one last random act

Okay, last day, last poem. AND it's Halloween - three guesses on who I pick today. This little dittie also goes back to my KSS days, but from drama class, and a spine-chilling chapter on spoken word performance art. Still love it. Still love Poe (Edgar Allan), despite - or rather because of - the fact that his horror is of the psychological, not supernatural variety. In fact, I later did a paper on the horror infused writer, called The Method Behind the Madness - - and, yes, his work was very deliberately and mathematically plotted (right down to constructing an entire story around the word "nevermore," which he only picked because of the the sonorous, long 'o' sound, in combination with the letter 'r,' "the most producible consonant") . Facinating to get into, really.

Anyway, I won't go on (I know, I always say that after I do) but have a read. And bare in mind something I always find with Poe - - it's never really haunting while you're reading it. It only hits you later - days - nights - later, when you're alone in the darkness and you hear something. What is it? Sounds like something softly tapping, tapping at your chamber door . . .

The Raven
By Edward Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.

'Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,

'Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!

'Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.
'Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."

'But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

the penultimate

Completely undeterred by the fact that no one else is getting into the spirit of this, I sally forth, posting more poems.

Today's, the second from the last, is one of the first poems I learned that I liked. I studied it in a Grade 12 lit class the year I went to KSS, and was totally blown away by the fact that something like this existed. Let's just say it's not my Aunt Iris's (or my step-grandfather's mother's step-father's uncle's farm musings, which my grandma tried to make me post yesterday but I declined).

This guy (the narrator, assumedly Donne) is TOTALLY hitting on a girl, trying to get it on with her despite her early 17th C sensibilities. But it's not like today's brainless pick-up lines - he's convincing her (or trying to) by using a flea as bait. Since the flea bit them both, and their blood is mingled in its little flea belly, they're practically married anyway (he says). When that doesn't work - she squishes it- he argues that murder is much more sinful than sex, so come on already!

Needless to say, it opened up a whole new world in terms of what poetry is capable of . . . and men as well.

The Flea
By John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.'
Tis true ; then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

day five

I shouldn't do this. It's not very nice, I know . . . but then, you'll probably never meet my aunt so it's not like I'm turning you against her or showing her up or anything. She could be anyone. In fact, she is anyone - one of droves and droves and droves of closet poets. Closet poets who should remain in their closet and not inflict the world with their "creative" flow. Yes, she paints, too - fingerpaints, I believe (I kid you not) on about the same level that she writes poetry (I'm guesstimating that to be about Grade 3). No, this is not the aunt with dementia - I just have a very bizarre (read: wacked out) family. Anyway, she's incredibly proud of what she produces, and loves to share it with the people around her - usually for some unwarranted fee. Ask Kelly, who was "presented" with one of the fingerpaintings - - and then the bill. She politely declined.

I got off easy. The first time I went to England (school) it was a pretty big deal for everyone in my family, none of which had ever 1. gone anywhere more foreign than Hawaii and 2. stepped foot in a university, at least for an actual degree. So in a fit of generosity she gave me a book of poems she had "published" (actually, printed - I think on her computer because not even a vanity press would stoop so low). It included a poem called To My Lovely Niece, Lorie-Anne [sic]. Anyway, it's bad but not as bad as Little Boston Bull, written in ode to my grandma's ugly, aggressive boston terrier, Ziggy - which is now (thanks be) dead and gone. I've picked this one today because, well, just read it. Sufficed to say, you'll never need drugs again - this little poem is a trip and a half, all on its own.

Little Boston Bull
By Iris Frickey

Says Ziggy to the piggy,
Are you friend or foe?
The piggy looks and he says -
I really do not know.
You look a bit like you belong in my family.
You snort and grunt the same way too.
Come in and do the things we do.
In mud we roll so happily,
Wallowing around for all to see.
If you wish to try it out,
And you don't mind your snout, -
Ziggy looked and he said -
Thanks, but I would rather
be in a nice warm bed.

another day, another poem

A poem has got to speak to a person, don't you think? That's what makes one like it. Or hate it (when it doesn't). The poems I've posted so far have spoken to the part of me that's consumed with the transience of life, memory, love. Most of the poems I feel connected to have this subject matter in common. That, and, they're lyrically written. But that's not the only kind of poem I like, as you will learn today. There must be a mischievous side to me - a playful, immature, irreverent side that I think Lewis Caroll sums up very well with today's poem, from Alice in Wonderland (still one of my favourite pieces of literature, btw). Below the poem I add a bonus track, an excerpt of Humpty Dumpty's Explication of Jabberwocky. Just so you know.

Jabberwocky
By Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


Humpty Dumpty's Explication of Jabberwocky

"You seem very clever at explaining words, Sir," said Alice. "Would you kindly tell me the meaning of the poem Jabberwocky?"
"Let's hear it," said Humpty Dumpty. "I can explain all the poems that ever were invented - and a good many that haven't been invented just yet."
This sounded very hopeful, so Alice repeated the first verse:

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"That's enough to begin with," Humpty Dumpty interrupted: "There are plenty of hard words there. 'Brillig' means four o'clock in the afternoon - the time when you begin broiling things for dinner."
"That'll do very well," said Alice: "and 'slithy'?"
"Well, 'slithy' means 'lithe and slimy.' 'Lithe' is the same as 'active.' You see, it's like a portmanteau - there are two meanings packed up into one word."
"I see it now," Alice remarked thoughtfully: "and what are 'toves'?"
"Well, 'toves' are something like badgers - they're something like lizards - and they're something like corkscrews."
"They must be very curious creatures."
"They are that," said Humpty Dumpty: "also they make their nests under sundials - also they live on cheese."
"And what's to 'gyre' and to 'gimble'?"
"To 'gyre' is to go round and round like a gyroscope. To 'gimble' is to make holes like a gimlet."
"And the 'wabe' is the grass plot round a sundial, I suppose?" said Alice, surprised at her own ingenuity.
"Of course it is. It's called 'wabe,' you know, because it goes a long way before it, and a long way behind it - "
"And a long way beyond it on each side," Alice added.
"Exactly so. Well then, 'mimsy' is 'flimsy and miserable' (there's another portmanteau for you). And a 'borogove' is a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round - something like a live mop."
"And then there's 'mome raths'?" said Alice. "If I'm not giving you too much trouble."
"Well, a 'rath' is a sort of green pig: but 'mome' I'm not certain about. I think it's short for 'from home' - meaning that they'd lost their way, you know."
"And what does 'outgrabe' mean?
"Well, 'outgribing' is something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of sneeze in the middle: however, you'll hear it done, maybe - down in the wood yonder - and when you've once heard it you'll be quite content. Who's been repeating all that hard stuff to you?"
"I read it in a book," said Alice.

and another

Ick. Frost, this morning, and not the pretty, Jack Frost kind that patterns up your window pane. We're talking thick, obnoxious, cold frost that coats the grass thick and makes it crunchy and lies like an icy blanket on your car window until after 10:30 a.m., waiting for you to take a credit card to it because your real ice scraper is in the other car (why?), tucked away in your mum's garage, three blocks away.

Yeah.

I'll spare you the diatribe about my fingers, slicing through the brittle air on my jog this morning. It's enough that you know.

I am going somewhere with this, btw. I think this morning was the first frost. It was certainly the first that was still around by the time I unglued myself from the computer (there since 5 a.m.!) and ventured outside. So instead of the poem I PLANNED to share with you today (John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn), I figured it was only appropriate to post some, err, Frost. Robert Frost.

Now, the ultimate would be something like An Old Man's Winter Night, because it actually talks about frost (Frost on frost, you could say - how cool is that? And I mean that literally?). However, it does nothing for me so we're going to go with The Road Not Taken - which isn't actually one of my Top 7 (or even 10) but I went on the nicest walk this afternoon in Mission Creek Park with a new friend and we just randomly selected pathways to take so, you know, it kind of fits. N'est pas?

Perhaps it will inspire a walk of your own.

The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

another random act

I admit I'm obsessed with the Pre-Raphaelites. Not unhealthily obsessed, like I was in university (when I haunted the Tate Gallery, memorizing every brush stroke, read their biographies like a Bible, visited the Rossetti family grave in Highgate and basically looked at life through PR painted glasses - oh yeah, and with plans to name my firstborn Dante). Still.

I don't know if its the lavishness of their paintings (the colour, the movement, the form), the mythology they drew their inspiration from or (most probably) the ever-present undercurrent of melancholy. They all had it - everyone in the brotherhood, their models, muses and mates.

Now you think I'm going to post a poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, don't you? My Sister's Sleep, perhaps, or The Blessed Damozel? I probably should, mais non. I have opted for his younger sister, Christina, who was once called one of the 19th Century's "greatest odd women." While she was staunchly religious, there are glimpses of the same sensuous observances in many of her poems that her brother and the other PRs captured so magically on canvas. But, again, I'll spare you the lesson. Just read and think and enjoy.

My favourite from her body of works is Song (When I Am Dead My Dearest). This is the one I share with you today:

Song (When I Am Dead My Dearest)
By Christina Rossetti

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

random acts of poetry

Cool thing. Just found out that this week - Oct. 25-31 - poets across the country (that is, Canada) will be delivering Random Acts of Poetry. On the streets, in the parks, at bus stops, schools, cafes, shops and libraries, they'll be accosting regular passers-by and reading them poetry.

According to a press release I received, the point is to promote literacy in Canada, so after being hit with the reading, the accostee will be presented with a book of Canadian poetry. Designated readers will also have information about literacy issues in Canada and suggestions on how to support literacy in the community.

The other goal is just to help change the perception of poetry as a bitter pill, and invite people to slow down a little and enjoy some nourishment for the soul. I SO hope I get accosted - even though I'm not actually a big fan of poetry. In fact, I hate to admit, I really dislike the majority of poems out there.

That said, I really like a lot, too. More than I thought, apparently, because my initial idea was to post one poem a day from my little stash of personal faves. All I'd need is seven, so I thought that should be easy . . . until I took out the old Norton's Anthology, and started discovering how many favourites I have! There's no way I can fit them all, but at least it's something - and perhaps along the way they will reveal something about who I am. Or something. I wish I could say that I'd be posting a huge variety, to expose everyone to something different and new, but - sadly - they're all fairly old - Romantic, Victorian and Early 20th C. Oh, yeah, and pretty well known. Sorry.

However, since this is about random acts of poetry, I'm expecting some sharing from you. I don't care if it's "Roses are red, violets are blue . . . " or something your insane, non-literary aunt wrote (may have to draw from that bank myself, if only for a laugh). It's all in good fun - just remember to say a few words about why you chose it, as I will.

In the meantime, check out www.randomactsofpoetry.com and enter to win $500 worth of books, four gift baskets filled with Prairie Naturals products and two tickets from WestJet Airlines by finishing the sentence, "I read poetry because . . . " (and if you win, I want the second ticket ;)

Anyway. Today's poem is by one of the only American poets I like - the incredibly bizarre e.e. cummings and his anyone lived in a pretty how town. I'll spare you the lit class, but basically I like it because of the musical quality of the words, the esoteric approach and because sometimes I feel like I am anyone; at other times like noone (yes, they're character names).

Anyway, it's poetry, yes, but read it. Preferably out loud. Do it for you, even if you hate poetry. Then add something - yes, do. Who knows, you just might get something from it.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
By e.e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all deed by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

soup season

Well, it would appear that soup season is finally here. Yes, soup season - a little talked about time of year when people like me start wanting to feel all warm and cozy inside, in the way that only a decent bowl of soup can deliver. It may not inspire a community-wide celebration like the Okanagan Wine Festival, or even its own awareness month, but most people do commemorate it, whether they know it or not, with a nice, hearty bowl (or two) of soup. Like I did, today.

You know soup season is starting when it's harder to get out of bed in the morning, sweaters become a wardrobe staple, and only the most stubborn leaves remain clinging to the trees. It's getting cold, and there's no better way to warm yourself - inside and out - than to indulge in a nice big bowl of soup.

Almost every restaurant is going to have soup somewhere on the menu, especially this time of year. But all soups are not created equal. Watery bowls of broth with only one or two vegetables floating by, or ingredients pureed into an unrecognizable pulp might be tolerated in the summer, when everything is light and airy, but when the mercury dips below 5C, soup eating becomes a serious issue, and the stewing of it is nearly a work of art.

I think the best place I know of for a good bowl of soup - at least thus far in my experience - is the Wood Fire Bakery, in the centre of town. The contents of their two big cauldrons changes frequently, but the result is always the same - a healthy bowl of thick, hot soup, that hits your stomach like a grandaddy hug.

Today was clam chowder and beef barley. I chose the latter with a fresh, multigrain bun from the woodfire oven. And can I just say, the catch phrase, "Mmm, mmm good!" was never delivered with such sincerity as I slurped down spoonful after spoonful of the better-than-homemade, liquid ecstasy in my bowl.

Imagine, if you will: more beef than one hungry girl can reasonably be expected to herd on her own. Barley that still has some chew. Carrots, tomatoes, celery, onions and other assorted vegetables. Chock-a-block.

Sadly, though, this soup haven is hardly a secret in these parts. Thus, if you make the mistake of arriving during the lunch hour rush you'd better bring a friend to stake out a seat while you get the grub. Side note to the girls: Be the one to stand in line and get the grub because then you get to try unsuccessfully to flirt with Kelowna's own SS (Sexy Soup-nazi). Yes - the other big Woodfire Bakery attraction.

With a cup of hot chocolate (or better yet, their brewed-just-right German coffee) you can head back into the cold feeling warm and nourished. A little something for the soul.

just plain mcweird

Are you sitting down? Because this posting, if you know anything at all about me, is going to blow you away.

I ate at McDonalds today.

I did it on purpose, and not just to prove a point or make a statement or anything like that. I just felt hungry, and decided that McDonalds was exactly what I was craving.

Yeah, I know!!

So I went in and ordered a McChicken sandwich, fries and a chocolate shake. I even sat down inside. I mean, if you're going to loose your head, you might as loose it all the way. So I sat, with my food wrapped in paper and cardboard, laid out on an ugly plastic tray, and, consumed this bizarre, pseudo-meal. And as I did, the strangest sense of satisfaction washed over me.

Then I left.

I think I must be getting back to normal, now, because I'm starting to question the whole occurance. I have to admit, I'm a bit worried because this sort of thing just doesn't happen normally - at least not to me. Of course, I've had a lot going on in my life recently - perhaps the original stress of the situation has left me a tiny bit touched upstairs?

Anyway, just thought I'd post this for posterity because it probably won't happen again.

something to chew on

Right. I've been a bit neglegent with my blogging in the last week or two, due mostly to other, grander issues that have eaten up my time/attention (unexpected True Connections spin-offs, you could say). Still mildly overwhellmed from all the thought/emotion that's gone into them, I'm going to go to the other extreme and post something completely frivolous. It's something that's bothered me for a really long time, and it's time I get this off my chest. It's about the term "bite-size," and why it should be banned. Feel free to make this a movement.

Right, let's analyze. In order for something to be legitimately "bite" sized, you must be able to bite it. All food, then, is technically bite sized since you take bites out of it. All except so-called "bite-sized" foods. These, one simply stuffs into ones mouth whole, all at once, and chews. Therefore, you don't bite them at all. They are not, then, "bite" sized.

So.

It should follow that they must not be called bite-sized any longer, but CHEW-sized nibblies. Call a horse a horse and all that. Therefore, chew-sized brownies, chew-sized doughnuts, chew-sized canapés, the list can go on and on. The point is, STOP THE INSANITY!!!!

Okay, better now. That didn't take long, so now you have time to go do something else - post a comment, perhaps? Show some support to the cause? Or relate what gets under your skin, perhaps? Keep the dialogue going!

benedictus

Thanksgiving, and let’s face it – it’s about time I focus on what I have versus what I’m missing in my life. I mean, really. For the past couple of months I’ve been all too focussed on everyone else’s opportunities, successes, coups, adventures and life gifts, and it’s been miserable. Miserable! Not that I want what they have instead of them. That would be covetous, which I’m definitely not. No, I’m giddy as a schoolgirl for each friend who’s being published in an anthology or hired by the Discovery Channel, whisked away to exotic locations or allowed to traipse the world for a year – or just reside for that amount of time in Paris. Not “instead,” “as well,” I say. Hello, what about me?

In a way, it’s like I’ve been looking around for the cake while greedily stuffing my face with pie. “Is there anymore,” I ask in a sticky voice, cheeks bulging with lemon meringue. “I want that, too. And that, and that,” I point gluttonously, fingers coated in double cream. I’m so busy noticing everyone else’s plate that I’m totally neglecting the lavish buffet on my own. And it’s shameful, really shameful.

So enough of that, and onto the blessings in my otherwise rich and textured life. And I’m not talking good health, family and the most beautiful, supportive friends this side of NBC – although I’m pleased to report I have all that, as well.

This year, I am thankful for short, crisp (but not too crisp) autumn days, the rich gold, rust, orange colours of leaves that scatter around me as I jog through Ben Lee Park, a cup of no-whip spiced pumpkin latte with a close friend in the afternoon, e-letters from around the world and a pen and paper (or in this case, a laptop) to record it all on.

I’m thankful I’ve been given the opportunity to pursue a career that allows me the privilege of getting to know some of the most interesting and talented people in the city, to talk about things that would never otherwise come up in conversations.

I’m thankful for a treasure trove of memories that I wouldn’t trade for any material wealth, finance or position.

I’m thankful for the smile I received this morning from a homeless man as we passed in the parking lot across the road from my house. It was the most beautiful smile I’ve felt in a while.

I’m thankful for the music that plays in me all day and all night without ceasing. Whatever I’m doing, wherever I go it’s there, providing a soundtrack to my life. Sometimes it’s upbeat and fun, other times quirky, or angry, or heart wrenchingly sad – but it’s always there, within me.

I’m thankful that I was raised to put my spirituality first, before anything or anyone. Sometimes I forget this, and get distracted with trivial concerns (job status, what I haven’t achieved, etc.) but when it is in the forefront of my life nothing else on earth offers the same degree of comfort or empowerment. And all the blessings I’ve just listed (plus a zillion others that I haven’t) mean so much more when I recognize them for what they are – abundant and unanticipated gifts from God.

Well, that’s my list for this year. I could go on. I won't. At least not here (brevity - that's something you might want to add to your own list!). What else do you have?

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