One Thousand and One Nights

iconic

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 03:27:00 +0000

I got on blogger the other night and wrote an entire post, then realized that it wasn't even close to what I had intended to blog about. So that post is sitting in the queue until I decide if I even want to post it. This is the post that I originally intended to write.

My sister uploaded old family pictures to flickr a while ago.

This picture is from the Christmas of 1963, the year Alison was born. Mum in this picture would have been in her mid 40s? I think. She looks much younger than that. So thin and frail. She would have developed arthritis a couple of years previous to this picture, so she had probably been sick off and on for a while. That's me hovering in the background; I would have been 8, and Alison of course is the baby grabbing for something. All still in our nightgowns, opening presents on Christmas morning.

The picture reminds me of another picture, the iconic picture of a woman and her kids that some photographer snapped during the depression. (The story behind that photograph is an interesting one.) There's just something similar about the composition and the faces, and how careworn both mothers look. But, you know, look how strong they both look, too.

cat-footing

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 17:49:00 +0000

A million light years ago, back in 1977, I was living in a house with some other young people, Thorsdattar, Bianca and Kate, and other people that I won't get into describing right now, although there are some good stories from that era to be told. We also had a cat. I have no memory as to where the cat came from; quite possibly it was a stray that Kate had taken in. Kate in particular had an affinity for cats. Some years later she had two black toms that she called Manachem and Anwar after the Isreali and the Egyptian Nobel prize winners. On the other hand, I know it wasn't Thorsdattar who brought the cat into the house; nowadays I think she tolerates cats, but in those days she was quite outspoken about what useless animals they were and how she hated cats -- and the colour purple. How do you hate a colour? But I digress.

Anyway, the cat was a little black fluffy female and did what unspayed female cats inevitably do, and I was a young naive female, and also did what many young naive females do, so we were both pregnant at the same time. I would sleep on the couch in the living room in the sun, and the cat would stretch out on my belly and sleep too.

However, the cat was too young for babies and when her time came, the kittens got stuck in her too small birth canal. Kate took her to the vet, who would have operated to save the mother (probably not the kittens, I don't remember) but we were all poor students (except me, who was a poor welfare mother) who couldn't afford vet bills, so poor Kate had to have the cat put down instead. Later someone (possibly Thorsdattar) asked her (possibly indignantly) why she would think that we should have spent that sort of money (I think the bill would have been over a hundred dollars, astronomical in those days) for a cat. To which Kate said something like, "Well I just thought we should stand by our cat."

(Years later, thinking about this episode, I think that if I had been more superstitious, I would have been a bit unnerved about it as it was just before I gave birth myself. In those days I was brash and heedless with the best of them and very proudly not superstitious. Nowadays the obsessive compulsive part of my brain is often quite superstitious, while the objective, snotty part of my brain sneers at such nonsense. This is some kind of a metaphor for the human race, I'm sure.)

But I grew up on a farm where, as I tried to explain to Novel the other day, cats were a dime a dozen and if one turned out to be defective, there were several more kittens growing up to take its place. This was when we were discussing Roadkill's latest bout of illness. He has just spent about a week barfing up everything he has eaten, right out of his $1800 mouth and all over the couch and the hardwood floor and everywhere. Soooo, back to vet and a bunch of expensive tests later and she can't figure it out -- his teeth are fine, apparently -- and the only thing she can come up with is that he is possibly reacting to the ($80 / bag) cat food which we feed him so that his feline urological syndrome won't flare up again, soooo, switch him to a different kind of very expensive cat food.

But I think probably Kate was right all those years ago, and if you're going to have a cat, you should stand by it.

This is the cat in question, giving Novel a suspicious look out of one eye.

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions
I keep my visions to myself
It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams and
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell
Dreams of Loneliness like a heartbeat, drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering
What you had, And what you lost
And what you had, oh what you lost

--Fleetwood Mac, Dreams

my week in fb status updates and tweets

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 03:46:00 +0000

March 12, 2013
One of the things I got for Christmas was this one-line-a-day diary -- I saw it in a store and demanded of Ro that he get it for me. I mostly just craved it because it reminded me of a small aqua one that I got for Christmas in 1965; they both have padded plastic covers, and gilt edged pages. I can't remember who gave the little one to me -- possibly the parents. I didn't record in that one much, although it does have entries for what I remember of significant events from that year -- the day my paternal grandfather died, and a couple of lines about the first time I ever spoke on a phone -- my sister called home from university in Winnipeg to say she couldn't stand going to school there and wanted to drop out. We didn't have a phone at the time, so she phoned the school and since I was the only child then in attendance (I believe my brother had dropped out by then), I got called down to the office to take the call, and I was so bewildered by the whole event that I had no memory afterwards of what she had said. But luckily I did remember that she called, and told Mum and Dad, and Dad drove into Ardmore (Beaver Dam?) to call her, to find out what she wanted. I would have been ten -- the same age as Rachel is now. That was the first time I'd ever seen a phone, I'm thinking -- I don't remember that any of our other friends or neighbours had one. When we moved to Lloyd two years later we got a phone on a party line. I remember very occasionally overhearing things on the line, and the deep and abiding suspicion that the parents had that some of our neighbours habitually eavesdropped on us, and how sometimes someone would call a neighbour late at night, and no one would answer and it would ring on forever, sometimes an hour or more.

Anyway, I have been keeping the new diary more or less consistently (sometimes I miss a few days and can't remember anything significant that happened, but for the most part I have an entry for every day since Jan 1). This has inspired me to try to be more pithy (and a little more prolific) in my diarizing on Facebook and Twitter.

Twitter
Feb 28
In my ideal world, the ex-Pope will now give an inspiring TED talk about quitting your day job.

Mar 7
Ever try to write a story with a character whose gender is not immediately announced? WHY CAN YOU NOT ACCOMMODATE THIS, ENGLISH LANGUAGE?

FB
Mar 8
Really need to spend a week or so on a nice beach somewhere.

Twitter
Mar 8
Many are the similarities between the theories of the evpsychs and the beliefs of the MRAs. #oddthingstoponder

Twitter
Mar 11
You could change yourself to fit someone else's preconceived ideas of who you should be -- and they still wouldn't see you as you are.

FB
Mar 12
Damn it, cat! I just washed that floor. Do you HAVE to barf on it?

I keep feeling like I have left something at home today but it is probably just my mind that I forgotten.

That sinking feeling when you see there are 25 new pinterest pins in the time it has taken you to get to the bottom of your feed...

All the dirty blondes playing blue eyed soul,
You won't hear our songs on your radio...

--Joel Plaskett, Through & Through & Through

smoke and mirrors

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 03:56:00 +0000

When I wrote that last post, I had every intention of posting further thoughts on the topic of nursing. But as usual I got busy and never got back to it.

Today I have:
worked for 7 1/2 hours.
made breakfast, lunch and supper for both me and for Novel, then lunch for both of us for tomorrow.
wrote (at work).
drew (at work).
did dishes,
scooped the cat box,
finished and folded a load of laundry,
went to the store for a few groceries, renewed my bus pass, picked up cash, picked up my meds
read a buttload of stuff on the internet.

I'm not bragging -- much -- I just wanted to write everything down, to see if I had accomplished as much as I thought I had. Why can't I get that much done every day?

You're a fraud and you know it
But it's too good to throw it all away
Anyone would do the same
You've got 'em going
And you're careful not to show it
Sometimes you even fool yourself a bit It's like magic
But it's always been a smoke and mirrors game
Anyone would do the same

--Goyte, Smoke and Mirrors

I must've missed that gene

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 14:46:00 +0000

Lately I have been participating, (in a Jungian archetypal sort of way), in that ancient human occupation of nursing. That concept -- caring for another human being so that they survive an ailment rather than falling victim to sepsis, bugs or blood loss -- must have shaped our human nature as surely as did the discovery of fire. I have never seen any studies of the sociology of nursing but I imagine there are some out there, and I'm sure that many disciplines interpret nursing through the lens of western culture as a feminine pursuit closely allied with motherhood.

It wouldn't be difficult to come up with an evpsych explanation of why nursing showed up as a behaviour in the human race: women "evolved" a gene for taking care of men, because it meant a "provider" would stick around longer (and possibly even feed the kids).

"I hate nursing," I confided in Vagabond Queen when she was here.

"Do you think that is because of Mum?" asked VQ earnestly.

"No, I said. "I think it is because no sane person likes to nurse."

It does bring back the memories, though.

Oh, this is sure stirring up some ghosts for me.
She said there's one thing you've to learn is not be afraid of it.
I said no, I like it, I like it, it's good.
She said, you like it now, you'll learn to love it later.

--Robbie Robertson, Crazy River

interactive intelligence

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 16:25:00 +0000

Some days I use every Denby cup in the house each for a different beverage. From this I think we can deduce that for all my bitching, my life is really just fine, fine right now.

I really feel that I should update this blog, but for days on end I will have no real desire to, then when I get to it, too much has happened to encapsulate in a blog post. So I throw up my hands in despair and go and do something else. Or I start a post and by the time I get to finishing it things have change (like with this post).

We sold the other house, for a decent price, sale has gone through, money is in the bank. Novel has taken it much better than I thought he would -- I thought he would be a little mopey about moving from the house he grew up in, but he really likes this house and neighbourhood, so that helps. This house still has a lot of this and that needing doing, which I guess we will get to as time and money permits.

After all the dust has settled at work, it looks as though I will be getting my weekends back in January. The third person working at the kiosk, a young woman who has been there since summer, is going to be going to school in Jan, so she wants to work just weekends. I don't want to talk about it too much in case it gets jinxed, but Napoleon has stated that this will be happening.

I don't think I've mentioned this on here, but you know who Napoleon reminds me of? That guy I used to work with, that I referred to on here as the Vizier, the dude who stole money from the company, got fired and committed suicide. Napoleon has that same bluff, cheerful, what my parents referred to as hale-fellow-well-met air -- and the same two-facedness.

Creepy.

So, some months ago, I had an idea for Christmas presents for my family that I thought was quite brilliant. Pulling off the idea required work and skill and creativity and thrifting -- ingredients for a perfect gift, in other words. I planned it all out, from making a prototype to make sure it was feasible, to the finished product. I had lots of time to work on it; I came up with the original idea in August.

I've gotten so far as the prototype, which shows that the plan is feasible and the finished product likely will be sufficiently tasteful.

But I've been procrastinating like mad on the whole thing, and now we're down to less than a month till Christmas. And there's this nasty little voice in the back of my head that keeps suggesting that there is really no point in finishing it, because I don't have the skill to carry it off, and people won't like the end results, so really what's the point?

Shut up, little voice.

Aaaand, the cat. The $2,000 cat.

For some time -- since I moved him, Cissy and myself into Novel's house, I think -- he will go through spells of having coughing fits, sometimes throwing up, but mostly not. It has never really impaired his appetite and after a while he gets over it. I thought he had asthma. But a few weeks ago, he went through one of these spells that was worse than usual, so I took him to the vet. And the vet examined him, and couldn't find anything much except she said he had really bad teeth, and gave me an estimate for dental work, including anaesthesia which ranged from $600 to $1000. So, I wasn't anxious to spend that kind of money on a cat, and anyway we hadn't sold the house at that point, and money was kind of tight. So I took him home, and right away he got better. His eating was fine, the coughing was gone. I put him on a diet, since that of course was the first thing the vet said -- "Your cat is fat. Better put him on a diet." Standard for any cat I have ever taken to the vet. But this time we did what she said, cut him down to 1/2 a cup of food a day, 1/4 in the morning and 1/4 in the evening. He dealt with it better than I expected, and like I say, he was much better, lost weight and had more energy.

This lasted about month, then all of a sudden the coughing was back, much worse than it had been and he was throwing up and absolutely not eating. And I was, of course, oh shit. So, I took him back to the vet, but at the same time, I was trying to figure out what was different between the last time I'd had him in there, and this time, and interlude when he'd been relatively healthy. The only difference I came up with was litter; we always use the cheapest scoopable stuff, but during the month between sick spells we were using a slightly more name brand brand of litter. So I googled it and found this link, which certainly suggests that the clumping litter could be the source of his troubles. It gets into their respiratory and digestive systems and clumps.

But the vet of course was convinced that it was his teeth that were causing the trouble ("They are incredibly painful, that would be why he hasn't been eating," she said several times, without explaining why usually his appetite is fine and also how she knew the teeth were incredibly painful). So I scheduled him for his dental work. Last Tuesday I took him in yet again (at this point his vet bills were already around $300) for to get his mouth fixed. Halfway through the afternoon the vet called me (on my cell; I was at another appointment) to say that his teeth were way worse than she had thought and it was going to cost more like $1800. I'm thinking, well, you kind of have me over a barrel here, don't you, what am I going to say? Oh, nevermind, I can't afford it, just put the cat down will you? Or for that matter just leave the teeth in his head? Yeah, no, not going to work.

So my cat has many fewer teeth than he used to, and a better appetite than ever before and my Visa is also looking well fed, although my bank account is anemic. In the interval between the two first vet visits he lost a kilo, (although he was sick for about a week of that time, so that factors in) and I got his fur combed out, so he is like a whole new cat. A brand new expensive obnoxious-as-ever cat.

Also, this is the same vet that diagnosed Cissy as having fatty deposits which turned out to be cancer, and I know diagnosing animal problems is way harder than diagnosing people problems, and look how hard that is, but still. She certainly hasn't distinguished herself in respect to treating my pets.

When your pile is on the wane
You don't complain of robbery.
Run away, don't bother me.
What's the use of worrying?
What's the use of anything?

-- Paul McCartney and Wings, Mrs. Vanderbilt

imagine

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 02:06:00 +0000

I sit down here to describe the things going on at work, but I can't go into too great detail about the job, because that could get me in a lot of trouble if my employers ever came across this blog.

But I told you last time about how I was losing my weekends and the changes to my hours; the end result is that I am simultaneously working crappier hours (weekends, weeknights until 10:30), and fewer hours (going from a 70 hour week to a 63 hour week). Also I will be working with the supervisor, Napoleon, whom I already despise, just on basis of the limited interaction we've had so far.

My workload has pretty much doubled in the past few months, due to structural changes in the way the parking lot in which I labour is set up. Then I found out that our workload is going to roughly double again in the next couple of weeks. My work is essentially that of a cashier, taking people's parking tickets, taking their money, letting them out of the lot. It isn't a terrible job, per se, at least physically, but it can be quite draining to talk to someone and process their issues every 30 seconds for hours on end.

But the thing of it is, we don't get breaks. In the booming province of a first world country, that has had labour laws for decades now, you might think that anyone working a 7 hour shift might get regular meal breaks, or at least potty breaks, but no. The place is absolutely set up so that there is no one to relieve us, so any breaks we take are stolen between cars arriving at the kiosk window. (A quick perusal of the Labour Standards Act shows that it is quite legal not to give employees meal breaks if everyone agrees that it is fine fine not to do so, but then the employee must be allowed to eat on the job. I haven't read it word for word, but I can't see any mention of potty breaks, but I assume they legally have to let us have them.) I am rarely away from the kiosk for more than 5 minutes at a time. Eating is done at the desk, between cars, which, as noon is part of the busiest time of day, makes it quite a challenge to actually have a meal sometimes. Ludicrously, one of the topics of conversation at that customer service workshop that I went to on Sunday was how we are not supposed to eat in public when in uniform, not supposed to let the customer see us eat, but because we have no choice but to eat in the kiosk we are at least supposed to hide the food whenever a customer drives up to our window. And that's how it is right now. When things get busier in the next couple of weeks, it will be impossible to even get away for a pee. Because you can't walk away from the kiosk when someone is driving up to it; they invariably take that personally. Oh, yes, and the gate by the kiosk is so (badly) designed that if someone gets to the head of the line by the kiosk without a method of payment that person cannot get out of the way, so you get a big bottleneck with a line of highly dissatisfied customers behind the first person. So if I go away for 5 minutes, chances are I will come back to a line up of angry people who just want to get out of the darned parking lot and go home (and who's to blame them?) but who have been unable to do so because I was away from my post.

.............

sigh.

Yah, that workshop on Sunday was just as upbeat and annoying as you might think. I won't say it was totally useless, it's always a good thing to let the peons know how they are supposed to treat their betters, I mean, how a service employee should treat the customer so that the customer feels valued. But a lot of time was spent condescendingly explaining to us how most people are good decent people who just want to go about their day, and how it doesn't matter what the issue is, we should be able to just solve it, damn it, without delay. I agree that probably 95% of people are good, decent people, even pleasant to deal with. But how to deal with the other 5%, who are dishonest, rude, jackasses was never addressed. In fact, it was never acknowledged that that 5% even exists.

All of which got me thinking. Wouldn't it be just a funny old world if employees were treated the way that it is believed that customers should be treated? You know, if instead of assuming that all employees are lazy, stupid and dishonest, it was assumed that 95% of them are good decent people, deserving of respect, and that if they have a problem, then employers should try their hardest to solve that problem without making the employee's life worse. If workshops were given, and executives had to give up their Sundays, to learn how to properly treat employees.

Wouldn't that be strange?

Save my soul from evil, Lord

And heal this soldier's heart

I'll trust in you to keep me Lord,

I'm done with Bonaparte.

--Mark Knopfler, Done With Bonaparte

falling leaves

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 17:16:00 +0000

After snowing all yesterday morning, today we're back to blue-and-gold autumn weather. Granted, the gold is faded and there aren't as many leaves on the trees, but the sun is blazing overhead and the air is like a heady wine; the kind of weather that makes me want to go adventuring.

I spent most of the morning working on a top secret Christmas project, which I can't talk about on here, obv. Tiresomely, what I was working on is just the prototype, to see if what I'm envisioning is even feasible.

Our other house has been on the market for about a month now. No nibbles as yet. Better sell soon, our finances are at a bit of an ebb. There was a story on cbc news recently about how the Harper Government (aka the Canadian government) is concerned about excessive household debt and thinks that citizens should be too. And I'm like, way ahead of you on that one, uncle Stevie. Please don't put any policies in place that will bring down the housing market.

And our current house needs more work, which I was hoping could be put off, but probably cannot and which entails moving most of the stuff we simply threw into the basement when we moved in. This is a herculean task, as you may imagine. Where to put it all? The Empress once suggested that I need to name this house. I'm thinking Augean Stables would be appropriate.

My hours at work haven't changed as yet. End of this month, or so I hear. This Sunday I have to take a course (along with everyone else that I work with) in customer relations. This is not necessarily a bad idea (other than having to give up my Sunday for it) (at least we get paid) but I'm pretty sure the actual course content will be of little use. We shall see, I guess.

Imagine that we could get it together
Stand up for what we need to be
Cause crime won't save or feed a hungry child
Can't lay down and hope no miracles change things
So life up your eyes
Life up your heart.

--Dave Matthews Band, Mercy

may you live in interesting times

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 04:09:00 +0000

There has been a lot of shite conflict and politicking at my work recently. And so my supervisor -- we'll call him Napoleon -- phoned me up first thing this morning and said, I've got some good news and some bad news. (He likes to talk in cliches.) And he went on, because the site where you work is so busy they're extending the shifts so they end at 10:30 every weeknight, rather than 9:30. That's the good news, he sez.

Not really, I said, politely.

And the bad news is that I'm coming over to that site to work.

O rly?

Yes, I'm taking over your shifts. The Old Guy (who has worked there for 11 years) is being moved to a different site. You will be taking over his shifts which run Wednesday to Sunday. The overlords want me to be working at that site and they want me to be there every weekday, so I have to have your shifts.

Oh, I see.

Really, I'm not sure what annoys me more about this masterful job of shafting us, the fact that I'm losing my weekends, or the fact that Old Guy is getting pushed into a different post when he's been at this post for years and as long as he can do the job (which he can) he should be left the fuck alone. Also, oh, sure I believe Napoleon when he says that he's doing this because the Higher Ups told him to. Sure I do.

And the wind keeps roaring

and the sky keeps turning grey

and the sun is set

The sun will rise another day...

--Eddie Vedder with Nusrat fateh ali Khan, The Long Road

a city counselor is stalking my husband

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 16:05:00 +0000

I always forget to take before pictures for my projects.

I like t-shirts; you can get them hella cheap, they come in pretty colours and they can last forever. They do have two issues for me, one is that the fabric can stretch and sag, and the other is that the good cheap ones (i.e. men's t-shirts) are usually made with crew necks which are both uncomfortable and unflattering.

So the idea that has been exercising my mind for years is how to convert a $10 crew necked T into something with a better neckline. The repurposed neckline must be both stylishly simple but take only a basic amount of effort.

For this project I used a typical crew neck t-shirt, originally from Foot Locker, light blue, and which I have owned and worn for a couple of years (with its uncomfortable, unflattering crew neck).

I simply cut it straight down the front for a couple of inches, folded under the flaps created by this operation and sewed buttons on, both as decoration and to hold things in place.

Sorry I can't take a decent picture of it on me (I'm too old to have learned the skill of taking good self-portraits with a digital camera), so you'll just have to take it from me, it is stylish, flattering and simple. It didn't actually meet my other project criterion of taking a minimum of effort, as it was all hand sewed, although the buttons didn't take as much trouble as I anticipated, after I realized that they should all be sewn on with one thread, without stopping to tie off each one.

A smart woman would not undertake a bunch of hand sewing when her hands are in as bad shape as mine are at the moment. I'm suffering from a reoccurrence of the splits on my fingers, along with the sort thumb joint that was bothering me a couple of years ago, plus my carpal tunnels are bad. (I'm pretty sure that these three conditions reinforce each other.)

Oh, I should blog more often. I've got many tales to tell, which will have to wait for another day, since I have other productive things to do this morning. But let me finish with an amusing story:

The City Counselor for this ward (my family members will all know who this is) is creeping my husband the heck out by being extremely friendly towards him. They are of very different political stripes, and when I first met Novel, he frequently said unkind and intemperate things about her. His feelings have moderated a bit over the years. He has formed the habit of emailing her whenever there is something annoying him, a bus shelter that had been demolished in the course of a high speed chase but not replaced, cars speeding through the neighbourhood, things like that. And every time she has responded quite promptly and as helpfully as she is able. Then she followed up one of his complaints by phoning him (at work!) to ask him about it, plus she sent him an email complimenting him on his years of soccer playing, which she found out about through the internet.

This amuses me.

Herald what your mother said
Reading the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
Some may have more cash than you
Others take a different view.

--Des'ree, You Gotta Be

what I did on my summer vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 02:44:00 +0000

Hung pictures:

Came up with tasteful solutions to old problems:

Hung out with family:

Pondered plumbing problems:

Did more tasteful decorating:

I'll move to the country, and live inside the deepest, darkest woods
And I'll write you a letter and tell you all of the things I should say to your face
And I won't send it to you, I'll send it to your mother's place
And she won't give it to you, that's how brave I'll grow here in my cave.

--Julia Stone, It's All Okay

colonial steam punk bohemian shabby chic romantic prairie*

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 03:09:00 +0000

(*with a dash of wizard)

Conversation that took place in my house the other day:

Me: Dear, do you know where Jesus has gotten to?

Novel: I haven't seen him.

Pause.

Novel: What do you want him for?

Me: I want to hang him up.

Pause while I think about what I just said.

Me: Again.

Anyway, it actually took me a couple of days to find Jesus. He was on my dresser, with a couple of other pictures on top of him.

Here he is hanging on the wall beside the bathroom door, as if he's knocking on the wall. "Let me in. I have to go."

Been working my ass off trying to get the house set up. We've been here a month, took this week off because we thought we would be working on the old house, but then we found some guys who were willing to do everything over there that was needful, paint, floor, do the bathroom, clean the basement even. Of course, it's costing money, but it makes our lives so much easier not to have to be over there every day. So we've been working on setting this place up.

Which has led to my realization that we have too much stuff and there is no way we will ever get it all stuffed in to the house.

I've been hanging my mother in law's linen in the windows. I found a box of it that I had forgotten that I had and it's got a lot of very pretty stuff in it.

Jesus hangs behind the glass
Above venitian doors
His window box boasts crimson flowers
Fresh cut the day before

And you couldn't find a smile
If you nailed it to his face
But Jesus Christ hangs his head with grace

And if Venice is sinking
I'm going under
'Cause beauty's religion
And its Christened me with wonder

--Spirit of the West, If Venice is Sinking

sisyphus

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 17:52:00 +0000

I had an entire post written out in my head, but then I spent the morning talking to contractors (pretty much all of them: really busy, can't do it till fall) and now I'm too depressed to write it.

I really wish people wouldn't greet me with g'day. It invariably gets Tie Me Kangaroo Down on my brain. All together now:

Don't drink, don't smoke - what do you do?
Don't drink don't smoke - what do you do?
Subtle innuendos follow
There must be something inside.

--Adam Ant, Goody Two Shoes

:-D

in which our heroine progresses somewhat to her goal

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 16:54:00 +0000

I was cleaning out and packing the basement the other day when it dawned on me that I am probably the first person to attempt to clean this house right to its foundations in over 50 years. Not just sure, but Novel's father bought the house before Novel was born in 1960 and the Novel family have lived in it ever since. Novel's mother seems to have been what you would imagine was a typical housewife from the old country. She canned, cooked, cleaned, sewed & embroidered, and hoarded. So to did her husband hoard, so to did her son. Luckily they were not rich, so they didn't have much to hoard.

Not that I'm complaining about the hoarding. In some ways it's been like one of those houses one dreams about sometimes (at least in my family), filled with lots of mysterious, interesting objects, some beautiful, some odd, some a little frightening. I've told on here I think about the cherry blossom depression glass, although I may not have mentioned the clear glass iris-and-herring-bone pitcher and iris-and-herring-bone gold lustre vase. I'm certain I have not mentioned the old wardrobe we went through, which contained Mer de Novel's old fur coat, with the pockets still stuffed with used tissues left over from some funeral. Old fur coats that have been worn till they are cracked and bald in places are something gross to touch. (I threw that out, for which the executor of my estate should be forever grateful.)

I inherited my mother in law's cabinet sewing machine, for which I am grateful (I have frequently rued the day I gave away my mother's cabinet sewing machine, passed on to a friend in Calgary before moving back to Saskatoon in '83 because I was pretty sure it wouldn't survive the trip by train that all my other furniture was making). Novel-Mere's sewing machine is plainer than Mum's was, but still works (allegedly, I haven't actually tried it). It makes a very pretty side table. I have inherited some sewing notions (a lot of those little straight pins with no heads to speak of which were your only option for pins in the fifties), a ton of old buttons, some actual linens embroidered by Novel-Mere. Sadly, her taste in embroidery isn't anything like mine, and in my opinion, she wasn't very good, but I've kept some of it for the novelty (so to speak) of it. How many of us can say we have some of our mother-in-law's hand embroidered linens in this day and age?

Much of her taste was a combination of old country Ukrainien and 50s to 60s kitsch. We have a white linen table cloth and napkin set which was never used. (I think the tablecloth is destined to be a curtain, although it is shiny linen and not the well worn linen that I like.) That's fine, but we have an equally unused linen tablecloth and napkin set in pepto-bismal pink. What am I supposed to do with that?

Bu-ut. We also have a stack of well worn cotton sugar sacks. They've been used for something for sure, they bear the signs of repeated washings. Maybe tea towels? They are lovely (and may ultimately be destined for porch curtains). When I asked Novel what his mother had them for, he replied that he didn't know. "I think she just kept them around because Dad had them."

This house, Novel tells me, was moved onto this lot back in the thirties? maybe? anyway, moved here from some farm, onto this lot where some other house stood previously. What happened to the original house is not clear. You can tell if you look, actually, that the basement foundations are a slightly different shape from the house shape. My sister (the one with the honours geography degree) was the one who pointed this out to me, she said that walking into the basement "was like walking into a different house". Before it was moved it was a farmhouse. Novel has never been clear on whereabouts exactly it was moved from, nor when exactly it was moved, but presumably it was emptied before it was moved. Then some other people lived in it until Novel-Pere bought it, again, not sure when. So it was probably emptied and cleaned when it was sold, but I have my doubts about whether it has been cleaned to its roots since then.

Novel-Mere also canned, so I have acquired several boxes of sealers (mason jars). Sadly, she doesn't seem to have had many blue or purple jars. But still, boxes of sealers can be handy. The downside of this pastime of hers is that we still have some actual canned goods from her actual canning down in the basement (I think she passed away back in the late eighties? again, things are vague) which need to be disposed of as hazardous waste.

We found books. Old books. Old school books, books from the 60s (a complete set of the Happy Hollisters! anyone want to buy?), Time-Life books, Readers Digest condensed books. There are two old Henderson's Directories, one from 1965 and one from 1984. (Why? Why just these two Hendersons' and no others?) There is a set of books -- don't know who published this -- where each volume cover looks like a book cover but which is actually a little cardboard drawer, containing several pamphlets on natural history, biology, astronomy, etc. This, I think, may well be worth something.

Anyway, worth something or not, it all is coming with us. I'm beginning to question my wisdom in thinking that I can fit the contents of this house into that house, even if everything is packed up and simply stowed. I'm thinking we'll be living out of 4 rooms for the time being, the living room, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. The two small rooms in the basement, and the back bedroom will be stuffed with things as will the garage. That house was big enough for one packrat, but will it hold two, plus a half century of ghosts?

I haven't even gotten into the stuff that Novel inherited from his maternal grandfather, who lived with them for a few years when Novel was young.

I am led to believe that this is Novel's old bib. It is not (sadly) an example of Novel-Mere's embroidery; it has a label saying made in Italy.

Behold the pleasing depiction of infant as dog, tethered to a dog house and crying. Things were different in those days.

Update: After writing the above, but before hitting publish, I went to do a little more work on the basement. "Try to find things to throw away," advised Novel as he left for work this morning. "It's garbage day tomorrow." This is trickier than it sounds, as I only usually find things of his which I want to chuck, and he usually doesn't want me to throw them. Still, I managed to find four bags of stuff to chuck (yay me!) and in the course of going through some linens I had packed a while ago, I found four more embroidered pillow cases which I had forgotten about and quite like. I also cleaned off one of those old blue metal with brass fittings suitcases then found I couldn't open it. Don't know if it's locked, or if I just don't have the trick of opening it.

And I forgot to mention that we have two trunks that came over from Ukraine with Novel-Mere (or possibly Novel-Pere). One is packed solid with old pictures and letters, the other is packed solid with more old linens. Novel-Mere came over from Ukraine when she was 12ish (?). We have her passport picture somewhere, a pretty, solemn girl, with a quizzical look. I'll scan and post it some time.

Some of these days and it won't be long
Gonna drive back down where you once belonged
In the back of a dream car twenty feet long
Don't cry my sweet, don't break my heart
Doing all right, but you gotta get smart
Wish upon wish upon day upon day
I believe oh lord, I believe, all the way.
Come, get up my baby.

--David Bowie, Golden Years

working

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Fri, 11 May 2012 14:34:00 +0000

Picture of me working:

A younger, thinner me, with better posture, obv. The words, which are probably unreadable in this picture, are just typical words which might flow from my mouth during the course of any given day.

What amuses me about this picture is that I did it entirely at work.

Cause there's a side to you that I never knew, never knew
All the things that you'd say, they were never true, never true
And the games that you'd play, you would always win, always win.

But I set fire to the rain
Watched it pour as I touched your face
Well, it burned while I cried
Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name.

--Adele, Set Fire to the Rain

peach and teal

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Fri, 04 May 2012 22:59:00 +0000

"The scans don't do your pictures justice," she said.

They certainly don't reproduce holographic orange paper very well.

Well maybe nothin' lasts forever
Even when you stay together
I don't need forever after
It's your laughter won't let me go
So I'm holding on this way

--Sheryl Crow, My Favorite Mistake

in places, small faces

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 15:50:00 +0000

I drew a picture of my niece from a picture of herself that she blogged a while ago and at the risk of being accused of stalking her, I'ma posting it.

It didn't turn out especially well and I am reluctant to link to the picture, because then you can see just how far off it is. The shape of the head is wrong, too elongated, and I didn't get her skin colour right. (Mind you, I defy anyone to capture that porcelain English rose skin colour on a book with pages yellowed by time. Perhaps if I start with a white underlay next time.) It does seem to me that the picture captures a little of the spirit of the Divine Miss M, though, in the intensity of the gaze at least.

As I say, the book's leaves are very yellowed with age, better suited to drawing people with skin colour other than my own. (Which is fine, as that is mostly what I want to draw these days, it turns out.)

This particular picture turned out better, in my opinion, although the head shape and skin colour are still off. This is an actual real woman – a cop in Ontario who was involved in bringing down a human trafficking ring. (The story was in the paper, but I don't feel like linking to it.) Anyway as soon as I saw her picture in the paper I wanted to try drawing her; she has such a wonderful face. I came closer to capturing her spirit with this one; tough and straightforward and a little wryly amused by the world.

Nowhere is there warmth to be found
Among those afraid of losing their ground
Rain grey town, known for its sound
In places, small faces unbound.

--The Byrds, Eight Miles High

i was shown another me

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 16:07:00 +0000

I was posting some old family pictures to FB the other day, including this one. When I posted it, I estimated my age in the picture as 11-12, but when I look at it a little more closely, I think I was a little older. My memory of this picture being taken is mostly theoretical; I think that I was being annoyed by one of my brothers, which accounts for the thoroughly unimpressed expression. But I don't remember the specific occasion of its taking. It was summer -- we were living north of Lloyd -- spent much of our picnic time at a lake even norther of there which I remember as being called Sandy Beach, but Google Maps doesn't show any Sandy Beaches in that area. So, I have to be older than 12, I think -- we moved to 'Back West' when I was 11, in grade 6. I got my period the December I was 13. I genuinely don't remember when I got boobs, but would assume that it was around the time I got my period, so I think this is probably from the summer I was 13. Maybe. I look older, I think, than Paprika does right now, and she's going on 10.

I remember the swim suit clearly though -- not a swim suit at all, a romper of some kind, picked up at an auction sale. It was made of some kind of knit material in faded white and orange check, too big for me, but "Debbie can wear it for a swimsuit". I hated that thing. You can see the safety pins used to shorten the shoulder straps, so they wouldn't slip off me. It would get wet and stretch in odd ways. Didn't keep me out of the water, though.

When I was that age I had the fantasy of living by a lake when I grew up. Still do. In fact, whenever I see a large body of water, I still have the sense that if I could just remember where I had hidden my seal skin, I could slip it on, and go back to living in the water.

nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey

nowhere in the suburbs

in the cold light of day

there in midst of it so alive and alone

words support like bone

--Peter Gabriel, Mercy Street

leaving milan

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 04:02:00 +0000

When I was taking that art class, during a review of my portfolio, the prof made some disparaging remark about how my art tended to look like story illustrations (rather than like real art, I assume he meant). At the time the comment irked me, but I have since concluded that I may as well embrace the fact rather than run from it.

Except that I draw the picture first, then fashion the story to fit it. That would make the words an illustration of the picture, I guess.

So I tried to warn her

I turned to see her weep

Forty days and forty nights

And it's still coming down on me.

--Eddie Vedder, Hard Sun

artist's rendition

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 21:25:00 +0000

So, I have this house I'm reno-ing, right? You all remember that.

We've been working on the upstairs bedroom for so so long. (On a related, and exciting, note, the bathroom is close - so close! It has all its major appliances in there, and quite a bit of the plumbing done.) Drywalling is a bit of a slog for two amateurs. But, the drywall is largely up, and mudded and even sanded in places.

This is the front window of the bedroom. The bottom bit isn't drywalled yet because that's the wall between the bathroom and the bedroom which has been undergoing some rebuilding. To the left of the photo is the edge of the alcove which now juts from the bathroom into the bedroom. It's storage space on the bathroom side, to hold towels, toilet paper, etc. It is roughly, maybe, two feet wide and a foot deep. And so anyway, on the bedroom side, I want bookshelves from the alcove to the window wall. Of course.

But then I see images like this on Pinterest and I'm like, well, we need a window seat in that corner.

So I made a drawing the other day at work of what I want. Now to put my concept into action.

I know that things can really get rough,

When you go it alone.

Don't go thinking you gotta be tough,

And play like a stone

Could be there's nothing else in our lives so critical

As this little home.

--The Shins, Simple Song

frost and sunshine

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 21:25:00 +0000

I sat out on the back steps with a beer for a bit today. The sun was positively hot. If the weather keeps this up, there won't be any snow by this time next week, I shouldn't think.

Renos are proceeding apace. It's possible that the bathroom will be done in a week or so; apparently Mr. Reno Guy told Novel that we should have a working toilet in a couple of days. That will make it easier to work over there; I invested in one of those camping porta potties, but they're annoying to use.

I was going to go over to the house this morning to do some sanding of drywall plaster, but I have a cold, and my lungs cringed at the thought. So I swapped with Novel; I sent him over to sand the walls, and I changed the cat boxes, which is usually his job. Litter dust, it turns out, is just as bad for lungs as plaster dust, so I didn't come out ahead at all. Then I did the laundry and washed the dishes. And now I'm interneting.

I took this picture a couple of weeks ago when we still had winter. I was trying to get the frost on the trees outside along with the lace inside -- without entirely satisfactory results. Still, it's kinda pretty.

I still want the kitchen floor swept and washed and the living room floor vacuumed, not necessarily all by me. But I think that first I need to put supper on, then have a nap. It feels as though someone filled up my nasal cavities with drywall plaster and let it harden.

You are the hole in my head

You are the space in my bed

You are the silence in between

What I thought and what I said

You are the nighttime fear

You are the morning when it's clear

When it's over, you're the start

You're my head and you're my heart

--Florence and the Machine, No Light, No Light

her rusty nipples

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 03:46:00 +0000

My sister posted an amusing tale of a dream she had in which I -- apparently -- insinuated my poetry into someone else's book, circa 1933. Or was it my own novel which I was managing (via a rift in the space time continuum) to have retroactively published?

I found it doubly amusing because in actuality I have been doing something similar IRL.

This is a book I picked up from the thrift store, Quartets for Men. I think it cost me 25 cents. It's mostly full of gospel songs. It's old and yellowed and charming.

The other day I picked it up and started drawing in it. These are the two pictures I've done so far.

This dude is not as pretty as the dude I was using as a model, (Brandon Jennings of the Milwaukee Bucks), but I admit to being quite pleased with the result.

I think the Rusty Nipple would make a great name for a dude ranch. Or maybe a bar.

Early in the morningWhen the church bells tollThe choir's gonna singAnd the hearse will rollOn down to the graveyardWhere it's cold and grayAnd then the sun's gonna shineThrough the shadowsWhen I go away
--Levon Helm, When I Go Away

right brain

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 14:17:00 +0000

The thing about Pinterest is, it makes my right brain so very, very happy. There's this sense of, 'Ah, finally a piece of the internet that I can appreciate.' The internet has been a very left brained place up till now (with the exception of the pxrnxgrxphy quadrant, I guess).

It also inspires me to do creative things sometimes.

You made my heart melt, yet I'm cold to the core,

But rumour has it I'm the one you're leaving her for.

--Adele, Rumour Has It

yoga journal

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 02:54:00 +0000

I drew this picture from Yoga Journal magazine a while ago.

I liked how she turned out, but all in all found the picture to be rather bland.

Then I picked up a blank book from Staples -- lined white paper with a brown cardboard cover. I'm sorry I forgot to photo it before I modified it; the blurb inside the front cover says it is made from 80% waste sugarcane, leftovers after the sugar has been harvested. It was a very basic looking book.

On an impulse I mod-podged her to the front of the book.

I kind of really like the result. I'm going to buy those books by the dozens and add stuff to their covers.

I just hope the book is dry by morning, as I have my current story that I'm working on in it.

Daylight again, memories fall like rain
Remind you to take it slow
One step at a time, baby
Till you find your way
Back to the big show
Places you've been
Things that you done
Somehow, you're still on the run

--Gregg Allman, Just Another Rider

what're the odds?

noreply@blogger.com (Scheherezhade) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 20:23:00 +0000

I went thrifting today. I didn't find much, but in one store I did find this dish:

So I bought it. You know, I wasn't going to just leave it there for $3. Besides, I knew I had a similar lid at home. I couldn't remember exactly what the lid was like, and I didn't think they would really match, but no, apparently they were made for each other:

So pleased with myself. Now I just have to find some place to display it.

You with your dietary restrictions

Said you loved me with a lot of conviction

I was waiting to be struck by lightning

Waiting for somebody exciting

Like you.

--Camera Obscura, French Navy