhaps. So one would have to remain secretive, unrevealed. A friend is doing this now. She is 84 and doesn't speak the truth like she used to. No more worries, no more cares, grins and chuckles all the time. Or maybe this is the nirvana I so desperately seek? When I turn 80 all days will be cloudless and giggles? I'm not talking dementia, though now that you mention it....

I'm still formulating these thoughts. I wrote, a lot, over these last few days. Good stuff I think. I read an entire book in 24 hours too. A lazy, decadent thing to do. I watched a few movies I'd seen before but good movies, like books, never lose their allure. They offer something new each time.

I ran away once too. But not for long. I play what ifs? when I do this. What if I vanished completely, just drove and drove. What if I went to the most expensive hotel in town and pretended I was somebody I was not. What if I got a blonde wig and dark glasses and just walked around jewellery stores. Back in the day a friend and I would do this, pretend we were people from out of town. And howl for days at the sheer entertainment value of it and the gullibility of people. Innocent masquerades. No fraudulent intent at all.

An old boyfriend would never grocery shop. He'd take your full one if your back was turned and check out. Saved him the time and trouble and only got stuck once with a box of tampons that he thoughtfully put in his washroom for people like me giving the illusion he was a considerate, caring, sensitive man. Everybody won in his life except the poor shopper who lost.

Did you win or lose this holiday season? I hope you won.

A friend woke up on Boxing Day with every room in her house trashed by grandchildren and their drunken minders. She wept as she emailed me. Her grandmother suicided on the railway tracks on Christmas Day and she totally understands.

And yes, I won too. I kept a very low profile and did the limbo beneath. All was calm. All was bright.

Calmy brights to all my blogland buddies.

Film

In another life and time I would have loved to have majored in film study. I have been in love with films since I was 6 years old and taken to my first at the Savoy Cinema in Cork to see Cinderella. The night enchanted me. Thehuge organ at intermission coming out of the floor with the words of the songs printed on the screen, the extra B films, the newsreels,  the icecream brought around in those little tubs with the wooden spoon, the upper balcony, the lower balcony. The magnificence of it all. Spellbound didn't cover it.

One of the huge bonuses of my childhood was spending a chunk of the summer with my favourite aunt in the small town where I was born. Her husband owned the town cinema. I remember the serials on Saturday and the rapid turnover of various films during the couple of weeks I stayed there. I feasted on the likes of Roy Rogers and other films which were sanitized  censored by the RCs who influenced the government and their righteous puritan hypocritcal hellhole  Office of the Censor. I only got to see complete films when I moved to Canada including, if you can believe it, Hamlet with Lawrence Olivier and the unintelligible Gigi (huge swathes of film-ribbon on the floor in that one) so the plot hadn't made sense and finally did.

I've been in love with film for ever. I would mitch off school on a Wednesday afternoon and scrape enough money to go to the foreign film cinema and feast on German, Italian and French films (all cut by said Office). And of course the American blockbusters, short on nuance but loud on effects and Big Screen theatrics.

I had a collection of thousands upon thousands of films, many taped by me especially from TVO, an Ontario station that featured fabulous films on Saturday Night at the Movies along with serious interviews with the cast and directors. Downsizing, I had to let go of this massive collection (indexed and documented to boot - ADD much?)

I saved some of my favourites. But not many.

I recently discovered Criterion which has about 1000 old films in stock for streaming and am positively thrilled to bits. It continuously changes what's available and for me, this is a gift out of the blue. Around $8 a month to subscribe. Many are the foreign films from my teenage life at that tiny foreign film cinema in Cork which opened up so much of the world to me.

I try and see all the Oscar winners every year. Still. And I post irregularly on IMDB and have since 1999(ye gads, 24 years!)

Here's the link to that: Wisewebwoman - Movies

My favourite film of all time? The Dead

But there are so many close that I can't possibly list them all.

But a recent one comes to mind (pardon my Irish bias)

The Quiet Girl

But there are so very many incredible films. Many of them made in the forties and sixties but so many made today also.

Bless you, Criterion.

And your favourite film?

Rain

The rain comes down today. In spatters, in force, in sprinkles. It can't make up its mind. Many birds circle the lake in front of the building, riding on air currents, saving energy, waiting for the feeders who arrive daily. From all walks of life. To sit on the benches and throw grain and bread and nuts to their favourites. It must be hard to soar when wet, I think. And what do birds do on rainy days when people stay home with their food bags?

There's a chill in the air. That wintrish glaze on everything. Joanna, my cleaning person, is supposed to be here today. I got ready for her. I always have to do a clean up for my cleaners. Left to my own devices I can create a slum out of the tidiest rooms in about 10 minutes flat. Not a skill I am proud of. But I think (she's 80 after all) she must have forgotten. And that's fine with me. At least some cleaning was done. I was going to tell her help herself to my enormous yarn collection which I have to do something about. I am a compulsive collector: movies, books, yarn, silver napkin rings, et al. But between the jigs and the reels I've let everything loose into the universe. Well, almost everything.

Meanwhile I have another editing job in which is a thrill. And I accepted a position on a board which should be interesting.

And I have a talk to give tomorrow night which involves index cards I haven't prepared yet. I like to do them at the last minute so everything is fresh in my mind and I try not to um and ah and remember to breathe and to glance briefly at the cards to make sure I'm on message and sequential. Easier said than done.

Other than that I had a very interesting lunch yesterday with two friends I hadn't seen in a about a year or so as they still live out in the country, hanging in there for another few years - for they are a few years younger than I. At one of our favourite places, a true honest pub with pub grub, including all day breakfast with lashings of home made home fries. The conversation was interesting and satisfying as we hovered around all sorts of topics including this challenge of not being able to walk and chew gum anymore.

I'm still in sock mode. Knitting them that is. And I watched the entire Crown Series 3 in a two night binge. It's like Downton Abbey, lots of froth and frocks. And stellar performances.

And I'm not feeling as if I'm on death's door anymore. I really don't know what that was all about. But it was frightening.

On Blue Tooth and Blue Notes

Daughter (who lives 3000k away) and I have long conversations on the phone, our record is 6 hours. Yet to be broken. It will, I've no doubt.

A few months ago I purchased a blue tooth headset for my landline. Mein Gott, what a liberator that's been. I am no longer chained to a handset or a computer. I make meals, wander about in the garden, have a coffee with her, even get some work done. Like today. I needed to make 10 CDs for the cast and crew of the play and I did this while chatting with her. I bought her a blue tooth for her birthday. She took a bit of convincing but now she is thrilled. Today we purged her closet while chatting, reminiscing about our race running days together (she still had the race t-shirts, I tossed mine a long time ago). We talked about the sweaters we had knit for each other and how sad it is when one no longer wears them and has to make a decision before Goodwilling. I suggested photographing these handknit beauties. I've done that. None of us want a museum of old clothes and shoes and christening robes and wedding dresses or could I be wrong?

She said this is why people move, so they can store their history. I said this is why I'm so awful with empty rooms, I am compelled to fill them. I feel we are almost physically together during these long conversations.

And Blue Notes.

I watched Daughter do this a few years ago and found it to be a satisfying side effect to my compulsive book reading.

(Quote recently seen about book readers such as myself: I read so much my bookmarks are smaller books. Yeah.)

Like her, I now make little notes of passages I like. And I don't limit myself to books.

For stressful days:

My eyeballs aren't playing as a team. Dooce Blog.

On describing a hangover:

His head was filled with exploding drums of used motor oil. P239 - Good to a Fault.

A description of a disconnected woman:

A strange dim woman, like a flashlight with the batteries run down. P 301 - Good to a Fault

.

On London:

Black taxis soughed through the skin of recently fallen rain. P263 - Mistaken.

On a fruitless conversation:

Monosyllables were planted like bollards closing every avenue. - The Transit of Venus.

On love:

The tragedy is not that love doesn't last. The tragedy is the love that lasts. - The Transit of Venus.

Such bon mots can't be found on teevee or in the movies. This is why I read. And savour such phrasing. Again and again.

I'm Some Strange

It happened again today. Same scene. Different faces.

“How on earth do you manage,” they say to me, “How can you possibly live without it?”

Their voices always rise a notch. Shock and horror riddled is how I would describe their faces.

“Oh, really, I don't miss it at all,” I say

“How long has it been?” one practically shouts at me.

It's always like this. Every time I break the awful news. To anyone. Shouting. Disbelief. Ascending derision.

“Oh, let me see, “ I say, using all my fingers to count, “That would be eighteen years now.”

“Sweet Jesus, did you hear that there now Nellie, she said eighteen years!” Jack's face has gone purple.

“It's not natural,” Joanna says, looking at me as if she has to now reassess my sanity. Nellie nods her agreement. Vehemently.

“What do you talk about without it, what do you do, like?” Jack asks belligerently.

“Well,” I say, carefully, "Other things like books. And movies. And art. And knitting. And stories. And games. And walks. And singing. And...”

“That sounds like an awful lot of work,” says Joanne, “I'd prefer to have a good rest with it rather than have to do all that.”

“But,” I say, “ That's how people behaved not too long ago, that's how they would fill up an evening.”

“Oh that wouldn't be for us now at all,” says Jack, “That would be going right backwards at life, don't you agree?” and he looks around at the nodding faces.

“You're some strange,” Nellie sums up,”I've never known anyone ever to give up T.V.”

Shameless Brag

click to enbiggen

This was a long haul in the making, over 15 months. My daughter's birthday is tomorrow and this is the gift. I've designed and made these afghans for years, often as wedding gifts or family gifts. They always incorporate facets or hallmarks or talents or aspirations of the giftee and family connections.

In this one, there are the trees symbolizing family and grounding,. There is a garden representing my daughter's annual vegetable and herb planting. There are the honeycombs representing health for her (she has MS) and the blackberries representing the wild fruits of the hedgerows that she loves, cables of friends and relationships, there are boats symbolizing the ocean and then there are music notes representing her passion for music and her skill as a flautist.

Finally there is the surrounding edging of tulips which represent the month of her birth, April.

Oddly enough, it was the tulips that were the biggest challenge. I could not manage to get the pattern (it was an 18-rower) into my head until I'd made about 20. As I like to watch movies or DVD series or read a book as I knit, this was a serious challenge, having to concentrate and read the pattern so many times and tick as I went. But finally it sunk in and I was able to multi-task successfully (even to reading blogs as I completed so many of these tulips!)

My daughter's a woman who appreciates all things hand-wrought, so I know she will just love this.

closeup of music notes

Hollywood vs Real Life

I've wanted to post about this topic for a while. Being weaned on movies (pictures) in my life, the black and white of character depiction by Hollywood was a belief I held for a long time. Bad guy/woman = no redeeming features. Good guy/woman = no dark side.

I remember seeing a play. The Steward of Christendom (in the Abbey in Dublin) that showed a bad guy ( a male nurse) mistreating an elderly patient in a psychiatric home. In the second act it showed the bad guy being superbly kind. No one, truly, is all bad or all good, in spite of Hollywood. That play has stuck with me over the years.

I took a workshop with an older woman in Toronto a few years ago. It was about exploring all of ourselves, loving the inner, exploring our own darkness. At one point she said: "There's a Paul Bernardo within all of us." It gave me a chill. Us participants looked around at each other and then slowly nodded. Of course there is. Most of us can squelch those murderous thoughts, but a very few act them out.

Which is all in the way of saying I had a problem with my unsold salt box box. There was a bad storm this past Sunday and a large branch broke off a tree and caught a wire which in turn was fastened to a corner of my house. The wire came down, taking with it a part of my roof.

I called the power company who were on it right away. They called me when they were on site to tell me it was a telephone wire that had downed. I called the telephone company who, fortunately, came the following day and disconnected the wire. I texted a good friend to request that he check out my property to ensure there were no further hazards. *Crickets*. That surprised me.

So nothing for it but to travel out to my old house to inspect things myself. There are other friends out there but for reasons I won't get into I didn't like to ask.

So I'm out back, loading my regular tires into the garage to await the spring, when who should appear on my meadow but Cathedral Man. all chatty and smiley.

My first reaction was to go sour and vinegary but then I thought, shyte, no. What a waste of anger and frustration. He asked me why the house wasn't selling and I mentioned the Cathedral. He looked genuinely surprised. Well. I then mentioned the wire and the corner of the roof. "We noticed that had come down," he said. Well. I responded I was upset about it.

"Let me go get a ladder and fix that all up for you, right as rain," he said. And he did.

And I thanked him. And thanked him again. And he said it was nothing.

See what I mean?

Calming Crafting

I sometimes wonder why others don't take up pursuits that would bring them relief from anxiety or sorrow and gift them with diligence, curiosity, utilization of imaginative powers, relaxation, focus, and best of all something tangible to show for it at the end of it all.

The above afghan took me a while. One of those projects I started and shelved and moved on from and moved back to. I'm one who can't sit down and do nothing while gawping vacantly at a screen. I enjoy DVD sets of various top-notch shows, admittedly much later than everyone else who have cable service and derive a "buzz" that is engendered around a successful series during its original broadcast. But I also don't suffer the barrages of advertisements they endure either.

I finished this afghan, pictured above, while watching the second series of "Homeland" one of those truly great shows.

Whenever I see one of my creations in someone's home, I often reflect on what I was doing when making it, what TV series or movies I watched with it, what marathon phone calls attended its making, what gorgeous sunny strand was I banjed off on or what beloved family members' conversations took place around it or what trips and visits it made with me.

This one will be gifted tomorrow, appropriately enough on Canadian Thanksgiving. I have I-corded (a form of 3-dimensional embroidery I kind of invented) the initials of the couple on each end. They've been married 45 years (from their teen years) and are one of those couples that engender warmth, respect and love around each other and those who are lucky enough to be in their circle.

Like me.

W is for Whirlygig

Miss Eleanor Moody's crime was to be "a Nuisance to the Publick". How, we may speculate. In 1757 she was charged and sentenced to an hour in the whirlygig where she was to remain for an hour "to be properly punished" and from there to be "sent out of this island". Presumably back home to Ireland.

The whirlygig was a primitive instrument of torture. One would be whirled in a cage until one vomited. I've seen these types of apparatus at Disneyesque fairs, where one pays for the privilege of being nauseated and actually begs them to take one's money for more.

Here is the Dictionary of Newfoundland English definition:

whirlygig n OED whirligig sb 2 (a) 'instrument of torture' (1477-1623). Revolving cage in which offenders are placed for punishment.
1757 PANL GN/3B 1 Oct ... cause the Constable to apprehend the said Eleanor Moody, & to put her in Prison 'till 4 o'clock in the afternoon, at which time to cause her to be put in the Whirlygig, where she is to remain One Hour, & to be properly punished, & to be sent out of this Island the first Opportunity, being a Nuisance to the Publick.

And here is the very slender Wikipedia entry. I note they used it to torture women in Tangiers.

And for any movie buffs out there, wasn't "whirly-gig" in old movies the original name for helicopters?

Today's post brought to you by the letter W from The Dictionary of Newfoundland English in partnership with the rest of the alphabet beginning here.

No Do Day

I kind of fell into today. I've been working like the hammers of hell (tax deadline for self-employed persons in Canada is June 15th each year) and sorting out some unexpected tax tangles of friends of friends along with undoing the near tragedies of 'false filings' which happens a lot to people. They think tax returns are: like, man it's so easy, technology just completes your return. AUTOMATICALLY.

I hate puncturing that balloon for them when they come to me, proudly, telling me they don't need no accountant for they have their own computer like, which does it all for them.

*Did you claim that new truck?
Well duh!
*Did you claim just the capital cost allowance on it or the full value?
Wha'?
*How did you calculate your home office space?
Wha'?

You get the picture. It costs far more for them to get me to recalculate and file adjusted tax returns than it would have to get me to do it all from the get go. I should add: I don't mind. More money for my trip to Chile.

I was at cards last night when I had this thought seep into my head:
"Have a No Do Day tomorrow."
It sounded like anarchy to me. No Do? Moi?
Well here I am. No Doing.
Stan at Sentence First would have a ball with that word.
I got up late. I cooked home-made home fries with eggs and home-made bread toast. I had 3 cups of dark Italian roast. And savoured the newspaper all the way down to the Jumble.
I played Lexulous with four dear Lexy-buddies, two of whom are beating me.
I drifted onto FaceBook.
It is now 1.30pm and the whole FREE day yawns ahead of me. A friend dropped off 5 movies. I have knitting. I have a pile of luscious unread books. I have a fire going. What can I say? Summer in Newfoundland this year.
And absolutely no one is making demands on my time.
How perfect is this life?
Well, if it were any better there would be two of me to handle it (my beloved Granny would say that!).
No Do. Try it.

Imagine No Possessions

I think the most beautiful version of this song is by Eva Cassidy, who died far, far too young. Much like John Lennon himself. I've always found it somewhat ironic that John Lennon would write about no possessions, etc. when he was so incredibly wealthy. But there you go. We aspire. We all aspire.

Which is all in the way of saying that I am simplifying even more. I'm looking at the artifacts, the sentimental artifacts like china tea services (2 full sets) Waterford crystal tchotchkes - far too much, glasses, bowls, jugs. Platters, casseroles. You know. Glassware for vast parties of cocktailites with pinky fingers lifted. I've no idea why all this stuff surrounds me, still holding the spirits of long-dead aunts and grandparents and parents (the gifters). It seems like there was a world where all this was important but no more.

I take the bling out for an airing at my annual Nollaig Na mBan and then back it goes again into sundry cupboards to entertain the spiders for another year. It has to go. I'm a bit too distracted to start ebaying or kiijiiing, the bubble-wrapping and running to the post office would drive me mad.

So I wrap and box and wonder why the hell this stuff has trailed me around to so many houses over the years. Became this unwanted liability, this deadweight of possessions choking me.

I saw a post from a friend about lightening herself of possessions. 10 a day for 100 days. Just 10. And the thought appealed. And I've started to evaluate everything in my life.

And I know exactly where all the books are going.

Now the movies are nudder story.....but I may have the solution for that too.....

Any hints or thoughts will be greatly appreciated.