Monday, July 25, 2011
Long time, no post
Today - after a wonderful weekend in a dry climate at a high altitude I returned home. I unpacked. I prepared dinner. I also did a Google search - "how long into the nosebleed should I begin to worry." No helpful information was returned. I believe my searches are a tiny bit too well spelled and existential. I kind of like them for this though I may die due to my love of a well phrased query. I would not totally regret this.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Poets will kill us with perfection - we should just give up now.
The Underground
There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,
You in your going-away coat speeding ahead
And me, me then like a fleet god gaining
Upon you before you turned to a reed
Or some new white flower japped with crimson
As the coat flapped wild and button after button
Sprang off and fell in a trail
Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.
Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms,
Our echoes die in that corridor and now
I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones
Retracing the path back, lifting the buttons
To end up in a draughty lamplit station
After the trains have gone, the wet track
Bared and tense as I am, all attention
For your step following and damned if I look back.
- Seamus Heaney
There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,
You in your going-away coat speeding ahead
And me, me then like a fleet god gaining
Upon you before you turned to a reed
Or some new white flower japped with crimson
As the coat flapped wild and button after button
Sprang off and fell in a trail
Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.
Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms,
Our echoes die in that corridor and now
I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones
Retracing the path back, lifting the buttons
To end up in a draughty lamplit station
After the trains have gone, the wet track
Bared and tense as I am, all attention
For your step following and damned if I look back.
- Seamus Heaney
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
My translation of a Russian poem
Love
A tickling of lips and the cool nip of teeth
fire wanders in the shadows of our bodies,
sweat between breasts…and this is love?
And this is what you so wanted?
Yes! Passion such that my eyes darken!
But night passes light as a bird…
and I thought that love was a wine
on which I could be forever drunk.
Dmitry Kedrin - translated by me.
How do you spend your Wednesday nights? (And if you say doing it rather than writing about it I don't want to hear it!)
A tickling of lips and the cool nip of teeth
fire wanders in the shadows of our bodies,
sweat between breasts…and this is love?
And this is what you so wanted?
Yes! Passion such that my eyes darken!
But night passes light as a bird…
and I thought that love was a wine
on which I could be forever drunk.
Dmitry Kedrin - translated by me.
How do you spend your Wednesday nights? (And if you say doing it rather than writing about it I don't want to hear it!)
Friday, January 8, 2010
This might just be the worst book ever written (but maybe also the best)
http://pixiestixkidspix.wordpress.com/awesome-resources-for-reading-and-kid-lit/latawnya-the-naughty-horse-learns-to-say-no-to-drugs/
A cautionary tale about African American horses who get drugs and alcohol from Caucasian horses. This book is marketed towards children but deals with terrifying issues that will make it relevant for adult readers such as horses playing drinking games, horses overdosing, and horse-to-horse kissing.
Readers who enjoy this book may also like: The House That Crack Built, Sometimes Mommy Gets Angry and Who Cares About Disabled People?
Monday, December 21, 2009
New shoes
My feet are freaking out. They are warm. They have enough room. I bought real shoes today. I am not sure if I have ever had real shoes before but oh my god - trust the Germans, by way of Italy. My ankles are currently smug. Why do we bother with all of this shit...I ask you? I want to buy twelve outfits and wear them. Mix and match. Clean, perfect, meticulous garments. I want to be done with all of this foolishness.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
startled into life like fire
in grievous deity my cat
walks around
he walks around and around
with
electric tail and
push-button
eyes
he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum tree
neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn
if I were all the man
that he is
cat -
if there were men
like this
the world could
begin
he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.
~ Charles Bukowski from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
This poem: The title – “startled” – awakened, ignited. Wonderful.
Anyone who owns a cat will relate to the description here, especially the “grievous deity.” I could not love “final as a plum tree” any more than I do. Of course, all things are final in and of themselves but this seems to express that in some essential way that I cannot begin to express. Then he shares with his cat the lack of understanding about not only cathedrals but the guy next door – essential mysteries and distances. But then…oh the killer stanza for me.. “if I were all the man/ that he is/ cat -/ if there were men/ like this/ the world could/ begin” This says something very real and when I first read it, very new to me. If we could be as genuine in ourselves as animals, well - imagine. I cannot unsee this now for, at its best, writing of any kind explains or illuminates for me something about this experience of being alive – this did that for me.
I also love that his admiration has porticoes – I had not thought to imagine the architecture of my esteem.
walks around
he walks around and around
with
electric tail and
push-button
eyes
he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum tree
neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn
if I were all the man
that he is
cat -
if there were men
like this
the world could
begin
he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.
~ Charles Bukowski from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
This poem: The title – “startled” – awakened, ignited. Wonderful.
Anyone who owns a cat will relate to the description here, especially the “grievous deity.” I could not love “final as a plum tree” any more than I do. Of course, all things are final in and of themselves but this seems to express that in some essential way that I cannot begin to express. Then he shares with his cat the lack of understanding about not only cathedrals but the guy next door – essential mysteries and distances. But then…oh the killer stanza for me.. “if I were all the man/ that he is/ cat -/ if there were men/ like this/ the world could/ begin” This says something very real and when I first read it, very new to me. If we could be as genuine in ourselves as animals, well - imagine. I cannot unsee this now for, at its best, writing of any kind explains or illuminates for me something about this experience of being alive – this did that for me.
I also love that his admiration has porticoes – I had not thought to imagine the architecture of my esteem.
Monday, October 12, 2009
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
e.e. cummings
This is one of my favorite poems in life. Not only for the strong impressionistic imagery, the jamming of the punctuation but for the triumph of softness over hardness. Look: frail, gesture, slightest, petal, heart, flower, snow, rain, small – these things are the undoing of unclose, closed, close, and shut – they get in. He has never been here before, it is beyond anything he has ever known and it is good. I love the specificity of the line “as when the heart of this flower imagines/ the snow carefully everywhere descending” – the specific flower of Spring imagining not only Winter but a careful everywhere of snow (how can it be careful? Yet it is somehow, that silent falling). The combinations of words that he uses such as: “intense fragility” really capture something for me - a precious, breathless, don’t move, don’t touch, momentary, heartbreaking snowflake perfection – all of these things. I could go on and on.
I think of this poem every time I am in a car and it starts to rain. Those first few drops on the windscreen, when they hit and break, I always say “cat-paws,” because that is what they look like to me - the small hands of the rain.
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
e.e. cummings
This is one of my favorite poems in life. Not only for the strong impressionistic imagery, the jamming of the punctuation but for the triumph of softness over hardness. Look: frail, gesture, slightest, petal, heart, flower, snow, rain, small – these things are the undoing of unclose, closed, close, and shut – they get in. He has never been here before, it is beyond anything he has ever known and it is good. I love the specificity of the line “as when the heart of this flower imagines/ the snow carefully everywhere descending” – the specific flower of Spring imagining not only Winter but a careful everywhere of snow (how can it be careful? Yet it is somehow, that silent falling). The combinations of words that he uses such as: “intense fragility” really capture something for me - a precious, breathless, don’t move, don’t touch, momentary, heartbreaking snowflake perfection – all of these things. I could go on and on.
I think of this poem every time I am in a car and it starts to rain. Those first few drops on the windscreen, when they hit and break, I always say “cat-paws,” because that is what they look like to me - the small hands of the rain.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Poetry, oh sweet
Ample make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.
Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.
Emily Dickinson
This poem is so gorgeous to me. It speaks of love and sex and death. The use of “ample” in the first line – this word is not used enough any more but makes me think of bosoms and bottoms and plenty and comfort. Then the repeat of “make this bed” followed this time with “awe” in the second line elevates it, denotes that something special is happening, something worthy of respect. Emily (like e.e. cummings) is wonderful at putting words together to play off of each other – which I have read referred to as “thought rhyme.” The next two lines are playful, yet also scary and serious – the combination of “judgment” and “break” combines judgment day with dawn but one that is “excellent and fair.” So within this context the bed could now possibly be a grave.
This grave analogy continues in the second stanza yet again it resides next to the cozy imagery of a well-made bed – straight mattress, round pillow. If it is a grave it is a comfortable one. The repetition of the “Be its” of the first two lines also give the sense of prayer, of invocation. I love the “yellow noise” of sunrise – I think this is one of the best descriptions of dawn in the history of writing, and that it is achieved with only two words is what I love most about poetry. The reference to “ground” at the end of that sentence again seems to refer to hallowed ground and the grave. There is something in this poem though that is intensely private and personal – the ample bed wanting no interruptions is so vibrant with sex and life that it seems impossible the poem could also be about death. I am always amazed at how much Emily could pack into eight lines and 34 words.
I encountered this poem for the first time reading William Styron’s “Sophie’s choice” at the age of 13 (my parent’s let me roam the bookshelves of our home at will). In the book Sophie learns of Emily Dickinson in her English language class and it is her search for more of the poetry that introduces her to Nathan, who will become her lover and with whom she will ultimately commit suicide. The poem re-appears throughout the book – not only as the source of the introduction of two of the main characters who will have noisy sex and even noisier fights throughout the novel, but it also serves as a benediction over their suicide (also in bed). The metaphor of bed as grave is intrinsic to this story and I am fascinated by the way that something as spare as this poem could be rich enough to inspire the motifs of an entire novel. The emotional temperature that she so delicately placed into those few words and lines, Styron was able to unpack into a novel of sweeping breadth and tragedy. Even the last devastating lines of the book are taken from this poem, lines in which the narrator Stingo, after having spent the night wandering New York after the suicide of Nathan and Sophie, witnesses daybreak and observes, “This was not judgment day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.”
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.
Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.
Emily Dickinson
This poem is so gorgeous to me. It speaks of love and sex and death. The use of “ample” in the first line – this word is not used enough any more but makes me think of bosoms and bottoms and plenty and comfort. Then the repeat of “make this bed” followed this time with “awe” in the second line elevates it, denotes that something special is happening, something worthy of respect. Emily (like e.e. cummings) is wonderful at putting words together to play off of each other – which I have read referred to as “thought rhyme.” The next two lines are playful, yet also scary and serious – the combination of “judgment” and “break” combines judgment day with dawn but one that is “excellent and fair.” So within this context the bed could now possibly be a grave.
This grave analogy continues in the second stanza yet again it resides next to the cozy imagery of a well-made bed – straight mattress, round pillow. If it is a grave it is a comfortable one. The repetition of the “Be its” of the first two lines also give the sense of prayer, of invocation. I love the “yellow noise” of sunrise – I think this is one of the best descriptions of dawn in the history of writing, and that it is achieved with only two words is what I love most about poetry. The reference to “ground” at the end of that sentence again seems to refer to hallowed ground and the grave. There is something in this poem though that is intensely private and personal – the ample bed wanting no interruptions is so vibrant with sex and life that it seems impossible the poem could also be about death. I am always amazed at how much Emily could pack into eight lines and 34 words.
I encountered this poem for the first time reading William Styron’s “Sophie’s choice” at the age of 13 (my parent’s let me roam the bookshelves of our home at will). In the book Sophie learns of Emily Dickinson in her English language class and it is her search for more of the poetry that introduces her to Nathan, who will become her lover and with whom she will ultimately commit suicide. The poem re-appears throughout the book – not only as the source of the introduction of two of the main characters who will have noisy sex and even noisier fights throughout the novel, but it also serves as a benediction over their suicide (also in bed). The metaphor of bed as grave is intrinsic to this story and I am fascinated by the way that something as spare as this poem could be rich enough to inspire the motifs of an entire novel. The emotional temperature that she so delicately placed into those few words and lines, Styron was able to unpack into a novel of sweeping breadth and tragedy. Even the last devastating lines of the book are taken from this poem, lines in which the narrator Stingo, after having spent the night wandering New York after the suicide of Nathan and Sophie, witnesses daybreak and observes, “This was not judgment day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.”
Monday, June 1, 2009
Before you go, remember to come home.
This is about as perfect as it gets here. A long heat hazed evening and the sweet green smell of Spring. I walk along the railroad tracks wearing the perfect amount of clothes. The air is smooth and golden, the grass is high and there are birds and weeds pretending to be flowers. Hot skin, dirty feet, pollen fingers and vitamins.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The beauty of the banal
This picture makes me very happy. The colours and Jodi's facial expression and the crappiness of the goods. A small moment in time taken seriously and photographed to look important.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
You deserve a break today
A sense of entitlement is often all you need to get every little thing you ever wanted. In Kerrisdale evidence of this is everywhere from the ample free parking, to the flocks of Lululemon encased teenagers with more money than fashion sense. If you find yourself in the mood to eat McNuggets and not confront any thorny social issues choose the Kerrisdale location of McDonalds located at the corner of West 41st Avenue and East Boulevard.
This tony location caters to an entirely different demographic and the evidence is everywhere. The lovely post and beam construction is more reminiscent of Disneyland California Adventure than the usual utilitarian box crouching at every other intersection.
The first floor contains a discrete ordering counter placed off to one side of the main dining area and is angled back so as to not intrude upon intimate dinner conversation. You will find the full McDonalds menu on offer here including all of their most reactionary dietary options. A further nice touch that the experienced McDonalds diner will enjoy is the considerate turning down of the annoying food preparation timer beeps.
If you are seeking a cosier dining experience, playful neon signs direct you upstairs to enjoy the heated exterior patio or a table in front of the gas fireplace. Throughout both dining rooms you will find that the tables and chairs are not affixed to the floor allowing you all the freedom you need to get really close to your fries.
The pleasant ambiance continues with many coherent design touches. Hand coloured artist’s renderings of the character buildings of Kerrisdale grace the walls. The interior lighting is, for the most part, soft and flattering. The clean, pleasant smelling bathroom features fragile dropped light fixtures that have not been torn out by the roots. Expensive stone tile flooring that is not gummy with grease is featured throughout. Drug deals may go on here but they are transacted between people who don’t really need the drugs or the money.
Parents should however take note: there is no playground at this location. It is my suspicion that little Ethan and Brittany’s parents may just be a little bit more litigious than is the cultural norm should their children fall and brain themselves on a plastic statue of the Hamburgler or get a nasty staph infection from a pee contaminated ball room. The children who eat here are properly grateful just to get the delicious food without the usual yucky nutritional concerns – for them it is the exception after all and not the rule.
The servers at this location look marginally less oppressed than most. They are cheerful and careless in a way that is appropriate for a kid with an after school job. The usual underemployed immigrants, exhausted looking pensioners and mentally challenged “team members” are conspicuous only in their absence. The social balancing act that we have come to expect from McDonalds seems apparently to have been exchanged here for something a little easier on the eyes.
Given the usual customer, this may be the only McDonalds in Vancouver where an insistence upon hot french fries will be greeted with resigned compliance rather than incredulity. If you can project the proper local attitude of imperious entitlement and scorn you may well get the best Big Mac you have ever had. You have to really own the part though - they can smell a fraud like they can spot a fake Fendi, like zombies can sense your emotions.
The only real disappointment with this location is the drive-thru. It is very unreliable, especially after midnight when the ability of the staff to speak any language at all abruptly disappears and you will never, ever get what you order, your change will be wrong and you will be laughed at. For take-out go to another location.
(Posted by request - for Kevin)
This tony location caters to an entirely different demographic and the evidence is everywhere. The lovely post and beam construction is more reminiscent of Disneyland California Adventure than the usual utilitarian box crouching at every other intersection.
The first floor contains a discrete ordering counter placed off to one side of the main dining area and is angled back so as to not intrude upon intimate dinner conversation. You will find the full McDonalds menu on offer here including all of their most reactionary dietary options. A further nice touch that the experienced McDonalds diner will enjoy is the considerate turning down of the annoying food preparation timer beeps.
If you are seeking a cosier dining experience, playful neon signs direct you upstairs to enjoy the heated exterior patio or a table in front of the gas fireplace. Throughout both dining rooms you will find that the tables and chairs are not affixed to the floor allowing you all the freedom you need to get really close to your fries.
The pleasant ambiance continues with many coherent design touches. Hand coloured artist’s renderings of the character buildings of Kerrisdale grace the walls. The interior lighting is, for the most part, soft and flattering. The clean, pleasant smelling bathroom features fragile dropped light fixtures that have not been torn out by the roots. Expensive stone tile flooring that is not gummy with grease is featured throughout. Drug deals may go on here but they are transacted between people who don’t really need the drugs or the money.
Parents should however take note: there is no playground at this location. It is my suspicion that little Ethan and Brittany’s parents may just be a little bit more litigious than is the cultural norm should their children fall and brain themselves on a plastic statue of the Hamburgler or get a nasty staph infection from a pee contaminated ball room. The children who eat here are properly grateful just to get the delicious food without the usual yucky nutritional concerns – for them it is the exception after all and not the rule.
The servers at this location look marginally less oppressed than most. They are cheerful and careless in a way that is appropriate for a kid with an after school job. The usual underemployed immigrants, exhausted looking pensioners and mentally challenged “team members” are conspicuous only in their absence. The social balancing act that we have come to expect from McDonalds seems apparently to have been exchanged here for something a little easier on the eyes.
Given the usual customer, this may be the only McDonalds in Vancouver where an insistence upon hot french fries will be greeted with resigned compliance rather than incredulity. If you can project the proper local attitude of imperious entitlement and scorn you may well get the best Big Mac you have ever had. You have to really own the part though - they can smell a fraud like they can spot a fake Fendi, like zombies can sense your emotions.
The only real disappointment with this location is the drive-thru. It is very unreliable, especially after midnight when the ability of the staff to speak any language at all abruptly disappears and you will never, ever get what you order, your change will be wrong and you will be laughed at. For take-out go to another location.
(Posted by request - for Kevin)
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Hazards of Oversharing – A Cautionary Tale
Setting personal goals is all very well, but be careful who you share them with. Once you share them, people will start expecting you to follow through. This can be a serious drag.
Last year I apparently forgot who I was for a day or two (pro-am bather, unapologetic sitter-outer, lover of the nap) and decided that I wanted to do the Grouse Grind at some point in the future. Emphasis on future, that mythical day which never arrives. I compounded this error by sharing this “goal” with others.
My friend has recently become a totally different person – he has gone from being a lovely sedentary soul who could always be relied upon to not suggest anything overly strenuous, to being this highly active person who does things like jogging. Jogging - I even dislike the word. He now calls me up and describes the things he has already accomplished with his day while I am still in my bathrobe eating toast. After years of knowing him, the phrase I most often find myself saying to him lately is, “Who are you and what have you done with Kevin?” I realized that the exercise and increased oxygen uptake had also clearly improved his famously bad memory when he suddenly remembered my words about the Grouse Grind from last year. Shit.
I could have gotten out of it by going on and on about what the Grouse Grind represents from an anthropological perspective as pertains to Vancouver – this exercise obsessed, it’s ok to wear yoga pants to fine dining establishments city; a city where it is easier to buy rain gear for your maltepoo, moodle, malti-doodle whatever - than it is to find a decent bookstore. I could have done that, but it would have been bullshit. All I knew about it was what I had heard, and I had heard that it was scary hard – like vertical. I also knew that friends who are in incredible shape boasted about doing it in what sounded to me like a terrifyingly long 45 minutes. This did not bode well for me.
Kevin has also become annoyingly persistent as his ability to do reps has increased, but I did manage to dodge it for a few weeks – excuses like “Oh, It’s too hot” and “I don’t want to do it after work” and “No, no you go on. I don’t want to slow you guys down.” He called me on a cool Sunday and said everyone else had bailed and did I want to go with him – he called my bluff basically.
I had a tiny personal crisis in that moment. I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to not do it. I have other things on my list of personal goals that are hard and scary, and I didn’t want to not do this thing as it seemed to imply that I might never follow through on those others, and some of them actually matter to me.
I have not exercised in so long I could not find my sports bra, I had to go to London Drugs to buy the right socks but I did get ready and we did drive and we did arrive.
The Grouse Grind is basically a woodland stairmaster. The trail is very steep, no two steps are the same height or depth, there are rocks and dust and pine needles, I had a really great view of all of these things because I did not lift my head the entire time. Sometimes the rocks and dust are slippery because there is so much sweat on them from the million people going up at the same time as you. If you are like me all of these million people will also pass you. You will become aware of this. If you are like me you will make a list of the people who pass you and your list will look something like this:
- the diabetic doing it for the first time
- the girl in flip-flops
- the girl in ballet slippers with rainbows and cherries on them
- the Sikh family in jeans
- the 50 year old man carrying a 6 year old on his back
- the 8 year old with a snoopy purse
- the guy carrying a ghetto blaster the size of a portable generator
Kevin was wonderful and patient and encouraging and I managed not to hate him as he bounded on ahead of me. Alone with the million people I set little goals for myself: I will not panic when my heartbeat renders me deaf for minutes at a time, I will not mind that I have pine pitch all up my back from leaning against trees to rest, I will not whine or throw up, I will not sit down once during this whole hellish experience and I will beat that guy with the pink water bottle. I finished that fucker in 1 hour and 44 minutes, I beat the guy with the pink water bottle and when I regained the ability to feel anything other than pain I was really quite proud of myself. After 20 years of living in this strange city I was at the top of Grouse Mountain for the first time and I got there on my own two aching, wobbly legs. For me, this was kind of a big deal.
I am a person who has said out loud “The only way I’m running on the seawall is if someone is chasing me with a knife.” I am also a person who has decided to do the Grouse Grind again. Who am I?
Last year I apparently forgot who I was for a day or two (pro-am bather, unapologetic sitter-outer, lover of the nap) and decided that I wanted to do the Grouse Grind at some point in the future. Emphasis on future, that mythical day which never arrives. I compounded this error by sharing this “goal” with others.
My friend has recently become a totally different person – he has gone from being a lovely sedentary soul who could always be relied upon to not suggest anything overly strenuous, to being this highly active person who does things like jogging. Jogging - I even dislike the word. He now calls me up and describes the things he has already accomplished with his day while I am still in my bathrobe eating toast. After years of knowing him, the phrase I most often find myself saying to him lately is, “Who are you and what have you done with Kevin?” I realized that the exercise and increased oxygen uptake had also clearly improved his famously bad memory when he suddenly remembered my words about the Grouse Grind from last year. Shit.
I could have gotten out of it by going on and on about what the Grouse Grind represents from an anthropological perspective as pertains to Vancouver – this exercise obsessed, it’s ok to wear yoga pants to fine dining establishments city; a city where it is easier to buy rain gear for your maltepoo, moodle, malti-doodle whatever - than it is to find a decent bookstore. I could have done that, but it would have been bullshit. All I knew about it was what I had heard, and I had heard that it was scary hard – like vertical. I also knew that friends who are in incredible shape boasted about doing it in what sounded to me like a terrifyingly long 45 minutes. This did not bode well for me.
Kevin has also become annoyingly persistent as his ability to do reps has increased, but I did manage to dodge it for a few weeks – excuses like “Oh, It’s too hot” and “I don’t want to do it after work” and “No, no you go on. I don’t want to slow you guys down.” He called me on a cool Sunday and said everyone else had bailed and did I want to go with him – he called my bluff basically.
I had a tiny personal crisis in that moment. I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to not do it. I have other things on my list of personal goals that are hard and scary, and I didn’t want to not do this thing as it seemed to imply that I might never follow through on those others, and some of them actually matter to me.
I have not exercised in so long I could not find my sports bra, I had to go to London Drugs to buy the right socks but I did get ready and we did drive and we did arrive.
The Grouse Grind is basically a woodland stairmaster. The trail is very steep, no two steps are the same height or depth, there are rocks and dust and pine needles, I had a really great view of all of these things because I did not lift my head the entire time. Sometimes the rocks and dust are slippery because there is so much sweat on them from the million people going up at the same time as you. If you are like me all of these million people will also pass you. You will become aware of this. If you are like me you will make a list of the people who pass you and your list will look something like this:
- the diabetic doing it for the first time
- the girl in flip-flops
- the girl in ballet slippers with rainbows and cherries on them
- the Sikh family in jeans
- the 50 year old man carrying a 6 year old on his back
- the 8 year old with a snoopy purse
- the guy carrying a ghetto blaster the size of a portable generator
Kevin was wonderful and patient and encouraging and I managed not to hate him as he bounded on ahead of me. Alone with the million people I set little goals for myself: I will not panic when my heartbeat renders me deaf for minutes at a time, I will not mind that I have pine pitch all up my back from leaning against trees to rest, I will not whine or throw up, I will not sit down once during this whole hellish experience and I will beat that guy with the pink water bottle. I finished that fucker in 1 hour and 44 minutes, I beat the guy with the pink water bottle and when I regained the ability to feel anything other than pain I was really quite proud of myself. After 20 years of living in this strange city I was at the top of Grouse Mountain for the first time and I got there on my own two aching, wobbly legs. For me, this was kind of a big deal.
I am a person who has said out loud “The only way I’m running on the seawall is if someone is chasing me with a knife.” I am also a person who has decided to do the Grouse Grind again. Who am I?
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