Ode to Frost

It's 7 am.   I pull on my hat, mittens,scarf, coat and rubber boots and we creep put of the house like stealthy thieves. 

The world is white with frost. The air is crisp and sharp in my lungs.  I must scrape  a thick layer of ice crystals off of my windshield in order to drive away.

We hop in the car, shivering.  The first rays of the morning  illuminate the traces of frost left on the windows, like diamonds glinting in the new sun.

I turn up the volume as Ray Lamontagne laments in his Tennessee mountain twang. We head for the sea, to the summer house on the Grève D'Amours (love shore?  seaside of love?) where the garden, now bereft of its beans, carrots and tomatoes, awaits the winter snow.

I open the car door and the dog leaps out and runs ahead of me toward the sand.  Boots crunch, the dog's hot breath condensing in white puffs in the cold air.  Aside from the duck family paddling close to shore, my dog companion and I are the only beings here.

We are the only travellers in this universe.  The dog runs crazily, delirious with joy.  I am enraptured by this moment at this place.  Every shell, pebble, grain of sand glitters with frost.  Its luminous touch traces the intricate outline of feathers, seagrass and stone in delicate lace.  The frost magnifies the intertidal life and I can only stand awestruck, the sole witness to this magical world.

We walk on.  I am stunned by the clarity of the water and sand.  The frost becomes a lense through which to view the world for the first time.  I see green and garnet seaweed like other worldy shapeshifters, waiting for the sun to warm them up before they slither back to the sea.  Here and there, pieces of worn emerald seaglass glint through the pebbles and I pocket them, my secret talismans.

We make our way to the end of the shore and we have reached the end of the world.  One of my favorite Robert  Frost poems creeps into my mind as I recall the lines:
                                                         So Eden sank to grief
                                                         So dawn goes down to day
                                                         Nothing gold can stay.
It's time to go home.

Blogfest

There are lots of inspiring blogs in the blogosphere where you can read inspiring stories about hope, survival and overcoming great obstacles. The best of these blogs use their circumstances to comment on an aspect of society.

 A subgenre of this type of blog, however, is the fabricated personal challenge blog in which bloggers impose artificial limits on themselves and then write about their trails and tribulations, their triumphs and defeats all in order to to have something interesting to write about in which ME is the star.  This subgenre reminds me of reality tv because both present a narrative arc that is entirely based on artificial challenges and fake fortuitous circumstances.  A classic example of this kind of blog is the Julie/Julia Project.

And so, because I am feeling frivolous and in the hope that one day  I too will become famous and  have a movie produced based on my blog, here are my suggestions for my ticket to fame:

Incognito:  I infiltrate the mafia and write both scathing critiques and lush praise for this deadly yet alluring secret society.

Karaokegirl:  I enter karaoke contests throughout Asia in a bid to become a karaoke star.

$%?*(*&?  -OFF:  I challenge myself to stop swearing in French or in English for an entire six months.

Choxtasy:  I eat a chocolate bar a day (not Mars or Caramilk--the good stuff!) and describe the taste sensations in exquisite detail.  Perhaps Lindt will sponser me?

Canterbury Tales:  I take a year off work in order to write about living like a woman of medieval England.  I write about food, health, education, entertainment, work and family life.  Nevermind that blogging is certainly anachronistic for the year 1310.

Well, I can go on and on but my eyes are getting blurry.  Which one do you vote in?  Do you have other suggestions for me?  How about you?  What's your challenge, real or imaginary?

The Strawman Argument

With a nod to the American midterm elections last night, let's take a look at Grammar Girl and listen to what she has to say about a debating technique dear to the politician's heart.  Her tips on this podcast are useful for a critical analysis of Maclean's articles too!

If you enjoyed this podcast, I encourage you to become a fan on Facebook.  With charm and humour, Grammar Girl has great writing tips and commentary on grammar faux pas in the media. I am not a geek (or am I ) but I do relish discussions about grammar.  Really!

Vampire

He commands respect.  He represents moral authority.  He inspires confidence and admiration.  He is a coach.  He is a priest.  He is a Colonel in the army.  He is a monster.

As Halloween approaches, we are inundated with images of ghosts, goblins, monsters, witches and vampires.  If we so desire, we may choose to wear a costume representing one of these stock Halloween characters.  In a larger context, one can't escape the omnipresence of popular culture related to vampires:  Anne Rice novels, Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV shows and of course, the Twilight series.  Indeed, we are fascinated by representation the mysterious, sometimes monstrous netherworld because of the classic two sides to being human: good and evil.  The representaion of evil in art or popular culture forces us to look at the "evil" side of the human condition while at the same time confirms to us that we are good:  we are not like them.  Vampires may act human sometimes but humans don't act like vampires.  And so we happily stand in line at the movies to be thrilled, horrifed and thoroughly entertained.

But these days, one can't escape another kind of monster who belongs neither to medieval iconography, nor to neo-gothic popular culture.  This kind of vampire walks among us.  He leads a double life.  He uses his power,status and authority as a mask to hide his real nature.  He stalks his prey and he leaves an endless trail of victims.  He has even become a media anti-star: whenever we turn on the radio or television, there he is again.  This steady media diet of horror is beginning to make me feel sick.  I feel a malaise when I think how the vampire becomes the star but the victims must repeatedly relive the horror over a 24-hour news channel.

Sadly, as much as I may wish, this is not a fairytale. There are no princes or princesses, no chivalrous knights and no happily-ever-after in this story.

Run

Ran to fix breakfast.
Sped to drive the kids to school.
Sped back home to get ready for work.
Jumped in the car.  Ahhh, I can relax, I'm not late, the sun is shining, Gloria Steinem is being interviewed on Q
 $%%#!!$! a dead moose on the back of a truck, zoom and another, zoom and another, at least six today all the way to Rimouski.

Sauntered to the office,greet colleagues, check Omnivox, Groupwise, Hotmail, telephone messages, catching up, catching up.
Ran upstairs for a meeting.
Ran downstairs for Cool-Aid center.
Strolled to office
Madly produced administrative documents due NOW and  sent them out
Quickly ate lunch with one hand while typing with the other.
Ran downtown to buy a birthday present.
Glanced at watch, holy $%#%!! I have a meeting in 7 minutes.
Sprinted from Alphabet to the third floor of the cegep in 5 minutes.
Arrived at meeting transpiring and out of breath but ON TIME.
Finished the meeting, jogged to the second floor for  other meeting.
Dashed to office, grabbed work, ran to car.

Sped back home, come on lady, you are driving too slow.
Brisked into the grocery store, purchased supper, slight twinge of guilt for not offering all four food groups.
Pulled into the garderie, picked up kids, B is there, N is there--what É isn't there?  Oh, he's at a friend's house.  Aghh!!! which friend?
Found É, drive home, fervently repeating my mantra :serenity now, serenity now (you know, from Seinfeld).
Unpacked backpacks, helped with homework, spelling words, dictation, addition, subtraction, conjugation,
Exponents--Hey, I'm an English teacher not a math teacher ummmmm, let' s see now.....

Walked dog.

Gobbled supper, get back in car, drive É to arena, tie skates.
Drove back home, read stories.
Got back in car--I said buckle up!
Picked up É at arena, come on, hurry up! hurry up.
Got back in car . Drove back home.
Made and eate snacks, read stories.

 Walked dog.

I am wiped out.  I am beat.
Bed time everybody. Sweet dreams.

I can't sleep.

Coffee break

In the spirit of solidarity with my language students, Present Progressive is taking a break this week!

Do you ever feel like this?

L'air du temps

If there is one holiday that makes me feel like a foreigner in Québec, it's Thanksgiving.  In ROC (rest of Canada), Thanksgiving is a treasured moment in the year when friends and family gather around the table to enjoy the traditional roast turkey, rosemary stuffing, assorted roasted autumn vegetables, cranberry sauce and homemade pumpkin pie.  Here in Québec on the other hand, Thanksgiving is an anonymous holiday without a heart and soul, a banal day like any other. I guess it's a good illustration of the great franco-anglo culinary divide.  On the turkey issue it seems our differences can't be breached.

And so, in the interest of anglo-franco cultural rapprochement, I encourage you to learn more about the art of the Thanksgiving feast by the epitome of holiday festivities, the domestic diva herself, Martha Stewart.  Enjoy and:


    It must be part of  the zeitgeist,of l'air du temps.  As usual, I was driving in my car this week when I tuned in to a Q debate.  The subject :  Carnivore vs. vegetarian!  The debate neatly ties in to our discussion on the ethics of  hunting and eating meat from my previous post, Bullet-proof.  Click here  for more passionate opinions on the subject.  Have a happy Thanksgiving, we have a lot to be grateful for.