Hello

I welcome myself back to this blog. To this virtual space that exists nowhere yet everywhere, if you have a computer. What to say? I'm listening to some new Tom Waits, and putting off going to eat lunch, as the sooner I do that, the sooner I have to teach 3 periods in a row. Things are so busy lately, that it feels as if time is a wave and I can only ride it. Or at least try to. To paddle against it is an act of futility, as my arms are pretty weak. Really, they are.

I'm in the middle of reading Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem, and just finished the first section, which is a collection of essays and reportorial pieces on her life in California in the mid to late sixties. Some really engaging stuff. I did not know when I bought it that it would be focused on a time period I am already very interested in. I purchased it on the strength of The Year of Magical Thinking, a book I found in a thrift store at some point in the past 3 years and really enjoyed, despite its melancholy subject, to say the least.

Alas, time is crashing, the wave is breaking, and I need to stand up now or I'll be thrown onto the beachhead, a soldier at Normany, helpless against the onslaught of bullets already coming towards me.

Canadian Traveller

Peering into the void I can discern
Its distant eyes growing brighter – more distinct:

a giant worm ripping through the metropolis’ underbelly
Drawing ever closer to our beacon of light -

awaiting passengers step back, hold their breath
In a cacophony of metallic anger
It slides into the station
A groaning mechanical squeal as it comes to a rest
and putrid wafts of tunnel air invade my nostrils
As if it’s sighing after too much exertion
The doors slide open and groups of eyes are raised from hiding

Accomplices, whether voluntary or not
Begrudgingly crammed against doors and one another –

open scowls and awkward, close proximity
In a land of personal space this is a humbling experience
No two faces are alike – young, old, all colours and odours
I wonder where they’re going and from where they’ve emerged
A blaring sonic undercurrent of headphone music

creates a symphony of indistinct noise
No one speaks amidst the lonely newspapers stuffed between seats
And the sticky spills grab my soles –

fixate me momentarily to this place
Individuality?
Backpacks smack my face as fellow riders twist and turn and push
Each eager to escape
*****
Three hours from here is an empty dock
Grey rocks and clear blue water
I close my eyes and transcend this city.

Robert Currie - Morning Ride

Morning Ride

Six in the morning
and dark outside
Wind already blowing
as I drive you to the airport
In places snow
building again where a blade
has channeled out the road
Open spots and ground drift
pulling the car toward the ditch
Before the overpass
we ease around a semi
jack-knifed across the road
and fishtail to Regina and the plane
that will lift you from the prairie

In the half-light paw marks
appear from nowhere in the ditch
move like ghosts beside us
until we see the mongrel
whiter than snow
running with us at the east
to chase the day into the sky
It leaps a snow drift
rises with the vaulting sun
The whole prairie a sudden radiance

© Robert Currie, Diving into Fire (Oberon Press, Ottawa, 1977)