Karen Rivers

ordinary days.

Karen Rivers

The words come slowly sometimes, when the come at all.  

 

Words like me best when I'm away from the keyboard, but thinking about typing.  

 

That's how it works, out in the woods, the hum of bees in the thistles beside the path, the dog's leash tangled behind my knees, some sort of crisis involving the kids and a rotten tree stump.  "Oh," I think,  "There you are."  I rub the words in my mind like they are wishing stones found on a beach.  

 

I make wishes.  "I wish things were better," I think.   



"MUM," the kids shout.  "THERE HAS BEEN AN UNFAIRNESS."  

 

"Who told you anything was fair?" I tell them.  They look at me, rolling their eyes, tall and lean and flushed with the wrongfulness of what the other has said, fists curled at their sides.  

 

"But he said and I said and she said and we said and then I..." 

 

"Oh, calm down," I tell them.

 

We walk more and there are blackberries and the weather keeps trying to be hot and we keep trying to swim in the ocean, which is filled more and more with jellyfish that look like ice cubes, which is suitable because it's cold enough for that, and it shouldn't be and rain drums on the tarp over the tent and we fall asleep to the sound of wind in the trees, blowing autumn steadily closer.  

It's summer.  

 

Last time I blogged (terrible verb, I know), it was February.   Time slips away.  I eat handfuls of cashew nuts.  I drink glass after glass of water.   I go for long walks.   I think about salad.

 

Terrible things happen.


There is a plague.

 

What do we do?  Do we run?  We have to stop it.

 

We have to stop this.

 

It's shootings here and over there.  It's systemic racism.   It's mysogyny.   It's rape culture.  It's bigotry.  It's terryfing, that's what it is.   Everything is becoming a blip on social media.  But it's more than that.  

 

This is who we are now.  

 

It's unbelievable.

 

Why is this happening?  the kids say, about this or that.

 

I don't know, I say.  

 

It's a man driving a truck into a crowd.  

 

It's a caricature of Evil taking the reins of America.   

 

It's because he said and I said and then he did and I did and she said and so I hit her and so I shot him and so I ran them over with a truck and destroyed them and us and you and her and him, too, for good measure. 

 

 


We have so much.


We have everything.

 

But everything is an illusion.

 

 

Here's what we really have:  

 

Nothing.


Here is what is plaguing me:  worry.   Loosely categorized in the following areas:  The world.   America.  My dad's health.  My parents, aging.  My kids, fighting.  Money, or lack of it.  The dishwasher leaking all over the wood floor.   The way the landscapers didn't lay landscape cloth under the gravel path and every day there is more green poking through, the occasional bright bobbing yellow of a dandelion's mane.    

 

Here's what we do:

 

We play Pokemon Go.  

 

Outside, perched on benches with lures on them, we listen to crowds of not-quite-adults laughing and mock-fighting and huddling together to find the dragon.  

 

We breathe in the pot they are smoking.  "I think I'm high," my kid says.  "You're not," I tell him.   But we move, just the same.  The air is just too thick, that's all.

 

It can be hard to breathe.

 

We catch monkey-cats and strangely shaped fish and we feel like we are winning and the kids say, "Just hold my phone for a second" and then they are gone and running, like regular kids, like 1970s kids, like all kids, ever, who are outside and at the top of a hill that demands to be run down.   The Pokemon is just a way of getting them there.   The Pokemon and ice cream cones, melting fast in the hot sun, the water park with it's endless cold spraying, the way the ocean curls up against the beach and their toes.


I try not to worry about the raw sewage.  

 

 

My daughter swims like a dolphin, head first, her back arching in a perfect-C, away from shore, looking for the boundary.

 

The dogs are getting older, too.

I have some books that I'm writing, three at once, four if you count the nascent idea that's percolating back behind the others.  

 

Maybe the only words I have are already spoken for.  They are for the books.  

 

So I talk less.  I text less. 


Real words come more slowly than fictional ones.  

 

I have a feeling something is about to matter.  I open my mail slowly.   Once a day.  Less.   

 

Reality keeps trickling in at the edges of things, the news, the guns, the ignorance, the hate, the EFF THIS and EFF THAT and EFF YOU shouted behind us as we capture the FireHorse, the way the water at the beach is unsafe, the way everything is always lapsing towards chaos, like it always is, like it always has been.  A door slams on my son's finger.   A phone is dropped and it cracks.  The dog coughs at night.  Sirens scream in gaggles like geese down the street.

 

The tomatoes get red on their growing vines.   Peas burst from their pods.  

 

I forget to water or I water too much.  The dog digs up the cilantro.   

 

My daughter, in photos, is often caught looking away from the camera, looking out into the world, her arms raised in either victory or a greeting, I'm not sure which.  A power pose.   The book says that women should use power poses to be taken seriously.  The world takes my daughter seriously.   The world considers my daughter.  The sea holds her up.   The sky turns its most beautiful face towards her.   The lights of the city shine in her direction.

 

Remember this, I want to tell her, when you ruled the world.   

 

Things will change one day.  

 

Things always change.  

 

Take me, for example.  Just when I think, well, then, this is OK, this is my life, I'm Ok with this variety of ordinary, something happens, a ripple that precedes a tidal wave.   It's dangerous to think you recognize normal.

 

How does anyone sleep? 

 

"Oh, take an Ativan," my mum says.  

 

In Turkey, some men storm through the doors of the government offices, their faces obscured by masks, guns held high in their hands.   Crowds watch the fireworks that celebrate France, bodies pushed together, faces upturned to the sky.   In America, a black man gets pulled over because his tail light is burned out and the next week, it's his funeral, attended by CNN.

 

You never expect the truck is coming at you, that's the thing.  

 

It's only when you hear the first gunshot that you realize it's not an ordinary day, blue and bottomless, bees buzzing in the clover, the news happening to other people.  

 

The thing is that there's always someone, somewhere, who has a right to a gun.   There's always someone, somewhere, who is going to use it one day, to do what it is designed to do, to take away the thing you thought you had, fleetingly, a life, an ordinary life, your arms lifted up to embrace all your possible futures.

Superbowl Sunday

Karen Rivers

People are watching a football game specifically for the ads.  "How can we get more eyeballs on us?" the advertisers asked.  Then they answered their own question.  

"We won't be fooled!" people said.  But then they were gleefully fooled.  

Oh, let the images wash over you.   Watch them while you're eating snacks that only barely bear a resemblance to food while watching advertisements for the same snacks.  All of it will kill you.  Eventually.  Well, life is a one way trip.  

I just find it strange, all the people who don't like football, watching for the commercials.   Probably it isn't any more strange that I'm on my couch, thinking about how the advertisers won.  

"You've got us," I want to say.  I will walk towards the head offices, waving a white flag, scattering money at the feet of the food-like snack gods.  

I bought snacks today, too.  So you see, I'm a hypocrite just like everyone else.  We all want to be good people, but sometimes we just want some salty, crunchy food.  

I don't have cable so I won't see the game or the ads.  I don't like ads.  I don't like football unless I can be there, in the stands, with all that enthusiasm lifting me higher than I'm usually willing to go for a sport that has been implicated in the concussed lives of so many fine young men and less fine young men, also.   Let's consider the number of abusive jerks who number amongst football's players, that's what I mean by "less fine".  Granted, it's a small percentage.  That we know of, at least.  

Abusive jerks.  That doesn't sound strong enough, does it?  For men who beat their wives.  How about "monsters". 

Well, that makes me think about the Ghomeshi trial.  There is no poetry in this.  I was thinking about poetry earlier, the beautiful economy of language that poets have.  If I were an economist, I'd choose to be a language one. If I were a poet, I'd call myself that:  a language economist.  Real economists strip the poetry away to reveal the ugly underbelly of the financial impeti that really drive everything.  (Is impeti the plural of impetus?)  There is very little money in poetry or poetry in money.  I read something yesterday that a year after winning the lottery and a year after becoming a parapalegic, there was very little difference in a person's happiness.  Let that one simmer.  Really mull it over.  Statistics don't lie.   

Ghomeshi's lawyer is a woman who seems determined to take all other women and push them, in slow motion, in front of the train of misogyny that rolls through courtrooms on a daily basis.  But what were you wearing?  Did you or did you not hug him when you left?   Did you or did you not think, "Well, maybe it's what I deserved"? Were you not attracted to him?  Why did you go to his house if that wasn't the case?    

Being a woman in this society, today, in 2016, means that what you wear and what you drink and how you react to trauma will be used to judge your relative worth, which by the way, is quite low.  You will be found lacking.  Maybe we should teach our children this truth so they don't have to find out the hard, ugly way that we have all discovered in our own time due to circumstance.  But we can't do that to the kids.  Let them believe it's otherwise until they have to stop.  Please, may they never have to stop.

Please.

Ghomeshi is on the CBC.  Was on the CBC.  The CBC is the friendly old man of the Canadian airwaves.  But Jian made it young and fresh.  He sexed it up.  You know they talked like that when deciding to never discipline him for how he was "handsy" with female staffers, how the turnover was so high, the number of complaints.  They knew.   Everyone knew.  It wasn't even a secret, not really.  

Everyone wants to sell something.  The CBC wanted to sell sexy.  Well, they sure missed, didn't they?  Hindsight is 20/20 and all that.

"He'll never work again!"   Come on now, of course he will.   He'll be the Shock Jock of the Canadian airwaves.  Or, more likely, the American ones.  He'll rise up.  They always do, wielding their scorn and their teddy bears and the women get quieter and quieter.  I'm so proud of those women who decided not to be quiet.  I want to go to each of them and say, "Thank you."  They're doing it for all of us, you know.   Figuratively.  One day, it might be possible that after being raped, we -- as women -- can go to the authorities and say, "I was raped" and they will react and respond appropriately and we won't be made to feel like, fine, yes, you were victimized, but what was your role in that exactly?  How did you invite it? 

Maybe we're getting quiet because something is happening over here, maybe we're regrouping.  Maybe you should worry.  

Or maybe we're just tired.  We're tired of not being asked the right questions and then being judged for giving the wrong answers.  I speak for myself.

On a related note, I was listening to a podcast.  Dear Sugar.  I'm a fan of Cheryl Strayed.  But this podcast.  Good lord, it was terrible.  It was terrible the way that Cheryl, on behalf of women, let a particularly obnoxious "scientist" tell her the way things were -- she insisted on calling him a scientist even though he was technically an economist -- even while he couched it by saying, "This part is just my opinion, not statistics."  

Men like hot women, he declared.

"Oh dear," she said, and cringe-laughed and agreed.  Of course, of course.  

If you're not hot, the man went on to advise (I'm paraphrasing here), you should basically take what you should get.  Or you'll be alone.    

(Oh, should you?  And anyway, isn't "hot" subjective?)  

Also, he added, women like rich men.  

Oh, I see.  Yes.   Well, of course you believe that, sir.  Because it allows you to believe that you've settled for a not-hot woman because you're not rich, but I will tell you this:  If I were the one he'd settled for, I'd be feeling gleeful right now that my recourse would be to simply get up and walk away.  "Goodbye," I would say.  "Good luck with settling for the next one who is as good as you can get, given that you're simply middle-class and not as wealthy as you wish you were."  By "good" in that context, I mean "hot".  He was clear that was the only decider for men, you see.  No one cares how smart you are, my dear.  Funny?  Interesting?   That's all just smoke and mirrors.   Put on a bikini and some makeup, let's see if you're worthy. 

We all see it through our own lens, don't we?   I wish more people would say, "The thing with coupling up is that often we pick the wrong people and spend years clawing our way out or we pick no one and we worry we are missing something and no one wants to say that actually the happiest people are the ones who picked themselves."  

I tell my daughter, "Choose the one who makes you laugh."  All the other stuff goes away, or you can work with it, but if you're with someone who can't make you laugh, there's just too much empty space for sadness and anger.  Trust me.  Anyway, little girls are still being molded by society to be future brides.  A princess for a day!  Weddings are an economic stimulis.  The business of getting married and getting divorced drives industry.  Divorce lawyers advertise on prime time.  Those lawyers are doing OK. They're rich.  Divorced themselves and now richer than ever based on the disillusionment of others, they can choose from a pool of hotter women, I suppose.  

How cynical do we want to get with this?  I want to take all the cynicism and peel it away, but it's my protective outer coating, so I can't.   It's part of me.  

I hope Ghomeshi is convicted.  I hope the women who came forward are loved and respected.  I hope our daughters aren't raised to be blamed for what men do to them.   I wish that those particular football players (who are rich) would stop beating their wives and girlfriends (who are hot).  I wish snack food was nutritious.   I wish poetry was the key economic driver behind love. 

Well, enjoy the game!       

Mixing metaphors with reality to make a mess.

Karen Rivers

It's easier to talk about everything using metaphors, let's agree to that at the outset.   It doesn't matter if you mix them.  Mixed metaphors are fine here.  Who is judging?  No one reads personal blogs anymore, we've already established that!  Heart laid bare.  Fine.  Boring.  Whatevs.  Buzzfeed is more compelling.  It's funny!  Everyone likes funny things.  And lists.  Who doesn't like a list?  Hearts are so nineties or something.  Everyone has a heart of their own.  We all bare them sometimes.  Other times we bear them.   I mean, what's the choice there?   You can't operate a vehicle without one, or anything else for that matter.


Here's something true:  There is a particular stretch of highway that I sometimes have to drive that terrifies me.  People drive this stretch of highway all the time and nothing happens.  Their car hurtles around the corners, firmly between the lines (when you can see them, when they aren't obscured by snow and ice).  The fact of the highway and the way it is carved into the mountain and the steep drops off both sides doesn't seem to bother them. They're listening to their Sirius satellite radio while texting surreptitiously on the phone on their lap and drinking a coffee and thinking about the game last night and whether or not the dog should go to the vet about that cough and trying to remember that guy's name from highschool who always wore the pink shirt with the collar up.  And all the while, their car does what it should and they get from Point A to Point B without thinking about it.  They're lucky, right?   

What I do is this:  The night before I have to drive on the highway, I lie in bed awake and I imagine all the ways it could go wrong.  Every single one.  And there are a lot:  The various spots where the car, skidding out of control, might go off the road.  The way my seatbelt might or might not save me.  The way the back of a passing semi might start to skid, pushing me into the emptiness of the space beyond the guard rail.   I imagine the most terrible things, twisted metal and broken glass and of course blood and sirens and going to the light or not.  I try on all the ideas for size, and in doing so, I save myself from them. 

Everyone knows this works because nothing happens the way you imagine it will.  So if you imagine it all going wrong, then it won't.   It's a Universal Law.   Isn't it?

 

 

This is the part where it turns into a metaphor.  I feel the need to point that out.  I won't say what it's a metaphor for because everyone already knows and I don't want to embarrass all of us by overexplaining.  

 

So say relationships are road trips.  Oh, I said I wasn't going to say what it was and then I did.  Well, scripts are made to be rewritten.  Editing in real time is fine.  It's allowed.  It's my blog, anyway, and I make the rules.  


Relationships are hard, says Captain Obvious, who is in charge of saying the thing that everyone already knows.   


So let's say you decide to go on this relationship.  I mean, this roadtrip.  You start with two people.  You both agree to get into the car.  You both have a lot of things to pack in the trunk.  Big bags and little ones.   Some have been locked pretty tightly.   Others don't really matter, but you still have to bring them because they are part of you.  Some of them are newly and badly filled.   Too messy, too much in one container.   In each bag are both of your histories.  His bags look pretty well organized.  Exceptionally clean, on the outside anyway.  He only has a few.  You have a lot.   But more bags doesn't necessarily mean more complications, you know?   Captain Obvious knows, but then again, he knows everything.  He already knows how this one ends.  You probably do, too. 

 

You're a bit ashamed of the way your bags look.   You tried to clean them up, but there's dog hair stuck to them.  You can never get all the hair off.  It's annoying, but what can you do?  You pick the hairs off one by one, but there always seems to be another one.  (That's another metaphor buried within the first metaphor.  You really have to want to decode this to make sense of it.  I'm sorry about that, but not really.)  

 

You put your mismatched set of junky past next to his more pristine, seemingly cleaner set. You're a bit worried about what he must be thinking about the lint situation, putting those dog hairs into his clean car.  Get the crumbs off your bags, you slob!  It's fine, he says.  Your bags are fine.  You know he's lying but it's the beginning of the trip, you both lie a little, maybe.  You stand beside the car and look at it, you and this other person.  Then in quiet agreement, you each take one small extra box and tuck it gently in with all the other stuff.  (In hindsight, you'll wish you packed that last thing in a better box.  He did, you find out later.  His had more padding, more built-in safety features.  You should have used some kind of fireproof safe!  But you didn't.)  You smile at each other.   It's going to be OK, you think, when you see the way he smiles.  It's not everything, but it's something.   You both get into the car.   You buckle up.  You're not dumb enough to drive without doing that, at least.

Say it's a convertible.  Why not?  Say it's a nice day, the sun is shining.  There isn't any ice.  Why would there be ice?  Say it's the summer or just that it's winter and global warming is making it prettier than it really is.  There's a song on the radio that you both like, for different reasons.   Music echoes history and history is a pretty personal thing.  Neither of you are good singers but it's a beautiful day, like I said, and the wind is going to grab your off-keyness and throw it behind the car so fast, it will be like it never happened.  You sing.  

The night before you left on this particular road trip, you didn't lie awake and imagine accidents and lost limbs and blood and broken glass.  You had a good sleep.   Your dreams were light.  You woke up feeling happy.   The place you are going together, you're excited about.   You got ahead of yourself, it's true.  Why not?  Sometimes you're just happy.   You both did it, you just went different ways with it.  That happens.  

You went ahead and pictured skis swishing on perfect powder, the shower of snow like diamonds glittering against the blue sky, the sharp clear air you'd breathe.  You used to be scared of skiing, actually, but you aren't anymore.  You're feeling safe.  You know it's going to be fine, fun, perfect.  Idealized.  Why not?  Other people do things like this.  You can be one of the others now.   You can choose that.    

You're so focussed on the destination itself that you're forgetting the stretch of highway that's between you and the place you're going.  (Idiot, says Captain Obvious, chortling.)  This other person seems like a good driver.  You absolutely trust him.  Not driving alone makes you feel lighter and happier and the sun is gorgeous and the sky and there's a bird flying by and it's some kind of swan or a sign like that, and everything is good, even the metaphors.  The song changes, you mutually decide it sucks, and change over to a different one.  Neither of you have heard it before, so you can't sing along, but it carries you anyway.  Buoys you up.   The road slips away under the tires and you're really comfortable.  You're good.  You say something funny and he laughs and you laugh and you like the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs and you think there is nowhere that you'd rather be than in this car with this person and even though this is a terrifying stretch of road, you've almost forgotten that it is, that's how things are.  

(I didn't say it wasn't a long metaphor.  If you've stopped reading, that's fine, too.  It won't change the outcome that you forgot to worry about.  It's going to happen anyway.   Things do, whether you've pictured them or not.)  

When the song ends, you're suddenly a little uneasy about feeling comfortable and the next song that comes on, you're suddenly too nervous to sing along with. You've forgotten how to sing.  What if he hates your singing voice?  What if he hates this song?  What if you do?  Have you thought about whether or not you even like it?  What makes you decide to like a thing or not like a thing?   Have you thought about that?  At all?   It's a good thing it isn't icy, you think, suddenly remembering to be terrified of the road. The sky is blue still and the sun is out.  Think about the skiing, you tell yourself.  Think about the hotel and the food and the way you feel when you smile at each other, relieved that you're finally safe.  Think about that.  But you're breathing too fast now.  It's too late.  You're suddenly scared.  

 

And then, of course, before you can even articulate what might happen, there's the patch of ice.  There it is. It's already happening.  You were barely even on the scary road!  You'd just set out!  But the ice is under the wheels.  He does the wrong thing.  Well, you think it's the wrong thing, of course you do, because you know the aftermath.  He saw the ice before you did.  He'd already imagined it while you were thinking about how great everything was going to be.  He was already steering the car into the skid or away from it, whichever one you aren't supposed to do.  And then there's the guard rail, splitting things open, the trunk is dumping all your boxes and bags all over, mixing them up, your histories mingling and creating a path behind your spinning skidding car and everything ugly is everywhere and those two small boxes, finally coming free are being flattened under the wheels of your own car, the fun convertible, which is now skidding on the mess you've made, first one and then the other, those boxes are small, you don't see it at first, how it happened, you're just so surprised.

 

What happened, you keep thinking.  What happened?

 

But you're not dead.  It's fine.  I don't want to spoil the story, but you're both still standing, outside the car now, on the road.  You're shaking.  Well, it was scary.  It was close.  But you're alive.  No one is bleeding.

 

You're OK.   That's a lie, says Captain Obvious, who always shows up at times like these.  You're both crying. You'd put your hearts in those boxes.  Why did you do that?  Why did you pack those damned things?  It was just a quick trip, it wasn't forever.  It was too soon, of course.  Both of you are guilty.  You'd both forgotten, for different reasons, how to prepare for trips like this one.   You never should have done that, either of you.   But you did.  You did that.  You didn't protect your hearts nearly well enough.  What were you thinking?  

 

You morons, crows Captain O., who lives for moments like this one.

 

You look at each other, shocked.  Do you even know each other at all?   What happened?   

 

Then from around the bend, you hear the sirens.  They're coming for you.  They'll wrap you in blankets and the right things to say and they'll try to put your hearts back the way they were, but they'll be different.  They'll be bruised.  

 

Your eyes will meet, in the back of an ambulance.  I'm sorry, your eyes will say to each other over and over and over again.  It was just that we forgot to pack properly.  We weren't ready.  We got ahead of ourselves.  I'm sorry.  And I'm sorry.  

 

It won't matter how sorry, because it will hurt just as much.   Impact does that.  

 

Anyway, another thing is, you don't know how to ski.  You thought you'd learn fast enough to catch up, that it would be easy, but things aren't easy, not for you, not with the way you do them.  Nervously.  Awkwardly.  You made a mistake by getting into the car without remembering that the road was really the worst, even when it looked safe, it just isn't.  It never is.  

 

Some crows land on the road and start pecking at the crumbs on an exploded suitcase where your past looks particularly grisly.  Crows are such merciless scavengers.  Take it all, you tell the crow.  I don't want it.  I never did.  I just wanted to go on this one trip without any bags.   We could have bought new stuff on the way.   We could have started over.  We shouldn't have brought anything.  We should have left our hearts in our chests where they're the safest, trapped as they are behind muscle and bone.   

The ambulance will take you to separate hospitals.  You don't know how the story ends.  You just know that this time, that patch of ice... You should have known it was there, but you didn't.  You weren't looking.  You always have to be looking, even when it's not your turn to drive.  Never take your eyes off the road.  If you'd seen it, if the sun had shone a certain way and it had glinted, you could have changed all this.   Well, you can't beat yourself up about it.  Next time, you think, you'll get better luggage.  Matching, clean, no crumbs or doghairs, packed pristinely.   You'll try to pack so much better and have so much less stuff -- Kon Mari that crap --  so that even if the car gets bumped, it won't spill everywhere, making a patch of oil on the highway, an accident you can't prevent from happening, a chain-reaction that you can't control.  

You miss him already. You miss the place you thought you were going, the way it didn't matter that you sang off-key, the way you felt when you forgot to worry about the conditions.  Not worrying is liberating, even though it's stupid.  

Well, says Captain Obvious, leaning back in the guest chair, eating some leftover pie.  You never know.   And he's right, you don't.  The ice is either there, or it isn't, hidden in the shadow of some kind of beautiful bird that distracted you, just for a moment, when you should have been paying better attention.  But you're happy it happened, after all.  You loved the freedom of not having to scrutinize every danger.  You loved seeing the way the bird's wings pushed the air down beautifully, perfectly, the way the bird rose up easily into the sun, not worrying about you and what you were thinking, the way that birds don't. Not like people.  Certainly not like us, too heavy with everything to even leave the ground in the first place, unless our car is pushed by something we didn't see coming, past the guard rails, into the great unknown.       

2016: Beginning.

Karen Rivers

I keep opening this page.  Do I have something to say?  What if there are only so many words?  Could you run out?  Could I?   

It's a new year, so let's take stock:  the kids are taller, the dogs are older, the bird died, my finger broke, the Christmas ornaments are packed up but still on the front porch.  I remembered to pay for the insurance.  I should go to the dentist.  What more is there to say?   Think of everything as a bullet journal.   Make a dot for everything you need to do, didn't do, shouldn't do, or should.  I picture a line of dots, extending to the horizon.   At the horizon, I'd place a mountain.  A sunrise or a sunset.  Everyone needs something beautiful at the end of their line of dots.  

They say that blogging is dead and maybe it is.  Even the word "blog" feels awkward and lumpy, like something we thought was stylish a long time ago that's really gone now, never to return.   Like shoulder pads or polyester as a clothing fabric, or -- shudder -- a combination.   There's writing for an audience and then there's just writing, trying to remember how to make that happen.  Dropping the words onto the screen and feeling reassured, that's writing, even if it is a blog, that shoulder pad of real writing.  Just writing for the sake of writing, it's like knitting.  It feels good to look at a finished row or page, your imagination turning into something tangible.   My finger might be broken, but look! This is a paragraph.  I typed it.  My finger is a stiff hook.  My son has the flu.  Everything looks like a song lyric if you say it in a short enough sentence. My daughter has been writing songs.  One says, "Stop being so judgemental, start being more reverential."  "That's a big word," I say, "do you know what that means?"  "I spelled it wrong," she says, "I meant 'Start being more relevant.'"  "I'll try," I say.   

This year, on the docket:  an adult book, a YA, a middle-grade.   When are there enough books?  A letter from a friend's daughter says, "This is your best book.  This book will make you rich."   Do books make anyone rich?  JK Rowling is swimming laps in her pool full of money.   She's done well with the adult books, too.  But what's the real difference when you write them, between a book for kids and one for adults?  Everyone asks.  Like they assume that there is a different set of rules for one than for the other.  I always feel confused by the question.   It's all just getting the words out of your fingers.   Letting the characters fall out of the place where you made them.  Picture vines.  They are hidden behind the vines.  You cut the vines.  You force them out.  You make them tell what they need to tell.  Beyond that, isn't the difference only the age of the protaganist?   I answer the question on a staticy line.   My voice distorts.  They don't understand.   I don't know the difference between writing a kids book and writing an adult book, I say.   The audience! I add.  Maybe it's just the audience.  Children are much more emotionally mature than they are given credit for.  Although the audience for kids' books is largely made up of adults.  Why do we need there to be a huge distinction in the rules?  Writing it, I don't feel a difference.  Maybe it's just that the adult book can move more slowly because adults have more patience for multiple pages describing a clearing where leaves are composting and a deer wanders by, chewing something.  The adult reader wants to know how the leaves smell heavy with mulch, how the variegated shades of brown and orange look in the low hanging sun.  How do deer scratch when they are itchy?  Hooves must make that awkward.  A kids' book would go right to the itch.  Adults shake their heads impatiently.  No one cares how a deer scratches!  

My dogs have been keeping me awake at night, scratching.   They don't have fleas.  Put it on the bullet list:  Take the dogs to the vet.   Delete the entire scene about the deer.   No one has time for that.  It doesn't move the story forward.  Go for a walk.  Move yourself forward.  Watch an actual deer walking across a real clearing.  He doesn't scratch.  Maybe deer don't get itchy.   Hold on to the dogs.  It was the dog's leash that broke my finger in the first place.   Well, I don't blame the dog.  Not really.

I've been feeling happy.  I think things are good.  I look tentatively around my life, into all the categories and everything looks OK.   I feel optimistic.  Let's take that and run with it.   Let's do that in 2016:  be optimistic.   Let's stop being so judgemental, start being more reverential.   That's all there is really, isn't there?   Our own inner lives flow by just under the surface of everything we say or do, the people we meet, the faces we love.  It's the river that flows under the sidewalk of visible things that matters.  That's what we have to look after.  The river matters most of all.   Everyone can see the concrete.   We don't need to talk about it so much.  All the talk about the things on the surface is exhausting.


Happy New Year!  May your words come easily and your rivers flow smoothly, whatever that means to you, whatever you think I mean by that.   



 

Happy International Day of the Girl. But...

Karen Rivers

Today is International Day Of The Girl.  Let's celebrate.   Where shall we start?   

Let's start with why I've been feeling angry lately.  

It's as good a place as any. 

I was reading a cringe-worthy interview with Jonathan Franzen yesterday, which I won't link to because he says what he says exactly so that we will pass his words around and keep his name fresh on our tongues.  I don't want his name on my tongue because while he doesn't consider women to be valid, as writers or as humans, we also make up the bulk of his readers, the highest percentage of people who are taking our hard-earned money and placing it in his outstretched hand.   "I only really consider men to be competition," he says, scornfully, and I feel the tidal wave of rage, rising.   (Can you imagine a world in which men are sidelined and women walk around, confident in everything about themselves, laughing at the cute inadequacies of men?   No.  Of course, you can't.)  Franzen demands attention, he never apologizes, and he got to where he is thanks mostly to the women who buy his books and to Oprah, on whose back he originally stood to proclaim himself above us all.  

 

Let's take Oprah.  Why not?  She's done well, no one will argue.  She is a powerful, successful woman.  She has a voice and she uses it, yet her magazine is financed almost entirely by advertisers who are selling women ways to look prettier.  It is your job to look prettier.  It is our role to look prettier.  We want to look prettier!  Smoother!  Younger!  Thinner!   

My daughter takes my powder brush and rubs it on her cheek.  "Do I look pretty?" she says.  "Prettier now?"

My daughter is 8.  She likes dinosaurs and sports and building tall towers using magnetic blocks.   She wants to be an artist when she grows up, or an archaeologist.  Or both.  

I spent too much money at Sephora last month, it's true.   I have a tendency towards rosacea, a condition I spend more time thinking about than I'd like to.

Cobble all those sentences together to find a truth that I'd rather not see.

Here's a fact:   What I look like matters for my job.  It matters for every woman's job.  Even as writers, laboring away in our pyjamas at home all day, it counts.  Our photos always accompany our work.  Our photos ask the world, "Am I pretty enough? Am I worthy?"

I've been trying to think of a way to write about how it's so different for a man to write a novel than for a woman to write a novel.  This is what I've come up with:  A man writes a novel and it explodes onto the litererary scene.  A woman writes a novel that quietly develops an audience.

A woman writes a novel.  She does it the same way that a man does.  She sits down at a keyboard and types.  She sits down at a desk and writes.  She thinks and plans and deletes and rewrites and revises.   She is fastidious, intelligent, hard-working.  She does her research.   She makes her novel sing: her characters resonate, her story transcends.  The novel does not know if the writer is a man or a woman, it is simply in the process of becoming a book.  

It emerges into the world, blinking, waiting, not knowing what to expect next.   

 

The designer puts a woman on the cover of the woman's book.  The woman is beautiful and standing in the wind and she is silhouetted in front of sky or sea or trees or shadows it doesn't really matter what.  The font is wispy.  A more intense woman's book might zoom in on her lips or her eyes, the font may be heavier, rougher, more serious.   Well, it's what sells.  The woman's book is marketed to women because men buy women's books infrequently.  "That's for girls!" their inner boy says, recoiling.   Well, really, women are the largest percentage of book buyers.  So why is it a problem?  It's a market reality.   Settle down.  It's how it works.  Women write books, women buy books, women supporting women, isn't that positive?  

But the book is made to look like every other women's book, much like we are meant to want to look like every other woman:  smooth skin, shiny long hair, a slender (but curvy) body.    

On the front of the man's book in bold font: his name, the title of his book, nothing extraneous. Something about the size of that font indicates the seriousness of the novel you are holding in your hand.  The novel looks strong, important, intelligent.  This novel is not about what it looks like, it is about what it contains, yet it IS also about what it looks like.  It looks manly.  It looks like it has tenure.  It is grey around the temples.   Wise.   Sexy.  The novel has been working out at the gym, five days a week after spending 8 solid hours writing, reading dialogue out loud in a soundproofed office.  The novel is not occupied with things like making dinner for the family or cleaning the bathroom floor because the novel is serious and cannot be interrupted by such trivialities.  Trivialities are pink and are, after all, a woman's work.  How fortunate.   Trivialities can be very intrusive. 

On the front of the woman's book, someone adds a butterfly.  Some whimsy.  A scattered bunch of blooms.

Not all publishers.   Not all men.   Not all covers.  (Thank God.)

But.

Book covers, on average, tend to be the childhood bedrooms of the authors:   The boy's room is blue or even (daringly) black, sparsely furnished, a few posters of things he loves and is passionate about; his shelves are full of models that he built or mechanical items in various states of being taken apart.   The girl's room is pink, perfectly presented, tidy and clean, sparkling with rainbows and unicorns and photos of herself and her friends taken at just the right angles so that she looks perfect, or as perfect as she can (but she has years to keep trying!)  On her shelf, dolls made to look like her, dressed perfectly, cutely, adorably.   Her dresser is where her makeup is, the layers of the mask she will learn how to apply, to look pretty, to be pretty, to matter, to be seen.  

My daughter is on her way to buy a dinosaur poster at the school book fair,  her money clutched in her hand.  She stops and comes back to where I am standing.  "Most girls are buying the puppy-in-a-teacup poster," she whispers.  "I should buy that one.  Dinosaurs are probably for boys, right?"   

"Wrong," I say.   

She buys the dinosaur poster but her hesitation is why I'm so sad.  

A man produces a book and it is assumed to have literarary merit.  A woman produces a book and it is assumed to be a "beach read".  

Not by everyone.

But. 

I write largely for middle grade and young adult readers.   Maybe the space is different.   Maybe it isn't.  

"Is it a boy book or a girl book?" well-intentioned people ask before buying.

"It's a human book," I say, trying not to wince.   

But I won't lie:  Earlier in my career, I thought it was necessary to differentiate and I'm ashamed of that.  

A woman writes a novel under a man's name.  Everyone knows it is a woman but the name on the cover is a man's and the book receives more reviews and is taken more seriously than had she used her own name.  Here is a woman, presenting as a man, so we will consider this man-named woman-written book.   There is no photo of the author on the cover.   Not even on the inside back flap.   What she looks like is irrelevant now that she is presenting as a man, even though we know she is a woman.     

Look at all the books out there today, written under an author's initials, which omit the author photo.   We are voluntarily un-gendering ourselves to be more palatable to our audience.  Here's a secret:  I'm no exception.   A book without an audience does not pay the mortgage, no matter how extraordinary it might be.

Let's put it this way, it's something I'm considering for my next adult book, if by "considering", I mean "have already decided to do."  And I promise you this:  I will fight tooth and nail against having a woman in a beautiful dress silhouetted against the moonlit beach on the cover.   

But.

Here is a story that I've probably told before:   I am at a writer's event.  The event is for booksellers.  I am a woman who writes books.  I am talking to a bookseller about books and writing.  "Do you do events at your store?"  I ask.  "I'd love to participate, if you do."   

"No," says the bookseller.  "Not so much anymore."  

A male writer approaches us.  The bookseller to whom I'd been speaking turns to him so quickly that I am almost knocked over.  "We'd love to have you for an event," the bookseller says.   "We can't wait to show you our new space."

A man reading this might dismiss me as "bitter".  Jonathan Franzen would.  Well, he wouldn't read it.  What women have to say is largely irrelevant to him.   I am a woman.  I have things to say.   Do you know who is listening?  

Other women. 

I am not, in fact, bitter.  I recognize many ways in which I have been very lucky with my book covers, my publishers and my audience.   I am still here.  I am still writing.   I am still selling.   I am still lucky.  I am very happy to be doing what I'm doing, and with the people I am doing it for.  

Really, there is no difference between me (a female writer) and another writer who happens to be male.  

But...

"Happy International Day of The Girl!" I say to my daughter who is wrapped in a pink blanket on the couch, playing a Jurassic Park game on her phone.  I painted her room pink when we moved to this house.  I can no longer remember why I did that. 

I'm sorry, I want to tell her.  I didn't understand until now what it's like, what we've done.   But listen, this is important.  You are more than pink.  You are all the colours you want to be.  You are serious and blue and your name and your title should be written in huge steel words on a concrete background because you are here and you matter and you ARE the competition and you are valid and you are so much more than beauty and you are so much more than they will ever let you be, and I'm sorry for that, for everything, for all the pink everywhere and for the way that International Girls' Day sparkles with rainbow-writing on a glittery backdrop, your silhouette framed in a pretty white dress blowing against your body in front of a beach-blue sky.  




 


 

some entirely separate thoughts about the same thing.

Karen Rivers

My daughter's arm has the exact girth of the circle I can make with my thumb and middle finger.  While she is at school, I hold my hand up and look at the size of that circle.  It's so small.  She's so small.  I forget sometimes.  She seems so grown up, in contrast to what she once was.  It's all a Fleetwood Mac song because I'm getting older, too.   And it's autumn again and outside the blue sky looks closer to white as though it knows what's coming.   Well, we all know what's coming, or we think we do, which is really the same thing.   

 

All year, I've thought I was forty-six.  It turns out that I'm only forty-five.  That's a bit like finding a $20 bill in the pocket of your last-year's coat.   Free money!  You can spend it however you want.  I'm going to spend the year on myself, doing something.   I don't know what.  Honestly, whenever someone says, "You should do something for yourself!", my brain immediately pictures a mani/pedi.  I've never had one.  I hate it when people touch my feet and the casual intimacy of someone painting my fingernails would send me into intense panic so I continue to have plain nails, and will always wince when people say that thing they say about "having some me time!".   

There are very few times when I feel like an adult.  One of these times is when I peel vegetables into the sink.  The feel of the loose peels against my skin as I scoop them when I'm done for the compost -- I can't explain it -- but that handful of peels makes me into my mother and her mother and all the mothers before them.  

My children still don't like to go to bed.  They have never once, not even one single time, gone to bed simply and easily at bed time and they are older than you probably think.  I'm not exaggerating when I say it's never happened.  It has literally never happened.  What I like best about this story is that I'm always convinced that tonight will be different, tonight they will probably just lie down and go to sleep and I will be free to be an adult, whatever that entails, maybe it means reading on the couch or peeling vegetables with reckless abandon or writing a blog post without being shouted at.  I have hope, which is ridiculous, because the situation is hopeless.  My son is almost as tall as me.  Soon, he'll be six feet tall, shouting, "MUM" from his bed because he's just had an idea about a remote-control helicopter.  "Are you sick?"  I call back. "Are you bleeding?  Are you on fire?"  "No," he yells.  "Then GO TO SLEEP," I say.  Again.  Again again again again again.

Tonight, post kid-bed-time, I planned to sit and edit photos and maybe drink a beer or eat an ice cream sandwich, or ideally both, with my feet up.  I'd been thinking all afternoon about how the great part about being an adult is that you can have BOTH a beer and an ice cream and that's a perfectly valid choice you can make, one which I don't exercise regularly enough.  But again and again my son emerged from the bedroom, over and over.  I truly felt like I was going crazy, like I won't ever again have the opportunity to edit photos with my feet up over a beer and some ice cream and why can he not understand this?  I feel like at this point, I shook my fist at the heavens.   I don't know if I really did or if I just narrated that in, in my head.

"I thought you'd understand," my son said, plaintively.  

"Go to bed," I said, "NOW."

I know that they will grow up and eventually leave and (theoretically) put themselves to bed and I'll have nothing but minutes that are empty chambers echoing the "mum mum mum mum MUM" calls that ricochet around in the hall long past lights-out, long past the time when any child should be awake on a school night.  When that happens, I know that I will think, "This is boring, this editing and beer and ice cream, I miss them."  I already miss them.  I miss them right now and they are still awake, waiting for their opportunity to call me again so I'll have to stop typing and try to be patient and say, "Yes, but you must go to sleep now or else tomorrow you'll be so tired, I'll be so tired, even the dog will be so tired."  And they say, "Yes, fine, but what should we dream about?"  Then I'll write them a dream.   Another one and another.  They need choice now.  It's getting harder as they get older.  I should compile a book.  Every night, they can just pull out three pages.   This probably doesn't make sense because I keep getting interrupted.   The dogs sleep through the whole thing now.  The smallest dog sneaks under the couch when my voice becomes raised though. 

What I'm saying is that if your kids go to bed when you say, "Bed time!" and you're allowed to remain cheerful and not have to shout, "I'll take your laptop away for six months if you don't go to sleep right this minute!" and they let you get away with a hug and a kiss and a story then you did something right.  The important thing.  The best thing.  You did that.  Yay you!   I don't know what it was. If you know, can you tell me?  Maybe I can do it now, whatever baby-training did the trick.  I wrack my brain but come up with nothing.  What did I forget to do?  "MUM," one of them called just now, with perfect sit-com timing.   

Last night, there was a supermoon red eclipse that either did or did not mean it's the end of the world or the second coming of Christ or something else that no one's guessed correctly yet.  From my living room window, where I see hundreds of beautiful moonrises, the moon looked small and pale, like an elderly frail moon was going to be playing the part of the moon for tonight's performance of the SUPERMOON RED ECLIPSE.  I felt sorry for it but I was also irritated because it was impossible to photograph and anyway the battery in my camera died and my daughter had a flashlight that strobed and my son was cold, outside in his pyjamas.  I checked social media to make sure everyone was seeing what I was seeing and were equally disappointed that the moon was out sick and the stand-in would be performing (badly) tonight, and it turned out everyone else was actually seeing a life-changing SUPERMOON RED ECLIPSE.   It still makes no sense to me that someone two streets over was having a capital-E Experience and I was just frustrated because the kids, in the dark, began to fight.  

I'm sure all of that is a metaphor for something.  Tonight, the moon was spectacular.  I bet that hardly anyone looked at it though.  They looked at it last night and probably there's something they'd rather be watching on Netflix.   Everything is a metaphor.  I've been feeling very judgemental lately.   I don't like that about myself.  I think the problem was that there was so much hype about the Supermoon Red Eclipse that there was no way it was going to measure up, sort of like THE TITANIC and all those other films I never saw because I assumed they couldn't possibly be as good as "everyone" said they were.  

I've been writing a novel that's (peripherally) about time.  Try this:  Define 'time' to someone who doesn't know anything about the concept already.  

It's harder than you think.  Believe me.  There are a lot of theories about time.  They all can only be theories, ever.  It's not like one will rise to the top and be "right" because it's all theory.  Time itself is theoretical.   The whole thing about time is that I feel like I only understand the very very very very edge of it, like I'm trying to hold on to understanding all these theories, but I barely can because my grasp of what it is, what it means, is so small.  

If you want to feel completely awed, I suggest you start reading about how it's theoretically possible that an infinite number of versions of yourself exist simultaneously.  This also has to do with time.  In such an alternate universe, an infinite number of versions of my kids are NOT going to sleep when they should, and an infinite number of mes are thinking about mani/pedis and carrot peelings.


 

I hope my kids forget about how truly unbelievably frustrating bed time was for their entire childhood.  I hope they delete that memory, along with that time I made them eat that kiwi fruit or forgot that school let out early and they had to wait in the hall.  I hope all they remember are the summers: the long stretches of ocean and jumping into it, whales in the distance blowing their songs across the strait, hiking up the hot dusty roads, the way the blackberries taste best straight from the bush.   I hope they remember hot chocolate and riding bikes to the corner store for ice cream, climbing the mountain behind the house and finding hidden treasures in the woods.  I hope I did something right, something worth remembering, something that makes the mistakes seem smaller and fainter than the rest of everything, a pale stand-in for the only things that ever really mattered at the end of the day.   

Weather, power, beauty, love, life.

Karen Rivers

We've been away.  Every summer, we go.  Same place.   There isn't power there.  Well, solar panels. Do they count?  They charge batteries and we charge our phones and e-readers using the batteries, so there really is power.  When I say, "There isn't power there" what I mean is that there isn't really anything there that there is here, that people expect to have.  For example, no roads. Ok, fine, there are logging roads.  No vehicles on them though.   Only that one guy with the small red truck he imported from Japan.  I don't know whose truck that is.  It has parking permits written in Japanese from 2006.  It sits at the edge of the forest now, here, wondering what happened.  Wondering where everyone went.  

We did a lot of walking in the woods and sitting at the beach.   The trouble with that is that there is extra time to feel offended about things when there isn't all the white noise of real life, like drive-thrus and traffic and being late and all that.  I shouted at my parents more than once.  That doesn't make me feel like a very good person, I can tell you that.  But overall, being on an island without power (or anything else) and sleeping in a tent for a month is a good thing that you should do for yourself, too, but not on my island.  I like the fact there are hardly any other people there and the people who are there are, like me, also without power.  I mean, there are powerful people, if you look closely at who they are and what they do, but at the beach, sitting on a log, we all have holes in our clothes and could probably stand to take a shower.  Most people don't have showers there or hot running water.  Cold rain water collected in tanks, that's it.  We swim in the bay to clean off, but it's not always clean.  The beauty of it all is that we're free.  We've been released.  Or we're out on bail.  Probation.  A month or two or three of not having to be the selves who we are when we are in Home Depot buying more Rubbermaid tubs to store the excess of items that seem to accrue in all the rooms of our extremely expensive, high-powered houses.   Some period of weeks where we stop updating our status updates with comments about everything because nothing is happening except for everything that matters which is to say, absolutely, that nothing is happening.   Just light turning into darkness and then back again, the stars drawing their same pots and pans in the night sky and then the sun blueing it all up again for another day of being alive.   

 


I spilled coffee on my laptop right before I went away.   It ruined everything.  I spent the holiday, staring out to sea and imagining that I'd lost the books that are due.   My heart would speed up but then some whales would swim by and the kids would run down the beach, following them, and the sound of the whales blowing would echo around on the sandstone and we'd all feel so lucky that I'd forget about the laptop and how only an inch of coffee can really bring you to your knees.  

 

I bought a new laptop.  It isn't ready yet.   I'm using my kid's laptop to type this.  She is at her dad's wedding today.   The weather is insane.  I'm not exaggerating.   There has been a windstorm and flash floods are predicted.   All summer long, it's been calm.  It's been hot.  Fires everywhere.  Today, everything the summer forgot to perform is happening at once.  I'm picturing white tents blowing out to sea, guests wondering why they bothered to comb their hair, my daughter's bubbles being carried all the way to the moon on the back of the lifting wind.  (The flower girls are blowing bubbles, no flowers.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's to do with the environment or birds, although you'd think they'd like flowers.)  It feels strange to me that my daughter is doing this at someone else's wedding.  Upstairs, I have a wedding dress I never wore.  It's from JCrew.  It's really pretty.  Well, now it's yellowed a bit.  I haven't looked at it lately but last time I did, it was yellow-ish more than white-ish, but maybe it always was, or maybe I didn't store it properly in approved brand-name containers and so it's just a dress that happens to be white and has aged.  The thing was, when he proposed to me, he wasn't actually divorced from his first wife yet so the wedding didn't happen.  Turns out you have to do the paperwork first.  I was sad about that.  I feel a bit robbed, like I never got to go to the prom.  I didn't actually go to the prom either.  We didn't have a prom.   Maybe just a regular dance?  I don't remember if I went or not.  I didn't have a date, that's certain.  Sometimes life whooshes by and other people are having proms and weddings and then you are suddenly 45 and realize that those people are not you.  You didn't feel beautiful whilst dancing in the arms of someone you thought you loved, or indeed actually did love.  Not even once.   I do wish him well.  I want him to be happy.  I want everyone to be happy.  I want for dancing and that elusive feeling of being squarely in the arms of the right person at the right time.  For me, too, not just for other people.  

It's starting to rain.  Really hard.  I want to go sit cross-legged on the front lawn in the rain but there are spiders in the grass.  It's that season again.  The spiders are everywhere.  I live in a forest, of course there are.  They build their webs from my car to the mailbox.  "Sorry," I say, backing out of the driveway, the web pulling and separating from the jaunty red flag on the top of the box, the sparkling drops that once decorated the thread like diamonds all conjoining again and becoming nothing.  I was going to say, "becoming a tear" but that sounded melodramatic.  I still wear my engagement ring but on the middle finger of my right hand.  It's a beautiful ring.  Life is what we do while we fill time between being born and exiting, stage left.  I'll probably go off to the right.  I feel like that's the sort of thing I'd do, misread the instructions and end up alone on stage right while everyone else is stage left, giggling.  There's a lot of drama in between the birth and the exit is my point.  Sometimes it's good, riveting stuff.  Other times, we look at our watches (or, more likely, our phones) and we wait for the time to pass, wondering how this play got written and why it was produced, exactly, because it's not that good.  Nothing is happening.   We wonder if we start playing Angry Birds on our phones if anyone will notice.  Not that anyone plays that much anymore.  That ship has sailed.  Something else is the thing now.  I don't know what it is.  I forgot to pay attention.  Pop culture is like an exam we are constantly taking to see if we're staying on-track.   I'm not.   Sorry.    

The weather outside is pushing at the trees, daring them to fall over, daring the house to crumble under their ancient weight.   I'll be surprised if the power doesn't go out sometime today.  But having power and then having it turn off temporarily isn't the same as not having power at all.  

 

 

I feel like I want to meet someone with eyes that crinkle when they smile, like in a novel, where you read about how his eyes smiled.  I realize everyone's eyes do this, especially as we get older.  I just have an idea in my head of a particular face I haven't seen yet.  I'm an adult.  I have lots of ideas.  I try them all on for size and then abandon them in the changeroom and leave with nothing.  Not on the floor in a heap or anything, even though that would make a better end for this paragraph.  I hang each one up, properly, on the hanger that I took it off.  It's not really fair to make someone else clean up the mess I made, particularly if I'm not going to buy anything, after all.

 

 

At dinner, an older adult tells my daughter to sit up straight.  She's slouching.  She's tired.  I slouch all the time.  Maybe I'm just exhausted.   This makes me sound unhappy, but I'm not.  I'm fine.  I'm happy enough for now.  My work is going well.  I shouldn't say that, then it will suddenly stop working out.  I believe in things like that, fate and bad luck.   

Anyway, this person says to my just-turned-8-year-old, "Sit up straight! Don't you want to grow up to be graceful?"   

My son slumps over in his seat.   He is not expected to grow up to be "graceful".  No one pokes HIM in the back.

"What's graceful?"  says my daughter.  

"It's so men will think you're pretty," he says.  "Don't you want to be pretty?"

"I have a question," she whispers to me later.

"Yes?"  I say.

"Is it my job to be pretty when I grow up?" she says.

"NO," I say, too loudly.   I'm so angry.  I'm furious.  Not with her, you understand.  

Try writing a book as a woman.   People flip to see your author photo and then they make a judgement.  They just do.   The photo becomes as important as the work.  Months or years of work.  But are you having a good hair day?  Did you pay to have your makeup done?

"Oh, a woman's book," certain people say (men). "Should I read it at the beach?"  

("Don't you want to be pretty?" he says.  "Why not?")

It's not her goddamn job to be eye candy for anyone, sir.  Goddamnit all to hell.   Seriously.  Fuck that.   Sorry for the langugage, but really, for God's sake.

 

 

It's really raining now.   It hasn't rained all summer.   The ground is hard and dry and not open to new things such as moisture, even if that moisture is imperative to life.   Maybe, eventually, the dirt will crack open and let that water rush in.  The trouble is with that is that the tree roots get loosened.  Then all it takes is a few sharp blasts of wind, and next thing you know, the old-growth trees are falling.   Three hundred years, they've stood there, holding their own, not waiting or wanting for anything.   When they come up out of the ground, tearing their roots up with them, it's really a sight to see.  The webs of roots make maps which, if you trace them, all lead back to one thing: the heart of that tree.  Not that trees have hearts, but I think you know what I mean.  Do you?   The sun is trying really hard to shine through.   Probably my ex and his new wife will have rainbows.   Probably the photos will be magical, ethereal, perfect, the grey flat sky illuminating all that they feel, the colours from it spilling onto them like a new beginning.   She'll probably store her dress properly, paying a dry-cleaner to do it, preserving it carefully for all time.   She'll probably do all the right things that I forgot to do.   I wish them well.  I do.   "Congratulations!" I'll say, brightly, and I'll mean it.   I really will.  I'll look for something in myself that might not be there, some small something that can shine like that, that can be that way.  A light.  A bit of power.  That's all you need, really.  That and a place to sleep at the end of the day, the wind blowing in over your face through the vents on the side of the tent, blowing oxygen towards you, keeping you from forgetting to breathe.   

we are the angry mob.

Karen Rivers

I've been thinking about Cecil because everyone has and I read Facebook and I get swept up in the same things as everyone else.  Really, it's outrageous that a dentist from Milwaukee or wherever he is from paid someone $55,000 so he could kill Cecil.  It's also his bad luck that Cecil was tagged and named Cecil.  I spend a lot of time wondering how many people know how to pronounce Cecil and all the mispronunciations that are going on right now as we read the dentist's sorry-not-sorry because the truth is that he killed Cecil (OUR Cecil) and he liked it and boy are we mad about it.  We are so mad.  Other stuff is happening and we're mad about that, too, but not as mad as we are about Cecil and there's nothing wrong with that except all the things that are wrong with it.   

 

Look, right now, some wealthy American has paid a "guide" and a poacher to stalk an elephant through African Savannah.  Even while you think about clicking to another page to see if those Lands End dresses are on sale yet, he is lining up his shot while his guide holds his own loaded rifle so that no animals attack the wealthy American trophy hunter and the elephant is trumpeting in fear and now the trigger has been pulled and the elephant is in unspeakable pain and is crumbling tumbling (I can't find the right word) down in the dust, bleeding and in pain and the wealthy American is feeling a rush of adrenaline from that.  Ivory is so massively illegal now that I feel guilty about a very old bracelet that I have upstairs that belonged to either my grandmother or someone who had a garage sale that I went to before I knew about ivory.   Throwing out the bracelet is wrong because an elephant probably died to produce that bracelet but I would never wear the ghost of that animal on my wrist either so I keep it to remind me that I am a terrible person, too, but then I reassure myself that I am not as terrible a person as that wealthy American who right now is approaching that dead elephant on the ground and watching his eyes slowly cloud over and watching him realize that he's dead and seeing the rest of the elephant's family in the distance, keening and lowing and in despair, much like we are all in despair for Cecil, the crucial difference being that the victim of this latest gunshot is their brother/father/mate or maybe just their annoying co-worker who chewed his leaves in an unnecessarily loud way and talked too loudly on his cell phone during work hours when we are trying to concentrate on Facebook.  We have petitions to sign and things to be right about!  Surely he can talk to his wife later, at home, or whatever.  God.

Even while I was typing that, another entitled wealthy American with a gun that he's been practicing shooting since he was a child because all Americans have the right to bear arms and he's been bearing that since he was six and didn't really want to shoot a gun but it was important to his dad and his dad's dad and his dad's dad's dad and probably someone somewhere died so he could shoot that gun so he learned to shoot it and he got good at it and eventually he liked it and he liked shooting things and feeling powerful and big and so he shot bigger and more powerful things and that made him feel even bigger and more powerful and now look at him, he's a demi-god, down there on his knees in the low-growing shrubbery under the hot African sun, being protected by "guides" while he lines up the sites on his rifle and takes aim at a white rhinocerous and the sun is burning the skin on the back of his neck and he's so powerful right now in this second that he's practically glowing, the gun in his hand is heavy and sure and he takes aim and then, of course, blood, and a carcass so huge, I mean, what are you going to do with that?  So the guides cut off the head of the animal for him to check in with his luggage on the flight home.  No, that won't work, so maybe just take some pictures and post them on Facebook and keep the horn because you can smuggle that up your own ass or something, who knows, that gun is pretty powerful and so is money, because with it you can buy all the lives of these animals and now you've bagged an elephant and a white rhino and a lion so you are more than halfway there, to wherever you go when you get all five.  I suspect you go to hell.  Fingers crossed.  

 

But back to Cecil, who was famous, so effectively the Jennifer Aniston of lions, except a boy.  Why I didn't pick a boy movie star for that analogy, I have no idea.  Let's say he's George Clooney, but really he looks more like Jennifer Aniston with her lion-ish hair that she straightens so as not to confuse people with her innate mane-ness.  As Clooney, Cecil belongs to us.  Let's be clear.  He's tagged so scientists somewhere named him, like they name all tagged animals, and now he's basically beloved and we're so pissed about Cecil that we're going to say to that dentist, "YOU WILL NEVER FIX OUR TEETH AGAIN, YOU PRICK."  Which is right and just and good because he killed George Clooney, who is very cute, after all.  And then, fuelled by our internet-based outrage, we are going to sit in the air-conditioned silence of our offices where we should be doing work but aren't and we are going to slowly escalate our hatred towards Walter Whoever, a dentist from Milwaukee, and we're going to start saying, "Someone should shoot THAT asshole.  He's no Cecil."  And then someone who also has a gun and knows how to shoot it and likes hunting is going to say something like, "Let's hunt him."  And a chorus of voices in the quiet air-conditioned offices around the world will nod and say, "Yes, let's.  Or rather, you do it, because we are busy here in our quiet air-conditioned offices, but we support your right to hunt the guy who hunted Cecil who we hadn't actually heard of until this moment, so is less like George Clooney than we previously thought, but more like Joe Westerhouse, an extra from Pittsburgh who is just now walking across the set of a CSI episode being filmed in Ohio."  But it doesn't matter because we are right to be mad, it is good we are angry, and this will call attention to the fact that extras, I mean exotic animals, are being hunted all the time and it should stop, it needs to stop, it has to stop.  You won't get me disagreeing.  Stop the hunt.  I don't even like that they culled the deer in the next neighbourhood over from mine because the wealthy people were tired of their $50 shrubs being used as a deer salad bar, I mean, because they caused car accidents even though the speed limit in that neighbourhood is 30 and the deer move faster than that, let's face it.  

 

It's almost the end of the work day and right now our gun-loving, rich white hunter dude from middle America is raising his extremely expensive hunting rifle and taking aim at a leopard.  The leopard is a mother and she's just walked away from her cubs for a split second and she's thinking about feeding them because, after all, that's what mothers think about whether they are extras on Hollywood sets or leopards or actually even big stars, household names.  And the sun is hot and the cubs are asleep and she is fleetingly exposed in a beam of that golden sun and for a second the guides and everyone hold their breath because it's so beautiful, that leopard and her shadow stretching long and low on the dusty brown earth around her, and someone should take a photo but this is not that kind of tour, this is the other kind, and then there is the sound, the bang that knocks the hunter slightly backwards, but not far enough to hurt him -- more's the pity, as they say -- and then the leopard, who wants only for her cubs to survive is suddenly torn apart, the blood and the muscle of her splaying around her before she even realizes because do leopards know this is coming, that this is a possibility?  We know it's a possibility.  There's always the possibility of being shot, say at a movie, or in the mall, or if we're kids, then in the classroom, or even at Starbucks or by a wronged lover or by someone who we made angry by cutting them off in traffic.  But the leopard has largely been shielded from this and now it doesn't matter because she's dead and her kittens are staggering out of their den on their little kitten-legs which are still wonky and the hunter is feeling huge, he is so big now, he can't even, all he has left on his list is the Cape Buffalo, and then he'll have done it, he'll have achieved it, this thing he wants to achieve, the blood of all those animals running around him like a river of goddamn LIGHT.  It's incredible.  He feels lucky to be so rich and be such a good shot and to have such a good gun and such good guides who will protect him and for sunscreen because he'd hate to get skin cancer and die after all this amazing power he's accrued.  That would suck.   Cancer isn't choosy though, that's a fact.  Well, maybe he can pay cancer to stay away.  He'll worry about that later.  The guides skin the leopard and leave the body of the animal glistening in the light of the setting sun, the vultures already circling, feeling lucky themselves that this nice meal has presented itself so lovingly for their dining enjoyment.

In the meantime, everyone forgets that the dentist from Milwaukee is just another asshole with a gun and an inferiority complex that he tries very hard to overcome by shooting big, powerful, famous actors, I mean, lions, in Zimbabwe.   We've taken care of him.  We've told him on Yelp that he's no good and is a terrible person and a bad dentist and we've told our kids about him and if they go to school with HIS kids, well then, our kids can tell his kids that they are terrible, too. Better yet, maybe if we teach our kids to shoot, they can go shoot his kids, because isn't that fair enough?  He shot Cecil.  He shot the George Clooney of lions.  Cecil was ours and he shot him and an eye-for-an-eye, a tooth-for-a-tooth is not how it works here (or in Zimbabwe for that matter) but it's how it works on Social Media, isn't it?  We're really mad!  Don't forget.  Can someone grab me a latte if they are going to Starbucks?  Only one more hour, I have to stay awake til the end of the day, that's the challenge of working in this office.  God, it's hot out there.   What I really mean to say is that I hope no one is going to hurt the dentist's kids to make a point because there's a lot of rightness out there that is buoying people to do terrible things and making it seem justified and I'm really trying to say that it is not.  It isn't.  It really isn't.  Think about collateral damage.  You are better than this.  Isn't that the point, how good you are and me?  

 

OK, so now that rich, white, American dude who has been shooting since he was six and who fears his mother never really loved him and actually that's because he isn't very lovable, what with the shooting he does of everything that matters, well, he's found the Cape Buffalo.  He's found one.  He's found a lot.  Well, his guides have.  He couldn't even find his hotel in the rental car.  He should have taken a cab.  Africa.  Man, it's hard to figure out.  Anyway, it's worth it, even the fact that the airline lost his luggage and he didn't get upgraded to first class.  He crouches on the ground with a whole army of guards around him, protecting him from elephants and rhinos and lions and leopards which are all animals who would probably like to kill him because he's a terrible person, the worst, awful, quite a bit like a lot of other humans who like to shoot animals in Africa for a lot of money.   Now he takes aim and now he fires and the sky is shattered all around him while that bullet reverberates and I write this post and the sky falls down in flakes, big and blue and impossibly shiny and alive and the Cape Buffalo falls to its knees and I take a sip of my latte which has too much milk and not enough coffee and I write this thing about how awful this man is and his gun and the animals dying all over the African subcontinent and money changing hands, so much money, and what I wouldn't do for that money.  Well, I wouldn't kill an animal, but that's just me.  I wouldn't.   Actually, I think you shouldn't either.  I think you're terrible.  You're a bad person.   If you do that, I mean.  If you'd even think of it.   And typing that makes me feel better and more powerful all the time because I know that I'm right and the person with the gun is wrong and my rightness makes me shine, a veritable star in the sky, shining down on this mess down here, replete with guns and money and animals in pain who still don't know what actually happened, how it all ended like this.  

singing, fires.

Karen Rivers

My son has suddenly developed a very specific fear of singing in front of people.  This fear developed sometime this morning between brushing his teeth and OH MY GOD PUT YOUR SHOES ON WE HAVE TO GO OR WE WILL BE LATE.   (We were late.)  

 

He has an incredible voice.  

 

The other day, he was clowning around, singing a song from a show (Annie, maybe, but I can't remember what it was) and his voice actually gave me goosebumps.  I was shocked.  There's no other word for it.  His voice was electrifying.  "Do that again," I said.  "Please."  So he did.

 

"Why didn't you tell me you could sing?"  I said.  I felt cheated, like he'd been intentionally hiding this, his innate ability to sing in a way that gives people (me) goosebumps.  

 

He shrugged.  "I don't know," he said.   "I don't walk around going HEY LOOK WHAT I CAN DO, I guess."

 

"Well, you should," I said.   

 

I immediately enrolled him in Kids on Broadway, a week-long day camp. He enjoyed it every day from Monday through Thursday, although we were increasingly late each day.  On Friday, he refused to get out of the car, and when he finally did, he went to inspect a tree in the playground.  This made us even later.  "I just need FIVE SECONDS," he said, so I counted down, in a mad voice.  ("Don't use a mad voice," my daughter said.)  

 

Twenty five seconds (or forever) later, I got him to go into the building but he then refused to enter the studio.  He's almost as tall as me.  I wanted to pick him up and toss him into the room, but I couldn't.  This is what it means to feel helpless.

 

"Get in there," I said, helplessly. "Or no video games for a week."   Then I added, "So help me."  I don't even know what that means.  "So help me."  What is the point of that?  It's just an angry punctuation mark at the end of a mad-voiced sentence.  SO HELP ME.   What I really meant was, "I need help getting you into that room because you are going to be OK, I promise."

 

"You don't understand anything," he said.  

 

"Now," I said, by which I meant,  "I want you to know that you can sing.  I want other people to hear you and go, "Wow, that kid can sing."  I want you to come out of the room thinking differently of yourself, thinking, "I am someone who can sing!""  

 

My dad still makes fun of my singing voice even though I'm careful to not sing in front of him.  No one I've ever met thinks it's as terrible as he thinks it is.  Each time he says something about my singing, he laughs and I remember, "That's right, I can't sing."  

 

When my kids were little, I sang them to sleep every night.  Ten or fifteen or twenty songs.  My kids have never been easy sleepers.  They seemed to love the singing.  "Sing another one," they'd say.  And I'd think, "Oh, I can sing!"  I'm pretty sure that was a delusion but it was fun while it lasted.  They were just stalling, putting off the moment when I said, "That's it, go to sleep now."

 

Parenting is hard.  There's too much power in it at the same time as not enough.  

 

They still don't ever seem to want to go to sleep but I've stopped singing at bedtime.  Now I say, "If you don't go to sleep right now, I'll have to cancel your playdate tomorrow."   Parenting by threats and bribes turns out to be the only way to go after singing stops working.  

 

Especially when you remember that you can't sing, after all. 

 

 

I keep feeling like something is about to happen, but I don't know what it is.  I've bought some dresses and started wearing them.  You can decide, at any time, to be a person who regularly wears dresses instead of a person who rolls out of bed in a tank top and simply adds a pair of jeans and carries on like this is perfectly acceptable.  I'm not saying I'll never revert.   I probably will.   But in the meantime, it's very hot.  It's so hot that dresses are the only thing that make sense, the way they hold themselves away from my body, refusing to succumb to sticky sweat.  

 

 

All across the province, fires are burning.  

 

A few days ago, while I was driving, a man in front of me in a black Datsun rolled down his window and threw his cigarette butt out. It made a slow motion arc towards the scrub grass beside the road.  We were passing through a forest that is so parched and dry that when I walk through it, the ground kicks up clouds of dust that make me sneeze.  The yellow grass, the tinder-dry trees.  The forest backs onto my house.  In the winter, tree branches hit my roof regularly, scraping the shingles, getting lodged in the gutters.  

 

I was so angry, I wanted to shout at that man for potentially destroying these woods and my home, but he was long gone.  Instead, I pulled over and looked for the butt but I couldn't find it.  Maybe I imagined the whole thing.  Maybe the man in the black Datsun was just singing along with the radio.  Maybe his arm was out the window, snapping in tune with the beat, and it just looked like a cigarette.  Maybe it was just a trick of the light.

 

 

The sky is different now.  I can see that it's trying hard to be blue but is instead covered with a film of smoke and ash.  Looking at the hazy sky makes me think of cataracts, or when my contacts get old and suddenly I can no longer blink them clean.

 

I'm not saying they are unstoppable but the fires do seem unstoppable, what with the fact that no one seems to be able to stop them.  The fires are raging.   Apocalyptic.   I sit outside with my coffee and ash drifts down from the haze like the snow that we don't get anymore because of global warming. Somewhere in an office with air conditioning, our government is selling all our water to Nestle. Animals are running out of the burning forests, stampeding towards safety, as if such a thing exists.   The photographs of the animals silhouetted against the flames are breathtaking.   

 

We should all sing more, that's all I'm saying.  You never know when it might all just be over, the sky slowly obliterated, the ash falling faster and faster, the animals trampling us down in the streets as everyone runs and runs and runs with nowhere left to go, snapping photos with their iPhones, filling up Instagram with the shocking beauty of it all.

 

 

 

meanings to find: life

Karen Rivers

It's summer for all intents and purposes and my allergies are bad and I have books to finish writing that aren't quite done and aren't quite right and there's the issue of deck permits and the way the grass behind my house is long and high and has gone to seed.  At night, I'm having trouble sleeping.  In the mornings, the crows wake me up early, so I must have been asleep, after all.  I dream about escalators that are too high and too steep and glass all around and somewhere in the distance is the ground.  

 

The crows murder.  The crows' murder.  The murder of crows murder.   Murder is one of those words.  Say it to yourself over and over and over again and eventually it just sounds like you are trying to say something else, but you have a speech impediment.   

 

Last night, I watched Hector and The Search for Happiness.  Hector was unhappy but didn't know it and so went on a journey to find out what happiness was, only to learn he'd been happy all along.  I want a movie about searching for happiness to end with the character finding something new and different.  Something revolutionary.  These films always circle back on themselves.  The characters always find that they were happiest where they'd started.  They may as well not have gone.  What is the message?  Be happy with what you have?  There were truths in that movie, sure, but we all know the truths about happiness, which is that while one is trying to be happy, one almost never is, that it's in doing other things that we are distracted enough to accidentally fall into happiness.  This makes me think of holes dug in the forest and covered with thin layers of leaves.   You have to be looking up to fall into one.  Then, there you are, trapped.  

 

I love it when my eyes get worse than they were, not because I want to be blind, but because the first time you put on contacts or glasses with a new prescription, everything is so sharply-edged and stunning, it takes your breath away.  Even looking at the morning glory growing through the front lawn can make you stop and stare.  Did everything always look like this, even when we couldn't see it that way?  In photos, soft focus makes things look prettier, so why is it than in real life, a sharper focus can remind you that there is beauty here?  It also shows up your crows' feet, the murder of them that lurk around your eyes.   Those are worsened by squinting, just FYI.  You should get your eyes checked. 

 

Nobody knows what anything means but we want it to mean something so badly, even when it doesn't.  Sometimes a black cat just happens to be crossing to the Johnson's lawn and the fact that you were walking north and it had to go east does not mean that bad things will befall you, but if they do, you should blame the cat.  As a species, we love having things to blame.   We blame mental illness, mostly.  I have a mental illness and I'd never shoot a bunch of people in a church, for Christ sake.  Let's let that explanation go, please  Let's not give everyone an out when sometimes they are just fundamentally terrible people who do heinous things.  

 

I'm worried about dying in public.  In this particular fear fantasy, I either choke to death on nothing or my heart stops cold in its tracks while I'm watching a parade.  I have no real reason to think this could happen, except that we all die, and why is it that when you're at an event surrounded by thousands of others, no one is dying?  If we all die, it's not unreasonable to think that you'd witness this every now and then, and yet most people die very privately.   Statistically, it's unlikely for you to die while doing your shopping, so maybe we should all spend all our time shopping.  I think how inconvenient it would be to die now, to die suddenly, to die unprepared.   I haven't finished the books and my children --  well, they need me.   Besides which, I don't want to die.  Death seems like a pretty long sentence.  Life is a blip.  I want to get on with improving my blip but I'm busy and the house is a mess. 

 

My kids are going to see the movie Inside Out tonight.  "If you were an emotion," they tell me.  "You'd be fear."  I'm taken aback.  I think, is that how they see me?  I try very hard to be braver than I am.  But of course, they are right.   I don't know what I'm afraid of, apart from the aforementioned public death.   I mean, I'm afraid of obvious things, like the unpredicatable man in the woods who shouts.  I'm afraid of the feeling I get when I stand near the edge of something that's high up.  I don't like scary movies.  I hate rides at the fair.   I tend to hyperventilate when I'm pushed outside my comfort zone, which is actually pretty small.  That's probably an issue.  Therapy scares me.  One can know too much about one's self.   Let's not dig too deep.  I'm not exactly afraid of crows, but the way they amass on my neighbour's roof to murder the small birds at her feeder is definitely chilling.   Sometimes I think too much about the mechanisms of breathing and how little it would take for that to fail and for the whole operation to stall.   That's pretty much all of the fears I can label, for now. 

 

Let's think about how we'd want to look back on our lives, shall we?   I'd want to be remembered for being kind, only sometimes I forget that and I yell at other drivers, "YOU IDIOT!  Do you not see me here?   Use your signals!"   That's not a nicety.   Sometimes I forget that in order to be remembered for my generosity of spirit, I have to be generous with my spirit.  My spirit can be very small and somewhat sticky.   My daughter leaves popsicle wrappers on the kitchen island and they melt into a small puddle of sugary syrup on the patterned surface that I don't notice til I accidentally put my hand in it, or the mail gets stuck.  

 

My son, who is dyslexic, has fallen in love with books.   This has gone the way of all things, in that the balance has over-corrected the other way and now he won't stop reading.   We are late for everything.  "Hurry up!" I shout.  "Put on your shoes!  We're late!"   "But I'm READING," he says, like that is enough of a reason.   Reading is obviously very noble, an act as giving as donating blood or raising money for orphans overseas.   It's hard to explain how this is not a fact.  The truth is that I want to sit down next to him on the couch.  I want to pick up a book and lie back on the cool grey fabric, put my feet on the ottoman.  I want to read for the good of the world.  In this way, I'll save us all.  But we'll still be late for everything, every day.   "At least it's not video games," he says, consolingly, patting me lovingly on the leg, as the clock ticks on, marking the minutes we are spending in this place that is not where we are supposed to be.

 

I sometimes think about geography, which is also destiny.  If I moved somewhere at random, how would my life change?  There is probably someone somewhere in a tiny town in the mountains in the middle of America who might be my true soul mate, a thing I don't even believe in, but let's use it here for the sake of argument or fiction.  We'll meet in the lineup at the post office, which is also the dry-cleaner and the corner store, only no one will ever use a dry-cleaner because there's nothing fancy here to dress for.  There is nowhere else we need to be, so we'll be at the post office just for human contact, or to pick up our bills and assorted junk mail.   "Hi," I'll say.  "Howdy," he'll say.  I don't know what happens next.   Maybe we'll go home and read, together or separately.  That story wasn't as gripping as it could have been.  You fill in the blanks.    I'll probably have a nice house.  Houses are cheaper in my imaginary small town in middle America.   I would miss the ocean though.  I would walk down the dusty roads and look at the unfamiliar trees and think, "What posessed me to think that I could live without the sea?"  I'm allergic to fish, by the way.  I swell up.   I get hives.  

 

There's a toxic algae bloom in the Pacific Ocean that is spreading up the coast.  This is no small thing and yet no one is talking about it very much.  There was a similar bloom in the lake up-island.  Maybe it's all a sign.   Maybe it means that it's time to go.  Maybe we should be packing our books into boxes, hiring moving vans, and moving to somewhere that is away.   I can't see why though.  Nothing is different anywhere else.  There are just more or fewer bookstores.  More or fewer things to do.  More or fewer people who are wondering what it's all about.  

 

Two kids in North Carolina lost arms to a shark within a couple of hours of each other last week.   The fact that no one will stay out of the water now, in spite of that, is a testament to the human spirit or just an indication that we only see signs where we want to see signs.   Statistically, it's unlikely anyone else will be attacked on that beach.   Someone needs to advise the shark of that.   He, after all, has his reasons.  It could be that he's mentally ill.   Or maybe he just hates people and the way they murder all his kin, the fins of his elders right now making someone more powerful in China, making someone else's penis grow.  

 

If you're looking for meaning here, try joining the sentences together in a different order.  I'd like to write a book like that, with all the sentences out of sequence.  The game would be for you, the reader, to put them right and to tell me what I meant after all, to show me what I didn't see when I wrote it in the first place.  Sometimes none of us know what we are saying.  Sometimes none of us know what we meant when we said what we said, when we did what we did, why we were the way we were.   It just happened.  All of it.  This blip.  This life.        

 

 

 

 

this might be about love.

Karen Rivers

I've been wanting to write about something particular but haven't been able to figure out how to approach it.  I sidle up to it in my mind and take a look from this angle and that.  I can't quite see it.  It's there, in the middle, immutable but indescribable.  

What are you trying to say, Karen?  

Oh, I don't know.

I think it's about love.

The thing is that lately there has been a distance between me and myself, as though I'm not quite inhabiting the same space as my body.  This isn't necessarily a bad thing.  My body can be very disconcerting, what with the fainting and ensuing panic, the way anxiety creates its own image in my neck and inner ear.  

The thing with bodies is that you never know when they will simply seize up and leave you missing them. I guess by that I mean, we should appreciate what we have, if what we have is still storing us, carrying us, holding us in its vital embrace. 

 

 


A little while ago -- and I can't pinpoint exactly when -- I stopped caring how I looked.  It's so liberating, I can't even tell you.  If I could go back in time and talk to my younger self, I'd say, "Don't buy that."  I'd say, "Stop looking in the mirror."  I would explain, "No one will notice if your mascara is blue-black or just black or even not there at all."  I would say, "That money would be better spent on a trip to Italy than on a pair of jeans marketed to make you think they'll improve the appearance of your ass to the point where everyone will love you."

We should all look out at the world around us more than at ourselves, don't you think?  More than we look at our faces and bodies and see the ways in which we've let down the cosmetics companies and diet/exercise brands and fashion world, who would all prefer to see us looking more tortured and identical.  

Oh, conform already.  

No thank you, I'll pass.  I am finished with conformng.  

These pants are really comfortable.  I'm not saying, "I've let myself go."  I'm just letting you know that at some point, I let go of the thing where I care what you think about how I look.  That sentence feels too full of words.   

I go whole days, forgetting to look in the mirror.   I see photos of myself and I'm startled.   Look, there I am.  I look happy.  That's enough for now.

 

This segues into something else.   I'm not sure how to broach it.  Love is so tricky.

The thing is that my son had his first heartbreak recently.   I promised I wouldn't write about it and I'll stop talking about him on the internet soon enough.  I won't tell you the details but I saw him feeling all his feelings and I thought, "I'm done with that, but that poor kid, he's only just starting."  I felt so terrible for him that this was the first of a few or of many.  I hope just a few.  Maybe it will be the only one, but come on.    I mean, think about your life:  all the times your heart has broken or you've broken someone else's.  It adds up.  That takes a toll.

Yet we are all still here, our hearts beating 73 times per mintue or more or less.  There's an app for that.  You can check your pulse on it.   I do that sometimes.  I don't know why.  Like I say to my son, "If it stops beating, you'll know.  The rest of the time, it's doing its job."   The app should be able to scan for scar tissue.   For cracks and fissures.  For all the places where things have leaked out and leaked in.   Tears, I suppose.   Love.   

I don't know how to teach my son how to protect his heart.  I say, "You are love."   I say, "I love you."  I say, "It hurts less and less as time goes on."   I say, "You'll love again."

He says, "You don't get it.  You don't even LIKE love."

I'm stung.  "I do so," I say.   

But he's almost right. 


I am single.

I like being single because -- at risk of sounding like a reality show contestant on a show where the prize is a fiance -- I don't like being hurt.  But also because (or maybe mostly because) it is utterly exhausting being responsible for hurting someone else.  Disappointing them.  I'm not talking about intention.  I'm talking about just the act of being yourself.  

Be yourself.  

Never be who you think someone else wants you to be.

That never works.

But still, even being yourself, I don't know.  Mostly... well. Are you going to measure up to the partner that someone else wants you to be?   Oh, probably not.  You'll be too messy.  Not available frequently enough.  You'll sometimes wear the same pants three days in a row.  You'll forget to care about new music.  You won't watch The Walking Dead.   You won't ever agree on whether to stay in or go out.   Pizza or Chinese food.   Sometimes you'll just want to go to bed and read, alone, the fan blowing the summer evening air around you in cooling pools, a glass of ice water covered in a film of condensation on the shelf beside your bed, your dog sighing in his sleep, his head resting contentedly on your shin.

In small ways, you'll be disappointing, that's just a fact.  No one ever measures up to what other people feel they are entitled to.  "You deserve better!" people say.  They really believe it.  "I deserve to be happy!"  As though this entitlement means that you deserve a partner who is exactly who you need them to be at every moment.

Ultimately, a balance will tip, and you'll become someone else's biggest disappointment.  You won't be there for them when they need you.  They won't be there when you need them.  You'll measure your disappointments against each others'.  You will have a mental tally of let-downs.  Time will add layers and layers.   Not all the layers are good, is what I'm saying.  Mostly they aren't.  

Which isn't to say that dating isn't fun.  Sometimes.

Until it isn't, until you find yourself actively looking for the red flags, the things that will become the things that you can't and won't tolerate, the things that make you want to go home, turn on the fan, open your book again, relieved to not have to deal with this or that.  Safe and alone.


 

 

Here's a true thing about me:  Years after my divorce, I can still find things to be sad about.   I can still be hurt anew by my ex.  It wasn't an easy relationship.  I'd say, on the whole, I was sad/mad/devastated/angry a good 80% of the time.  Which is to say, I absolutely don't regret that it ended, although HOW it ended, I'd like to rewrite.  It wouldn't ever have been the good thing I wanted it to be, this I know for sure.  But sometimes, out of the blue, as I watch him becoming a better man than he's ever been, I feel so angry that I don't recognize myself.  Incensed.  Incandescent with something that isn't quite rage, but more like pain.

When you hold a flame against a dead, dry leaf, sometimes the flame whoomps to life and engulfs the leaf so quickly, even the oxygen is surprised by the heat of it.  That's how it feels.  

Sometimes.

 

 

I'm very lucky in that I have male friends.  Entirely platonic friends, who I love.   I can picture growing old alongside one or another of these men.  I can imagine not being angry with them.  I can picture not having my heart broken.  They are comfortable to me, like my favourite old Gap bootcut jeans (sorry, fashion world) that I ripped when I slid down a cliff a few weeks ago, a fall that released so much adrenalin that my legs buckled on the trail and refused to carry me home.  

I'm fine though.  I was fine.  I am still fine.   

I bought new jeans.  They are ostensibly the same, but they are not the same.

I keep walking, every day, on those same trails.  It's true that I'm more nervous now.   I get dizzy with anxiety.   I forget to look at the leaves and the trees and the owls and the wildflowers and instead I think, "If I fall here, will someone find me?  Who will save me?"  I think, "I am alone."

I think about the fall and about how one second I was standing on the path and the next second, the path was gone and underneath me there was air and empty space and like in a cartoon, my legs scrabbled for a hold on something that wasn't there.  

But I go back into the woods.  I walk.  

Every day.

We do that, right?  All of us.  We have bad experiences.   Then slowly, we rewrite them, so that the postives outweigh the negatives.  We brace ourselves.  We try again.  We concentrate hard on focussing on the good parts.  The fresh air.   The smell of the trees.  The silent swoop of the owl, watching you watching him.

By this, I mean, I keep cracking open the door to love just a little bit.  

I look at the sunlight illuminating the dust in the air in the room that is revealed.  

It looks like a nice room.  Warm.  Friendly.  Welcoming.  There is laughter and good times and a grill on the adjoining deck.  There is someone to talk to at the end of the day and a partner to take turns driving on road trips and someone else to say to the kids, "Stop screaming, it's just a spider."  There is a shared bottle of wine, commiserating, a boardgame.  He makes a pie and it's terrrible.   I trip on the rug.   He takes a picture and posts it on FB.   We have an inside joke.   A dozen inside jokes.  We develop a code for when it's time to leave a party.  We understand each other.   The kids forget that they are scared to be out of my sight, if only for a minute.  There's a feeling that's bigger than that.   In the room, there's a family.     

I think I might push the door open again one day.  All the way.

It's possible that when I look inside, I won't just see the corners and how they accumulate cobwebs and disappointment.  I might not look under the couch for all the ways it's going to let us down. 

I may just go in there, like a cat drawn to the beam of the sun that's warming the furniture.  I might lie down and stretch and sigh and just let it all go.   The fear, I mean.   I might sleep for a while.  I might wake up and not be alone.  I might be happy to look beside me and to see you there.   We'll talk about something dumb someone said on the internet, laugh about a book, play a round of Mahjong.  

Who knows who we will be?  Or when we will get there?  My hair grey and bobbed, the lines around my eyes and mouth etched deep from all those feelings I've felt for all this time; the kids grown and gone, you leaning slightly when you walk like you're almost ready to tumble off the path, almost ready to let go of everything that held you back until it was almost too late.  Only this time, you won't fall.  This time, you just might fly.      

Some days have spider legs.

Karen Rivers

She won't eat her cereal because last Thursday her brother said, "There's a spider in your cereal!"  and now there are not only SPIDERS in all her food but also their LEGS, free-floating and terrifying, sprinkling their way into everything.


There are no spiders in ice cream, candy, or Cheezies.  There ARE spiders (or just legs) in cereal, fruit, vegetables, and chicken.  

 

There are no spiders in chocolate milk.  

 

And everyone knows spiders swim in yogurt.  

 

Here's the thing:  Some days are all about the spiders, or at least riddled with their legs, dropped carelessly and everywhere, waiting to fool the unsuspecting.  

 

Word suddenly turns on you, consuming your document and you lose valuable hours to software tricks that don't work and just like that your day is ruined.  You can feel a scream bubbling up inside and you remember how she threw her cheerios, bowl and all, across the table at her brother.   She had someone to blame.  You don't.   But you feel the same way.  

 

You feel the same way, exactly.  

 

You feel the same way, exactly, but you can't tell her that some days leave spider legs in everything, like black wiggling lines through your carefully crafted words.  Oh, the destruction.  And that even when you're 44 and a proper grown up, old enough to look at ads for neck wrinkle solutions and think, "Well, that looks like a good idea", even THEN you want to lift the bowl, chuck it across the room, make someone else at fault.  

 

You don't have a brother.  Probably lucky for him. 

 

And, come to think of it, you hate spiders, too:  The scuttling of their legs on the wall while you chase them with a glass.  The way they cling there, fleetingly thinking of revenge, before dropping out of the glass into the garden, which is full of even more spiders, waiting to come inside.  

 

Last time you mowed the lawn, spiders stampeded from the rock wall, running in terror from the mower, like an army of 8-legged aliens, rushing the exits, swarming over the tips of your runners, eyeing your feet for purchase.

 

The spiders are everywhere!

 

She's right, you know.  There's a reason to be afraid. 

 

You should probably eat ice cream for dinner.  Everyone knows that spiders hate ice cream.  It's just a fact.   

 

Sorry about the spiders, darling girl, you'll say, kissing her on the nose.   Sorry about all that.  

 

You'll raise your cones together in a mock-cheers.  Here's to tomorrow, you'll say.  Here's to a spider-free tomorrow.  Let's eat to that.  

Some reflecting, and a wildcat.

Karen Rivers

Lately I've been feeling like I want to inhabit my life more loosely.  

I think what I mean by that is that gradually I've begun hanging on too tightly to everything and as a result have developed a worrying tension across the back of my neck and skull that feels like someone is cupping my brain in his hand.   It's not as comforting as it sounds.  It is not a pleasant feeling.  

I did not invite anyone to cup my brain in his hand.

I'm feeling like I want to let go of more things and more feelings and particularly the feeling that someone is cupping my brain in his hand.   That's overusing the word "feeling" but at the end of the day, isn't that all we are?   A collection of feelings held together in a fairly standard package of skin and organs.   (The hair is just for decoration.)


I compulsively buy foundation on the internet.  That's a confession.  

I feel as though if my skin were better, the rest of my life would silkily fall into place, the light reflecting off my flaws and making me seem as though I'm glowing and not just strangely flushed across my nose and cheeks.   I rarely bother to wear it, instead I collect little glass bottles and jars of liquids and powders all in the colour of me.  I line them up on the shelf.  A monotone rainbow of myself. 

The Birdy says, "Mum, what is your favourite colour?"  

And I say, "You are."

And she says, "I'm not a colour!"  

And I say, "Well, you aren't invisible."  

And she says, "What is your favourite COLOUR?"

She's getting angry, so I say, "Greenish blue.  Or bluish green, depending on the day."   


She's wrong though.  She's definitely a colour.  So am I.  Today I am 'I'm so money, Honey'.  

That's a colour.  

Someone is paid to make up those names.  Someone who is better than me at turning words into money.  Honey.

I could do that, but I don't know even how you would begin to do that, so instead I write novels and Facebook status updates and think about how lucky I am and how comfortable these jeans are and how I love it when my dog lies across the back of my chair, feet dangling over my shoulders, warming exactly the part of my neck that is being cupped by the uninvited hand.  

Being anxious is not a cakewalk.   That's an obvious thing to say.

I think having anxiety is like living with a wildcat somewhere inside you.  When you tell people about the wildcat, the wildcat immediately goes away and you find yourself trailing off mid-sentence, surprised, saying, "Never mind, it's gone now."  

But your instinct is to not mention the wildcat, to keep it hidden.  It's a bit embarrassing to have a wildcat.  It seems like something that you shouldn't have, as an adult human in standard adult human packaging.  Why does it come with a wildcat?  That must be in the fine print that no one ever reads, along with the warnings about cancer.

Maybe, after all, it's the wildcat who is cupping your brain, although that metaphor can't work because wildcats have paws, not hands, and aren't given much to cupping.  

There's a conclusion in there somewhere:  Don't forget to talk about the wildcat.

Also, that no amount of makeup can disguise you from you, there's not enough light for that.  

Try this:

Lighten up.

These things are probably true:

1. You are late for school.

2.  The kids hate school.

3.  The kids are tired.

4.  The kids hate homework.

5.  You are also tired.

6.   You also hate homework.

 

So do this:

1. Sleep in.

2.  Go for a walk in the woods.

3.  Let the homework fester where it should fester, in a big pile of festering repetitive tasks that don't actually need doing.

4.  Stop swearing about the homework.

5.  Stop swearing, period.

6.  Stop standing at the front door and screaming, IF WE ARE LATE FOR SCHOOL EVEN ONE MORE TIME SO HELP ME.   Instead, sit down.  Look at the dew on the grass and the hummingbird at the feeder and wait for the kids to choose a book to read in the car, to find their shoes, to ride their scooters down the front walk to the car.   Do not, under any circumstances, yell.   This will all take the amount of time it takes, regardless.

7.  Stay up too late.   Read books.  Look at the stars through the skylight.  Remember that what they will remember is how you shouted.  So stop doing that.  Make this what they remember:  the way the moon shone through the trees.   The way they read the Guiness Book of Records out loud in your bed while the dogs curled up at their feet.  Make it idyllic.  You have time for that.

8.  Shouting is not idyllic and it really doesn't matter if they are late for school.

9.  Change their school.   

10.   Breathe.

Those are just ideas.  Ideas that I write down because I write and I have ideas.  These ideas are not a prescription for you, just for me.  


I have rosacea. I think that's why I'm so fixated on the foundation.  I thought I should mention that, in case you thought it was a weird fixation.  But of course, it IS weird.  

We're all weird.  

Isn't that great?

We should let that happen instead of trying so hard to hide it, our neck muscles tight and clenching, our smiles forced, while inside us, a wildcat growls.  

You probably think the wildcat thing is funny.  Well, it is, I suppose.  But mostly only from a distance.  Like any good joke, you have to get far enough away from it to really understand the punchline, far enough away that the flaws are rendered invisible by careful contouring and a magical trick of the light.   

If and When.

Karen Rivers

Start with the yellow dress that you bought two years ago.  It hangs on the handle of your dressing table such that every time you open a drawer, the dress billows and soars like a bright yellow flag, reminding you of the life you bought the dress to suit, a life that you didn't have then and don't have now.  

The dress is very specific.  Ideally, the dress should be worn in Greece.  The white buildings with blue awnings, and that vivid sky, all would form an ideal backdrop for the dress, the very yellowness of it announcing its own joy to anyone who saw you.  

The dress is just waiting for you to decide. 

If.

On their way to steal tank tops to sleep in from your drawer, the kids tussle with The Dress.  Why is it here? they say.  It's in the way.

It is in the way.  But you can't bring yourself to move it.

After all, it contains so many possibilities.  

At any given time, you can sign in to Expedia and purchase a ticket.   You can get on an airplane and go to Greece.   You can put on the yellow dress and go find a cafe.   You can order a glass of something cold.   You can feel the sun warming your shoulders.  You can breathe in the smell of sunscreen and Greece, whatever that particular scent may be.  Olive oil?  Garlic?  The dust of crumbling white buildings?   You can rest your bare arm on the cool slab of stone that forms the table top and watch the moisture condensing on the outside of your ice cold glass.  You can sip it slowly and look out to sea.   You can wait.    

You can be a woman who wears a yellow dress in front of a white building, the Mediterranean Sea applauding against a nearby shore.  

It's a choice. 

Either make it.   Or don't.

It can wait.

What is time, after all?  Slipping by us, like it does, the kids inching up towards adulthood in fits and starts, the dogs starting to grey around their muzzles, our own temples flecked with silver, our smiles sinking deeper and deeper into our skin.  

Well, there's that.  How it passes by.


Of course, there is a possibility that the yellow dress no longer fits, and you should file it in your closet next to the bag that contains your unworn wedding dress, which still fits your body, but no longer your situation.   You are no longer sure that you can ever imagine being married, much less a wedding.   Your former fiance is getting married this summer.   You hear that the bride is wearing blush.  

Well, you think.  Well.

Then:  If I got married now, I think I'd wear yellow.   

Everything is still possible.   Or at least, not impossible.

You are happy that he has made a choice and run with it.   You hope he crosses the finish line this time.  You hope he makes it all the way.   Why not?  

Maybe that way, happiness lies.

Or maybe not.

Because you're happy, aren't you?  

Not 24/7, but mostly.   On balance, yes.  

Definitely, yes.   

But what do you want, for God's sake?  What? 

Decide.

On the other hand, if you never decide, then you never have to choose and isn't choice the most seductive thing of all?   All those futures, arrayed in front of you like the diamond-tipped ripples of a sunlit sea.   

There's such beauty in that.  

Can't you see it?

Put the yellow dress on a hanger and hang it amidst all your other memories, real and fictional.  All those clothes for all those lives that aren't yours, for the character you could suddenly decide to become, for the character you never were.  

The road not taken.  Or, more accurately, the road not taken yet.

For now, what do you need really, but some comfortable pairs of jeans and a few t-shirts and sweaters, a good pair of shoes or boots for hiking in the forest, the rain dripping off the leaves, the mud splattering the softened denim of you?

You'll get there.  

One day, you'll know that this is it, that this is who you are and this is what you wear.  

People will say, "That's a great dress!"  

And you'll smile and say, "Thank you.   I love it, too."    

Because you do.  Because you will.  

When you're ready for all that, you'll have the right thing to wear, that daffodil-bright dress carrying you like the silks of a parachute into the sky of choices made, delivering you gently to the place you were going all along.    

poetry.

Karen Rivers

Sometimes it's easier to feel nothing, but what would the poets say?  Feel something.  Life is short.   Don't be an idiot.

 

Well, they'd say it beautifully, of course.



If I could be a poet, I would.  All those words, pressed crisply, hung out on a line against the sharp blue of a sky.   Each one a photograph of something moving that happened, taken at such an angle that it looks better than the reality it reflects.   I mean, who wouldn't want to do that?  But it would be a hard job, somewhere between magic and surgery.  In order to be a poet, you have to be so exact.  Plus, you need to feel all the things, so you know.  You have to be present, exposed, letting everything penetrate, until -- bleeding, I suppose, but somehow prettily, rubies in lieu of blood -- you'd be able to find seven precise words that say the thing that you mean in a way that no one would have guessed themselves, using only the pattern of light on your sleeping dogs' fur in the weak winter sunbeam as a way of explaining death or love or (better yet) both.  

It's hard, when you aren't a poet, to find specific ways to communicate big things, that's all I mean.  You have to lumber through the paragraphs bashing big words into place with crude tools hewn out of boulders, hoping that you somehow luck into a shape that looks vaguely like what you meant.

 

I guess I could try music instead, not that I'm any good at that, either.   

But if you play the piano, you know that those pedals push against the strings that either mute the sound, just so, or draw it out longer than is possible otherwise, your leg vibrating with the most recent chord, freezing it still in time like a held breath.

Music works.  It makes sense, too.  Magical and precise, both.

 

 

So a day later, while you drive the kids to school, don't be surprised that something he said still hums right there in your calf, a minor chord being drawn out slowly in the part of you that you thought wasn't interested in that sort of thing anymore, so perfectly that you nearly cry.

Pull over for a minute and just breathe.  Pretend your heart isn't racing.   Notice the way the trees are tentatively reaching up, tiny buds on the end of each grasping branch.  Think of it in terms of photography.  At the right angle, you'd be able to get a brilliant lens flare on that shot.   And look at the way the green of that is so rich against the winter grey sky.   Think about how everything happens when you least expect it, just like everyone says in inspirational quotes posted on Facebook.  Smile, just because, but then start driving again because your kids are late for school.   Again.  Pretend you don't notice how driving stops the vibration, so you can't hear the note quite the same way anymore. 

 

Anyway, if I was a poet, I'd find some silken metaphor that could protect me from the parts that come next, when the dogs (still lying in the same spot) are in shadows and all that the sun illuminates is the dust hovering in the air; when my leg is humming with nothing but the shivers delivered by the descending chill in the wintery air; when the music stops vibrating on the strings and nothing is left but the silence of me, breathing, alone in a room with sleeping dogs, who are dreaming of places they'd rather be.

alien life

Karen Rivers

So they say it's a fact now, it's definite:  There is life on other planets.  In other galaxies, far far away, natch.  All our stories eventually come true.  Well, obviously.  Did anyone seriously ever doubt they were up there?  Why wouldn't they be?  An atmosphere and evolutionary strides, that's all it takes, and evolution happens whether you want it to or not.  Look at your own life.  You are evolving as I type.  We aren't special.  Did you really think we ever really were?   

On screen, aliens are all unified for the good of their planets -- all of them on the same page, same chapter, same book.  Working hard for a cause.  We will save ourselves from the calamity! they say.  They are single-minded in their goal.  You don't see aliens just sitting around watching Netflix.  You don't see them whiling away whole days watching Gilmore Girls and playing internet Scrabble.  They're just more motivated than we are, let's face it. We're lazy.   And as such, we aren't going to visit them.   Not a chance!  They'll get here first.  They're working on it right now.   Properly.   Not just idly contemplating the philosophical possibilties over a glass of wine and plate of crackers.

So let's say they visit.  They, with a capital-T.   Definitely, it will be an us vs. them thing then.   We like that, we humans.  Us against Them.  Right vs Wrong.  We need clarity in our friends and enemies.  Which side of the line will you stand on?  I just hope they don't eat us. 


Anyway, someone shot the wolf in the Grand Canyon.  One fucking wolf in the whole canyon and a hunter took it out.  "Oh," he said.  "Thought it was a coyote."   We aren't on the same page as each other, not the same chapter, not the same book.  We're all in our own book.  It's embarrassing if you think about it, so probably best not to think about it.  Don't even get me started about the plastic in the ocean and everywhere, molecules of it that we eat and drink and breathe, lining ourselves from the inside out with all the garbage we've created.   Our planet is a wolf, and we've all shot it, lazily, from the comfort of our couches.  

 

I hope when they come, we don't shoot them, but come on.  You know that we will.  It's obvious.  That's what we do.  Oh, we'll say, Thought it was a coyote.   We'll talk about it with relief and outrage in equal measure.  Pundits will weigh in.  Fox News will say something stupid.  CNN will make a mistake.  Then it will eventually fall off the front page, fall out of the chapter, disappear entirely from our book, just another idiot with a gun who changed something for everyone, eradicating the story.   Our story.   Anything can be mistaken for a coyote in the light of the setting sun, after all. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Year's Eve

Karen Rivers

Because it's New Year's Eve, you should write something here for posterity.  One day, you'll be older than you are now, and you'll scroll through and say, yes, there it was, New Year's Eve, 2014, let's see where I was.  Let's see what I thought.  

What do you think?  


Mostly that instead of seeing the New Year as a fresh slate, maybe ALL time is a fresh slate renewing itself over and over; an Etch A Sketch screen being shaken clean every minute, every second, leaving only a faint trace of what was there before.  Why do we hold our breath all year and exhale when the date flips to January 1?  It's so ridiculous, and yet .. "Now it's over," we say.  "We've gotten through that terrible year."  As though our troubles know enough to cluster themselves within the confines of twelve precise months measured by the journey of the moon and the sun and the number of times our hearts broke and it became impossible to carry on, although we did anyway.  Our troubles daren't follow us across the enormous chasm of midnight, December 31.  We've set it up so they can't. 

Haven't we?

 

Yet people don't say, "Well, 2014 is over, it was a good year, I'll be sad to see it go."  Why not?  Maybe the good times, too, are held within the same specific bounds as the bad ones; as though each year is a ship sailing to us over a new horizon, either, say, a pirate ship filled with marauders or a cruise ship with a decent free buffet and nightly comedy shows.  It's so all-or-nothing with us.  What's up with that?   Whole years are erased by singular bad events.  We shake the Etch A Sketch harder and harder, taking the good times out, too.   You know what that's all about.  2010, you'd say without hesitation, erasing the screen once more for good measure, trying to get those marks to vanish for good.   But really, 2011 wasn't a cakewalk either, leaving a shadowy pattern on things.  Surely good things happened, but what were they?  You look at the faint tracings but can't seem to recall, can't redraw them from the lines that are left.   

 

Anyway, you're not even that sure you had any troubles in 2014, excluding that one terrible headache and the way your eyelid has been twitching for three straight weeks.  But those aren't troubles.  That's nothing.  The kids are fine, if awfully moody lately.   "Mummy," says The Birdy from the back of the car, "Can I use a swear?"  

"No," you say.  "Why?"  

 

"Please?"  she says, "Just once."  

 

"Fine," you say.   "OK, just once."  

 

There's a silence and she looks out the window at the Christmas lights going by and the other cars and a man walking a small white dog on a retractable leash, the dog weaving itself around a bus stop sign.  

 

Then, "Fuck you, Mummy," she says.  "Just fuck you."  

 

You pull over.  You're laughing or crying.  What does it all mean?  What does everything mean?  

 

"Are you angry about something?"  you manage.  

 

She shrugs, noncomittal.  She sings a song from Frozen.   She says, "Why aren't you driving, Mummy?"  She pinches her brother on the leg.  

 

Well, there's blue sky today and the air is cold as a knife's blade and the dogs are curled on the bed asleep and the kids are currently watching a movie and what are troubles anyway except for something for your brain to curl around and worry smooth like a pebble being polished by the turbulent sea?   The sea makes that pebble beautiful, you know.

 

The calendar is turning over so make some resolutions, damn it, because it's what people do.  Resolve to be kinder, to be more open, to find yourself unexpectedly happy more often, as though those things can be pre-arranged.  Yes, you say to 2015, this year I will be unexpectedly happy, happier, the happiest.  Why not this year?  The world is a dark round thing that uncracks slightly on the stroke of midnight and through that crack you are allowed to pour the decisions you've made about yourself such that when it closes again, it's sealed in there.  A deal.  So, happiness.  Why not?  You don't want to lose 10 pounds or bleach your teeth or even floss more or get more exercise or save more money, you just want to move through it all in a lighter way, aware of the way the air brushes against the skin on your face, the way the sun moves through the clattery covering of frost on the grass, the way it all keeps spinning, the ball of the Earth -- tiny and irrelevant as it is in the galaxy, in the Universe, and all of us just ants running around on it, believing too much in our own troubles -- rolling through time and carrying us with it, all of us holding on tight to each other, to the idea of something more. 

 

aura.

Karen Rivers

You have that dream where the credit cards are stolen and the hotel bill needs to be paid but somehow the elevator is broken, going too fast and letting go, and you know even when you're in it that it's a dream and you're screaming and the kids are gone and the elevator is dropping and inexlicably you're throwing up and someone is shouting so you wake up and the room is spinning and why not, of course it is.  The vertigo is real, the dream isn't.  The migraine soaks slowly from the top of your head down the back of your neck like ink being absorbed by the wet paper of your bones.

 

Well, you still have to write.   Things need writing, whether or not the room tilts this way and that, like a carnival ride.  

 

You had written a book that emerged whole, like a piece of very very very thin glass worked into a very specfic shape.  Now it is either worse or better.  Each edit has felt dangerous, like hitting the delicate wings of the thing with a rusty claw hammer.  At the same time as being difficult to do, it has also been thrilling.  You are either destroying the thing or perfecting it and until someone else sees it, you won't know which result occurred.  

 

Still, your head aches and aches.

 

It is almost Christmas, but first there are school concerts and basketball games, the idea of both making your skull feel as though it is cleaving down the middle into two equal (and equally shattered) halves.   What does it all mean?

You're spread too thin, people say, as though you are butter and life is bread and there just isn't quite enough of you to reach the edges.  Well, the kids don't eat the crusts, anyway.   All you can do is the best you can do.  You, being a solid unspreadable hunk of dairy, are just trying so hard not to tear rough holes in the bread that sustains you.  

 

Blogging is all practice in writing metaphors.  You write a disguise around a thing and pull it tight, wrap a detail in a story about something else, such that every word is masquerading as another.   Add feathery masks, encrusted with jewels.  Hide things.  You probably shouldn't write while enduring a migraine, the light spilling over and into your eyes, melting the print into writhing dancers, waltzing grotesquely across the cold white snow of the unforgiving screen.   

let's agree to this.

Karen Rivers

I don't want to write about him, but it's everywhere, isn't it?  People are saying things eloquently and people are saying things ineloquently and people keep writing more and more things until it feels like the internet is overflowing with all the things we now know, that we can't unknow.  People say, "Oh, I'd heard that about him."  I had also heard, but only that he was handsy.  That was the word.  Handsy.  There are two things that are inextricably now linked to the debacle:  the word "handsy" and that teddy bear.  The bear bothers me so much.  It forces me to see him as a person who was perhaps broken as a child.  All the children get broken when they are dropped from high heights. Not literally, you understand that's a metaphor.  Someone broke him.  Something.   He is not a well-person.  But who is?  And aren't we all repsonsible for our own brokeness, eventually?  Or else no one is responsible for anything.  We can say, "It was because of something terrible when I was a kid."  Childhood can be hard.  We persevere.  We become better people.   Some of us.   But maybe nothing happened to him, no heights that he fell from, except for now, of course.  He's in freefall, like Baumgartner when he stepped out of that capsule for RedBull, only he has no sponsors.  No one's going to touch him now.   Certainly, no one is going to pay him.  

 

The bear got to me.  And the women, obviously.   They were so young.  Not that it matters, but really.  He has formed part of who they are now.   It's untenable, yet it is necessarily true.   And there have to be more.  Has anyone come forward and said, "Well, I got with him and it was awesome, I loved it?"  No.  No one has.  No one did.  No one will, I'm going to bet.   Men who are single for long long long periods of time  yet always playing, always flirting, always "on" -- are these just "bachelors" or men to whom no one will go back, murmuring to their girlfriends, stay away?  I appreciate the code.  I do.  But what if no one murmured it to you?  Now people say, "Well, of course, you know about the others, in the Canadian literati" (Oh, I hate that word, sorry, but I used it anyway, it's so elitist and awful, somehow.)  And I say, "No?  Who is it?  Who are they?  Which ones?"  And no one says.  No one really wants to tell.  Please, tell. There ARE others.  Who?  Maybe it's all of them.  Everyone.  I don't want to think like that.  I have a daughter.   I don't want to see evil lurking, but there it is:  lurking.  Under there.  Over there.  In that classroom.   Behind that microphone.  Now, who knows where?  Someone knows.  People are murmuring.

 

Anyway, about him.  Was he really ALL THAT?  I heard him interview a few people.  He was fine.  I'm not downplaying him because of what he did, but I'm wondering, was he really the demi-god of radio he is now being touted to be?  I remember thinking he was cute, but not much beyond that, then an article posted somewhere, I concluded he was a sleazeball, but not much more.    It's all mixed up like this, consuming the famous like we do, unable to juxtapose "famous guy" and "good looking guy" with "sexual assaulter". Worse, we are incapable of not making someone MORE famous when something terrible occurs.  I hadn't heard of OJ Simpson before the chase, that's the truth.   We are elevating all of them into infamy by talking and talking and talking but we can't stop.  I can't stop.  I keep reading. I seriously never spent more than five minutes before now thinking about this person, but now I'm writing this.   Why?   I don't want to, but I am.   Famous people are just people.  Sometimes terrible people.  Maybe that's the secret we want to reveal.  It reveals itself.   Without our help. But we want to hurry it along, LOOK AT THE FAMOUS, THEY ARE JUST LIKE US.   

 

It's the bear that tips the balance, makes it all something extra disturbing, extra sad, extra scary.  I want to fast forward.  I want to see how it ends.  The women, vindicated, helped, better.   The man, in jail, removed, erased.   Oh, get him the "help" he needs.  Does he need "help"?  We help everyone.  We didn't help those women.  As a society, we should hang our heads.  I feel ashamed and I'm not even sure why.  I feel mostly terrible that they are where they are, waiting for names to leak out, to be put on trial themselves.  And for what?  Thinking he was cute?  Going to his house?  Kissing him?  No.  Let's not do that.   Come on.  "Handsy" wasn't nearly the right word, but we had already tattooed it on his persona.  We knew.  We thought we had him pegged.  But we didn't know THAT.  We didn't!  Did we?   I didn't.  Who DID?  "Handsy" was a fatal mistake.  What we thought we knew was so much different from what we now know.

 

And it's a widening gulf.   


Maybe instead of being a giant public amoeba enveloping this thing, swarming the story and forming a vacuole over and over again, we can work in reverse.  We can be an amoeba vomiting out a parasite.  Do they do that?  I don't know, but I imagine they should be able to.  Let's just eject him.  Let's decide.

 

I hope the women talk.  Safely.  Freely.  And then he pays.  Let's say that happens.  Then, as a whole, let's just decide he was never that great, and while he's in jail, enjoying three square meals a day and what I always imagine is a lot of basketball out in the yard, we'll get on with it.  We'll listen to different things on the radio.  Who really listens to radio now?  There are so many great podcasts.  Let's listen to those. But I do like the CBC, when I'm driving.  I like how the miles peel away outside the window, all of that Canada-ness exposing itself like a dog rolling over and showing its belly, the radio playing in that specific CBC low pitch in the background.  It's almost like an anthem of sorts.  Well, now without him.   No loss, I'll say.  The CBC will still be just what it is, a comforting sound that you hear while you drive through the mountains, the weather changing from snow to sun to rain and back again, your tires slowly wearing down on all those endless highways, the radio still playing, things still going on, bad things, good things, all things, time passing, the world forgetting who he was, forgetting that bear, moving on.

 

But let's make a pact.  Let's not murmur, "He's handsy, careful."  Let's shout it.  Let's scream it at the top of our lungs.  The other women will listen, even if no one else does.  Our friends will listen.  Our families.  Our sisters.  Our daughters.  We're all listening.  Tell us all.  We'll pass it on.  We will become one giant woman, our voice so loud, it will drown out all the radios, it will blare from the mountain tops, it will become what we all know, who we all are.  NO, we will say.  NO.  And he'll hear us.  They'll all hear us.  I promise.  If we're loud enough, they will. 

 

 

thanksgiving.

Karen Rivers

Let's just stop and be grateful.  

 

For what?  

 

Well, look at the leaves.  The leaves are unbelievable, how they do that, transforming from green to gold to orange to brown, sometimes all on one leaf.  At the same time!  I mean, come on.  The leaf isn't saying, "You know what?  I'm overwhelmed.  This is just too much."  The leaf just does it.  Be a leaf.  Be a pumpkin spiced leaf.   It's fall in North America.  Put some nutmeg on that and be grateful.  Wear boots.  Leather, preferably.  Maybe a soft caramel brown.  Knee high.  With laces?  Why not.  Skinny jeans.   A too-big sweater.  Some kind of knitted hat.  Smile a lot. Kick those beautiful leaves with your boots, which are now water stained, and let them shower up around you.  Hope that someone takes a picture.  Hope they put it on facebook.  Hope that someone else sees it and says, "Wow, look at that girl with the nice boots, kicking up her heels in the fall."  Be holding a pumpkin spice latte at the time.  Be eating pumpkin bread that you made yourself.   Have new eyeshadow on that is the exact colour of decay.  Fall is decay.  Pumpkin spiced decay.   Put the whole thing on Pinterest.   Put yourself on Pinterest.  Count your re-pins.  Assume that the number of times you've been re-pinned is your value.  Your value is 2.   Those two people are actually just Pinterest spammers.  Look at yourself on Pinterest next to a picture of some tires and a really idyllic looking lakeside cabin in a photo that's been edited so much that the lake is glass and the cabin is a toy and nothing is really real.  

 

Re-read that paragraph and wonder how you feel about fall, for real.  Or the internet.  Or Pinterest.  Or Facebook, for that matter.  "You love Facebook," says your son.  "You love it more than me!"  "I don't even like it," you say, but he doesn't know that that is true.  You can't explain how you look at Facebook and then look at it again and suddenly it becomes compelling because you are writing something that's really good -- maybe the best thing you've ever written -- and now you can't look directly at it because it hurts your eyes and your heart, like staring at the sun, leaving a sun shadow over everything else you see.  So you look at Facebook and you think, "I should be writing!" And then you hate yourself.  The self-loathing is your shade and somehow that balances out the fact that this thing that you're writing, you love.  Maybe no one else will love it.  That happens.  The reviews say, "This didn't work."  The reviews say, "This missed the mark."  Sometimes the reviews are good.  Those ones count as validation.  Pin that.  Pin everything.  Pin the life you wish you had and sit and stare at the screen, comparing your actual life in your uninsulated, ratty house to the life you could have if somehow you had the money for the subway tile that you don't even like.  It's a metaphor.  Everything is a metaphor.  You see people with subway tile and you feel sad for them.  How's Pinterest? you want to say.

 

Add up the hours you spend on Pinterest.  Facebook.  Twitter.  

 

Judge yourself for that.  Judge everyone.  You are the judge.  Be the judge.  Hate yourself for being so judgemental.  Make a pithy comment about that on Facebook.  Count your likes.  



Be grateful that you can turn it off.   Just close the computer.  Walk away.  Here's what you should do:  Go for a walk in the woods.  Go alone.  Try not to be afraid of the strange man you sometimes pass who shouts.  He probably doesn't even have Facebook.  Neither should you.  You should quit that.  Quit everything.  What matters is the words.  The book is good.  You know it.  Just typing that has tempted fate.   "Good?" laughs Fate.  "It's terrible.  No one will buy it."  Wish that you hadn't typed that.  Wish you hadn't put that out there.  "I think this is good," you whisper.  "NO," says everything and everyone.  Maybe you shouldn't write it.  Maybe you should.  Come on, you need to insulate the house for winter.  It's cold in here.   Get to work.  

 

Anyway, walk.  

 

Under your feet, the leaves are decaying, becoming dirt again.  In the spring, the trees will green up, so they can go through this abscission once more, twice more, forevermore.  Say the word "abscission" out loud.  God, it's a good word.  Breathe deeply.  That's real air, in real life, heavy with moisture and the smell of decay.  Say the word "decay" over and over again.  If your laptop could smell like something, it would be pumpkin spice.  Somewhere a clothing manufacturer is trying to figure out how to make sweaters smell like nutmeg.  You don't know why suddenly people have forgotten this, the real smell of fall, the leaves and the cool dampness of everything, the world becoming fertile again, waiting to burst forth, for no reason other than that's how it always is, how it's always been, how it will be forever while you sit inside, looking at hairstyles and kitchens, ordering a new pair of jeans, not even opening the back door, not even going outside.


For God's sake, go outside.  Write an ode to the fall.  Do not mention that god damn pumpkin spice.  

 

Well, you did.

 

I know, but I can't help it.  It's just there.  It's ubiquitous.  (That's another terrific word, no?)

 

Shut up.


Be grateful.  Get on your knees on the ground.  It all goes away.  Everything you thought mattered, you won't remember at the end.  You'll remember the feel of the rain on your skin, the way the wind lifted your hair, the way you walked in the woods and the woods changed around you, evolving and evolving and evolving.  You won't even know that you bought that sweater, it will long since have been donated, which is worthy enough in itself, but give me a break:  Stop buying things that you'll be happy to get rid of one day.  Stop looking at Pinterest and feeling like nothing measures up.   Trust me.  I will if you will.  I have.  I did.  I never even had Pinterest.  I lied about Pinterest.  I can't even bring myself to sign up.  I already know that nothing is good enough.  Things could be better.  Shinier.   Photographed from a better angle.  Prettier, in general. 

 

Look, everything is a metaphor.   Pumpkin spice is a metaphor for the way the corporations have won.   That's all I'm saying.  It's a conspiracy theory.  It's not even a theory.  It's probably a conspiracy.   

 

Conspire in a different way.

 

Go outside.  

 

That's where I'm going, the dry leaves crunching under my rubber boots, the path slippery with mud in places, water starting to flow down the hill.  The mountain is waiting for someone to climb it, for someone to see the magnificence that it's been making while we've been at Starbucks, waiting for another cup of chemicals to wash down the whole season, propelling us to Christmas, where we will have to remember to buy all the things, to insulate ourselves against everything that isn't good enough while making us feel like if we buy enough, we'll get there, to that place where Pinterest will be us and we will be it and a million re-pins will let us know that we won, we got it all, we have the best, so we are the best.  And meanwhile, the trees on the mountain will cycle through again and again from green to gold to orange to red to brown and we will blink and miss it and at the end of the day, who is the happiest?  

 

It's not a contest.  Nothing is. 

 

The leaves turn brittle and turn to dust.  But they don't mind.  They aren't ruing the loss of themselves.  They aren't moisturizing and painting themselves green.  They fall gleefully.  They fall unemotionally.  Don't be ridiculous, leaves don't think.  They just are.  They just do what they do.  Green, gold, orange, red, brown.  


I'm content in the woods, my body moving through the overgrown scrub, the water from the last rain lurking on the leaves and soaking through my cable-knit sweater, the one with the toggle buttons.  My legs in their perfectly distressed skinny jeans carry me to the summit.  

 

This is fall.  This is what it is.

 

I'm grateful for that.  Thank you, I say.  Thank you.  No one hears me.  No one else is out here.  Everyone is at work.  Christmas is coming.  There is so much we'll need to buy.   There is so much more we need to get.   It's going to be a new season.  It's going to be time to flavour our clothes with eggnog.  It's still nutmeg, dogging us through time, reminding us who we really are, consuming and consuming and consuming.

 

Nutmeg is poisonous in large quantities.

 

This was meant to be about thanksgiving.   Let's give thanks for the leaves.  Let's give thanks that we're here.  Let's give thanks for all we don't have, that we're better off without.  Let's give thanks for the damp, decaying earth and how we can kneel here, grateful.  

 

Then Pin it.  Someone else will want it.  Someone else will put it on their board, those leaves all around on the ground, your knees pressing into the cold wet dirt, the colors edited to perfection, the moisture shining on them like diamonds, like a fortune.