What’s next? You tell me.

I finished the first draft of The Door in the Mountain: the Redoorening (working title) three weeks ago today. Peter read it (typing comments whilst I sat beside him, writhing and sometimes squeaking); my editor will read it closer to the end of the month. And already I’m wondering—and already people are asking—what’ll be next. It’s like when Emma was writhing and sometimes squeaking, only weeks old, in the centre of some adoring crowd of friends and/or family: someone would say, “So—you thinking about the next one at all?” Then and now, re: procreation and creation, my answer is a muddled, at best: “How dare you! I’m not thinking about the next one at all! Except that I kind of am, because this was a huge deal, and I did it, and I feel exhausted and triumphant, and I know I want to do it again. Oh dear.”

So. Once the edits are done, whenever that might be, what will be next?

Here’s a stab at a list.

1. Louis Riel. The vast horribleness of an insane asylum in Quebec. A nearby manor house, once lived in by the man who would become Queen Victoria’s father. Madness and secrets and danger.
2. Present-day Liberty Village in west-end Toronto. A woman. A townhouse. Long-ago Liberty Village, which spits up the ghost of a man who was an inmate in the vast horribleness that was the Toronto Prison. Lust and secrets and danger.
3. Persephone. The same world as Ariadne and Chara’s: godmarks and familiar-but-reimagined mythic territory.


Mycenean Dragons and Other Unanticipated Things

Book Two: 59,549 words. Some of those words are plot notes I’ve incorporated into the text—but basically: 59,500 words. And they all terrify me.

It’s true: I’ve never known how my books are going to end until I’ve been mere pages away from their respective endings. But this book is different. I’ve written it entirely via laptop, as opposed to scribbling it on the ruled pages of notebooks. This electronic willy-nilliness has led to some unprecedented, wondrous and terrifying writing behaviours. To wit: I’m writing ANYTHING THAT COMES TO ME. It doesn’t matter if Plot Thing #Sort of Near the End comes waaaay past Plot Thing #Mired in the Ghastly Middle, or #Even Less Sort of Near the End as That Other Thing: I’m writing whatever’s easiest to write.

It was not ever thus.

I used to make my painfully sedate way through stories, giving each moment and scene whatever time it required to be born. I used to spend weeks sketching out what had to happen next, because there’d be no ending without it—no culmination without a methodically constructed arc. Remember: I never, ever knew how these stories would end. And yet I had to follow some sort of linear path; had to linger and wait, making space for what was next, and next after that, because to jump ahead would somehow (as in a bad time travel movie) jeopardize the integrity of all that had not yet gone before.

To wit, take 2: When I was starting to think about the book that would become The Pattern Scars, I envisioned a scene: a pivotal one, in which a case of deliberately mistaken identity would be exposed. I had no idea what the context would be: I knew only that there would be a scene like this. I didn’t write the scene. I spent days and weeks and months grappling with all the events that would lead to this scene—and when I finally got there, it was orgasmically good and right and justified—delayed gratification rewarded.

Not this time. There’s not a single linear thing going on, in this second Minotaur book. I’m seizing images and bits of scenes, no matter where they might come in the story, and I’m writing them. On my laptop. In a file that’s now called “Consolidated MS”, because for many many months it was divvied into four separate bits.

What am I DOING?

The downside: this is undiscovered territory, and I might make a mess of navigating it.

The upside: this is undiscovered territory, and I might realize that mapping it can be both random and GREAT.

The moral of the story’s story: do not assume you’ve definitively figured out your own creative process. Do not. You could move from a spiral-bound notebook to a MacBook Air. You, who’ve always needed to see the Big Picture, might see an ending before you understand how to get there, or a beginning with no apparent ending. You might use a pencil instead of a pen. You might start writing on the streetcar instead of at the desk you’ve been trying to write at for years (all the things in alignment: the view, the paper clip receptacle, the photos of that bleak and beautiful hillside at Mycenae).

Here Be Dragons. ROAWR. Also: YIKES.



Primordial Ooze

Ever since Chip the Cat died a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about it. Not his death, only: the others I’ve witnessed. And not just those: the births, too. Because I’ve been thinking, in a helpless, formless way, about how our bodies fight to be born, and to die; about struggle: how we’re told we should face it, and how we actually do.


They’re not ‘contractions’; they’re ‘surges.’ Take away the negative connotations. Manage the pain by imagining your body as a rose, unfurling bit by bit to the sun that is your labour, your baby. Be centred and calm. And hey: you might even have an orgasm! Many women do, in labour!

I tried so hard to listen to words like these, as my first baby’s birth approached. I wanted to believe them—even the ones that made me wince because they were so clumsy and trite. I knew there would be pain. I told myself that I’d be dignified and quiet, like the women in the birth videos I’d watched. Dignified, quiet, rosy, surging with strength and orgasms.

Near the end of that first labour of mine, some tiny, lucid part of my brain thought: “Who’s screaming like that? Geez.” A few moments or hours later, that lucid part thought: “Oh man. That’s me.”

I was not a rose. I had not a single orgasm. I was a yowling, writhing beast (nope—no meds) with a brain that had shrunk to pinprickedness within the vista of pain that was my body. “I” was gone. Small-scale time was gone; what was left was primordial and forever. The body “I” had been in was fighting, scrabbling, straining, making all sorts of noise and expelling all sorts of fluids.

But then I started to push, and I remembered what time it was, and I saw my sister’s face at the foot of the bed, and it was my baby who was doing most of the struggling. I’d seen that model pelvis, in my prenatal classes; I’d seen how the poor floppy fetus-doll had to contort to get itself free. (Stupid bipedalism, with its morphological demands.) It took my real baby only 20 minutes, but they must have been insanely difficult ones. She was compressed, trapped; she was pushed down, inexorably and without any say in the matter. She barely cried, after my body had expelled her. She lifted her bald, bloody head from my chest and mewed a bit, then flopped down again, as weak and exhausted as I was. And I, fully returned to “me”ness, crooned and cooed—back in residence; back in control.

I’ve been at about 25 labours other than my own, and I know how different birth can look. Some women, even without pharmacological assistance, go very, very quiet. One of these, after yet another intense, silent contraction, grabbed my hand and whispered, “I think I’m going to die. When will this end?” I don’t remember what I said. But not even an hour later, her own baby girl was lying on her chest, and she was laughing, beyond weary, her mind returned to her body, so that both felt like hers again.


Why can’t she just accept that she’s dying? Why can’t she make peace with it? It would be so much easier…

In early 1999, when I got pregnant, my best friend Alison already had cancer. In enormously distressing parallel, our bellies swelled. While I expanded everywhere, though, she shrank. My hair grew thicker; hers fell out. But we both slept a lot, then had trouble sleeping. We both went off food, got cravings, felt better, went off food again. Our bodies reacted together to two very different sorts of invasions.

Oh, Dylan Thomas: you wrote them—those words about not going gently. And Alison didn’t. She was the sweetest, happiest person—and she couldn’t accept anything except the injustice. “I’m 30. 30! How am I supposed to be okay with this?”

When she finally did admit to me that she was going to die, it wasn’t a relief to either of us. It was real, and it was terrible, and there was absolutely no catharsis of any kind.

At noon on the day she died, she was agitated: her clawed hands swiped at mine; her cracked lips moved; her eyes (blue and black and yellow) widened and widened and refused to close, even in a blink. She moaned, low and rhythmically. Her body was stiff, convulsive, so delicate and defiant, after days of comparative listlessness, that I went back to the hospital that night. She was still, by then. Her eyes were half-closed; they’d given her a sedative, after her sister had arrived, at long last, from out of town. Her sister had gone home, by the time I arrived. I hunkered down beside her, and her husband said, “She’s drooling” and we watched the clear, thin stream turn dark brown and molasses-thick, and someone yelled, and someone got the head of the bed up so that the fluid would drain somewhere—and her bird-chest rose, and her head lolled, and then her bird-chest stayed hollow and low, and even as the fluid continued to trickle, that was all.


He was old. He’d had a good life. At least he wasn’t sick; he didn’t have to suffer.

My sister and I lay on a pullout couch and listened to our grandfather dying, in the next room. The verb should definitely be past continuous: he was dying. It was loud, and it took a long time.

He was 93. He wanted to die—he’d said so countless times, usually on his birthday, with a wry, sad smile beneath his pencil mustache. “I never wanted to live this long…” And yet when the time came, “he”, at last (it seemed), was gone—but his body fought. And fought. It moaned: rising, peaking, fading sounds that repeated and repeated, for hours. Everything was suspended, hanging in some primordial place where such things happen, again and again, forever.

The moans stopped sometime after the sun rose. The room was bright as my mother, my sister and I stood looking down at him—at the body on the bed. The morphine drip had been turned off. His breathing was slow, slower. Thick brown fluid oozed out of his mouth, and I said, “This is what happened with Alison, right before…” Later, my mother told me this had reassured her—because what do you think, when you see thick brown fluid and you’ve never seen it before and you’re so painfully, helplessly present, watching someone else who isn’t, any more?

Except that I can’t know that. Maybe grandpa was still there, behind the paper-thin eyelids. Maybe he thought, “Well I’ll be darned: there’s a red-breasted nuthatch on the bird feeder I had the girls put up outside my window!” or “ohthankgodit’snearlyoverthankgod”

But all I could see was his body’s struggle, and its stopping.


He had a good life. He was lucky. At least he went peacefully.

Chip the Cat was given an injection—a sedative, so that he wouldn’t feel the killing fluid when it went in. Only he didn’t react to it the way he was supposed to. He growled and whined. He twisted around between us until we let him jump down off the vet’s couch. He wobbled, stumbled, sank onto his haunches before he tried to walk some more. His eyes were wide, all pupil. He dragged his leukemia-wasted body around the room until he found the darkest possible place, behind the toilet. Then he hunkered down. Waiting? Feeling what? Knowing what?

When the killing fluid went in, 15 minutes later, he didn’t flinch.

An hour later, when Peter lifted Chip’s body up to carry him outside to the waiting hole, there was a rush of fetid air.

A rush of rot; a blurp of placenta; a slow, darkening, thinning stream. Bodies struggling, striving, surrendering.


 “Why?’ is always the most difficult question to answer. You know where you are when someone asks you ‘What’s the time?’ or ‘When was the battle of 1066?’ or ‘How do these seatbelts work that go tight when you slam the brakes on, Daddy?’ The answers are easy and are, respectively, ‘Seven-thirty in the evening,’ ‘Ten-fifteen in the morning,’ and ‘Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt



Clothing stores and Minotaurs

I love Old Navy. Old Navy, and Ariadne.

Let me explain (whilst also pulling metaphor out of a hat by its ears!).

Today was the day I decided I needed new clothes. This usually happens once in spring and once in fall: I’m consumed, seemingly all of a sudden, with the desire to get new things. Not a lot of things. One shirt for work, say; one pair of jeans for non-work. Today I decided I’d walk from work to Winners—brand names at serious discounts! I’ve had success there before, though it’s rarely been quick; usually there’s a great deal of rifling through racks of truly hideous garments, followed by a protracted period of change-room futzing. Today I tried on six things, and not one of them fit me. It wasn’t just an aesthetic issue: the items did not fit. I thought I knew my jeans size. Six brands later, apparently not. So I hooked the uncooperative garments onto a rack and hightailed it for Old Navy.

I know what size I am there. Jeans, dress pants, dress shirts, t-shirts: it’s always the same. I wish this weren’t so compelling. Does the fact that it’s compelling make me old and unadventurous as well as shallow? I love the shirts I found. The jeans fit me perfectly, and I love them too. The jeans are “boyfriend fit”—which, as far as I can tell, means that they’re not so stranglingly tight that you lose all sensation in your legs, from mid-thigh to ankle, and bulge like a sausage everywhere else (because surely boyfriends dislike this, in a jean).

Now for that bunny of an analogy.

The familiar. The thing you’ve known for years, and trust, and enjoy. Old Navy jeans—and Greek myths?

I tried, years ago, to write a trilogy set in a fantastical Aegean, based upon the tragic, bloody, incestuous, cannibalistic, multi-generational story of the House of Atreus. A couple of years later I tried something else: a trilogy based on a fantastical Alexander the Great. Both of these attempts started out well enough: I loved the idea of parlaying obsessions I’d had since adolescence into something literary and adult. Only neither of the trilogies worked out that way. The concepts toppled the characters and I couldn’t prop them up again. Authorial hubris? Or maybe just stories I wasn’t ready for.

About three years ago, I tried again. This time I didn’t start from a map or a multi-generational epic or a still-famous real person. This time I sought out one myth and settled into it. Ariadne. Theseus. The Minotaur. The labyrinth. What if Ariadne were a manipulative bitch, not a lovelorn victim? What if the bull started out as a boy? What if there were a slave girl who knew them, who watched the cruelty and the shapeshifting and ended up being the very centre of everything (including the labyrinth)? This was story at a scale that didn’t scare me. Characters I knew but wasn’t so awed by that I’d hesitate and question and falter.

The Door in the Mountain is what came of this. It’ll be out in spring, 2014. A year after that the story will end with a second book that, for now, has no name. I’m only about 12,000 words into this second book. As usual, I have no idea how it’s all going to end—but I’m sure I’ll figure it out. The characters are clear; plot will follow.

So I guess I’m saying that the Minotaur myth is my happy Old Navy, while Alexander the Great is my fruitless Winners. Tell me you’ve encountered such an analogy before. I dare you.


My Minotaur does not look like this. Neither do my Old Navy jeans.

My Minotaur does not look like this. Neither do my Old Navy jeans.



[This is the Door in the Mountain excerpt I read at the ChiSeries event a week ago. No context required.] [No jeans, either.]

Ariadne could not sleep. She lay as motionless as she could atop her sheet, her arms and legs spread wide, but sweat still seeped from her skin and flattened her hair. She imagined her mother lying in her bed, one corridor away. The same sunlight would be oozing between the round pillars up near the ceiling; the same heat would be pulsing through the walls. But Pasiphae would probably be sleeping, her own skin beaded with water, not sweat.

Ariadne groaned and sat up. The paint on her walls seemed to swim: the green coils of plants and their crimson flowers; the brown of fawns and hares. “Deucalion,” she said, and reached for some hair clips. He would help – he would summon a small, fresh wind that would soothe them both. But he was asleep, curled up like a cat in the chamber beside hers. Glaucus was asleep too; even the children’s slave was sleeping, sitting cross-legged with her back against the square pillar that separated the boys’ rooms.

Ariadne almost woke her brothers (with a single, piercing scream, right in Glaucus’ ear), but then she thought, No – it’s so quiet, and I’m alone – I’m the only one awake, and I could do anything I wanted…If only Phaidra didn’t have a nurse, I could creep in and put a lizard in her cradle. But Asterion – he just moved into his own chamber. Yes – Asterion…

He was not alone: the girl Chara was asleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. She was lying on her back with her limbs splayed, as if she were on the finest of mattresses and not stone. Ariadne ground her teeth in annoyance. The child was always with him, when Pherenike was attending to the queen – a small, thin, dark-haired little shadow whose grey eyes were strangely solemn, when they were open. Now, though, they were tightly closed.

Ariadne looked from Chara to Asterion. At first she thought he was awake, because his arms and legs were twitching. He was facing the door but his chin was tucked against his chest and she could not see his eyes. He twitched and twitched, and his limbs made hissing sounds on the cloth. She stepped through the doorway and walked slowly toward the bed, her bare feet silent on the stone. When she was close enough to touch him he sucked in his breath and flung himself onto his back. She froze and held her own breath until she saw that his eyes were closed. They rolled beneath their lids, up and down and around. She remembered this rolling from the cave, nearly two summers ago; the very same movement, though his eyes had been open that time. She also remembered that his horn nubs had glowed like molten bronze, before. Even though his hair was much longer and thicker, she could see that it was the same now: two points of light were throbbing on either side of his head.

It was very hot in the cave, she thought. And it’s very hot in here. She pressed a curl flat against her forehead, curling it tighter with her fingertip until it was like a whorl of seashell. What would happen to him if it got hotter?

Getting the lamp was easy. There were only a few slaves about, between the family’s quarters and the underground storerooms, and all they did was raise their hands to her in the sign of the horns and continue about their business. She paused in the grain room, which was dark except for the flickering of oil lamps. The rows of jars soared above her head. Their shadows were taller yet. She drew in gulps of cool air, but just for a moment – soon people would be stirring.

The lamp’s base was metal and she had to shift it from hand to hand as she walked so that her skin would not burn. She set it down quickly on the floor beside Asterion’s bed; it clanged against the stone and he grunted and thrashed but his rolling eyes did not open. Chara did not move at all.

Ariadne stared at his walls for a bit, while she thought. The paint on them was all blues and whites: water, sky, the god-bull forming out of a foaming wave. The god-bull on the wall and the god-boy on the bed – she scowled and turned back to the lamp. Then she smiled.

The hem of Asterion’s sheet caught fire almost as soon as she touched it to the lamp. The cloth melted black behind the flame, which widened as it climbed. When it reached the bed frame it was nearly as long as Asterion was, from glowing horns to scuffing feet. The fire was flowing under the arm and leg closest to the edge; it was around them, over them, in the space of a single heartbeat. He woke with a cry and lurched up on the bed, and the fire was eating at his tunic. He cried out again; his voice sounded too low, as if he were a man, not a two-year-old boy. He threw himself off the bed, straight at Ariadne. She leapt backward and he fell at her feet. Sparks caught in her skirt and she smacked at them with her hands until they died.

He gazed up at her, and in the space of one more heartbeat his eyes widened and rounded until there was no more boy in them. He heaved himself onto his hands and knees. His tunic fell away in gobbets of black and embers and his spine arched. Blisters unfurled on his skin and turned almost immediately to coarse brown hair that bloomed along his back and sides in patches that joined. His golden head had gone dark and matted too, and his horns were longer, curving out and up above folded-over ears. He scrabbled at the ground with fingers and toes that fused as Ariadne watched, their nails spreading and yellowing into cloven halves.

He turned his head – sideways, because his neck was so thick that he could not lift it up. The fire was only sparks now, spinning and settling on his furred body and on the lashes clustered around his eyes. His eyes were rolling again, white and brown and black. Ariadne thought, He can’t see me. She lowered herself slowly into a crouch.

“Look at you, Brother,” she said, loudly enough to be heard above the whuffing of his breath. “Look at what you are – and I’m the one who found out. I’m the only one who knows. So if you change back now – if you can just do that, no one else will –”

The beast that had been Asterion bellowed. This was not the low cry of before but a full-throated roar that startled Ariadne back onto her heels. The roar did not stop. She heard another sound – a scream, behind her – and began to scream herself because she knew she should. The children’s slave ran past her. She flapped her skirt against the sheet until the flames died and then hovered a few paces away from the bull-thing. She raised her hands to her mouth but they muffled nothing. Her scream trailed into a sort of whine, while Ariadne’s continued. Footsteps pounded along the hallway, closer and closer (Ariadne heard them when she paused to breathe). She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Quiet – quiet, Ari!” Deucalion, shaking her by the shoulders but not looking at her. Glaucus was clinging to the doorframe. He was already crying, Ariadne saw, and she wished she did not have to wait to say something mocking. Androgeus strode past Glaucus. He stood above the bull, who was on his side again, kicking as he roared. Androgeus knelt. He placed one hand on the creature’s flank and one on his head, between the horns. He leaned close and spoke his god-marked words again, which Ariadne could never understand. The coarse hair beneath his hands turned to silver.

The bellowing and kicking stopped. The rolling eyes went still and changed shape – everything did, from hoofs to legs to flanks to barrel chest to damp, flaring nostrils. It happened in the time it took Ariadne to blink three times (she tried not to blink at all, but there had been tears with her screaming), and when it was done, Asterion the boy lay on his belly on the stone. His slender arms and legs trembled. They were covered with blistered welts, but his back was the worst: red and raw like the insides of a flayed animal. Androgeus drew Asterion’s head gently onto his lap. He stroked his damp golden hair and murmured more words as Asterion gasped and sobbed. He’s in such pain, Ariadne thought, and felt a rush of pleasure that sent blood dizzily to her head.

Someone was laughing. Ariadne turned and saw Pasiphae standing in the doorway. She was laughing and maybe crying – it was hard to tell whether the moisture on her cheeks was sweat or god-marked water or tears. She walked slowly to her sons and knelt by Asterion. “My little god,” she said. “Poseidon’s little bull – I saw him in you, just now, and I heard him in your voice.” She held her palms above his back. Water dripped from them and fell on his raw skin like a mist. All his muscles bunched when it touched him, but as it seeped and spread he went limp.

I look on you now, and I rejoice in your godhead, and yet,” she went on, each word harsher than the one before it, “I hate your pain. I hate it, and I wonder what caused it. Who caused it.”

The slave gasped, “My Queen, it –” and Ariadne leapt to her feet.

It was her!” she cried, pointing at the slave. “I came because I heard him shouting and she was already here with the lamp!”

The queen’s green eyes shifted. The brows above them arched.

No!” The slave’s hands were still over her mouth. “No, that’s not true! Why would I bring a lamp on such a hot day? My Queen, I came when I heard the prince shouting, and it was she…”

The slave was fat. She was fat and her hair was lank and her eyes were small and darting, like a sow’s – and yet Pasiphae was gazing at Ariadne now, looking her up and down as if she might actually believe the woman.

Daughter,” she said. “Tell me once more what happened.”

Ariadne swallowed. She drew herself up tall. One of her hair pins was slipping out; she felt its metal tines and a wayward curl tickling her neck but she did not fidget at all.

I heard Asterion. I was too hot to sleep; I heard him and got here very quickly. He was on the floor and she was kneeling by him. The sheet was still on fire so I put it out with my skirt – look! – there are holes in it, and my hands are all pink and burned! I screamed so that someone else would come.”

Asterion coughed, and froth came out of his mouth. He was staring at her. Hecan hardly speak, she thought. He’s only two. So there’s no way he can understand me, either. And yet he stared at her. Chara was staring too – how long had she been awake? She was crouched with her arms wrapped around her knees, a thumb in her mouth. Her sea-mist eyes were almost as round as his had been.

Before Ariadne could say anything else, hands came down on her shoulders. They were large and blunt-nailed and covered with black hair. She knew they were her father’s even before she craned up at him.

I have only just come, and yet I think I understand this much: a slave is telling the royal family that the Princess Ariadne lies.”

The slave bent her head. Her hair fell in sweat-clumped strands around her face. “I am,” she whispered.

Fool! thought Ariadne, but as she did, a sick shudder rose from her belly to her throat. (Had she really been dancing in front of everyone, just this morning? Had everyone really just been cheering for her?)

Leave this room,” Minos said to the slave. His voice rumbled through Ariadne and she felt heat – flame stirring beneath the skin of his fingertips. The sickness had already gone. “Leave this city. And tell everyone who asks that Minos King was merciful enough to let you live.”

The woman shuffled toward the door. When she reached Ariadne she paused and moved her hair aside with one fat-fingered hand. Her beady brown eyes found Ariadne’s and held them.

Now,” said the king. The slave shuffled on, and out.

Pasiphae was looking down at Asterion, drawing her weeping palms gently along his burns. Deucalion was standing with his head against the painted bull-god’s flank, facing his mother. The only eyes Ariadne could see were Androgeus’ and Asterion’s, and they were on her, steady and knowing. Androgeus can talk to animals, she thought, and the sickness was in her throat again.

“He is monstrous,” Minos said.

Pasiphae smiled and curled a lock of hair behind Asterion’s ear. “He is my god’s, and he frightens you. Shames you, too—for your own family came to kingship with marks far weaker than his. Conjurors of light and thunder; the gods were hardly even trying, when they marked your line.”

Minos gripped Ariadne’s shoulders even more tightly. The heat in his fingers made her want to wriggle, but she did not. She waited for him to growl a curse or shoot bolts of fire at her mother but he only stood and stood, breathing heavily – and then his hands were gone and he was walking swiftly down the hall, in and out of the light that fell between the pillars. “No!” Ariadne wanted to cry after him. “Come back; do something!”

“My son,” Pasiphae crooned. “My little lord.”

Ariadne felt blood surging up into her head again – fury, this time, not joy. There were voices too, her own and ones she did not know: You should have been the only one to know about him no one is looking at you no one is paying you any attention at all not the gods and not men even though you danced for them only this morning run away run away and they may notice…

She ran, but no one called after her and no one followed (she glanced over her shoulder to see). All of her hairpins fell out; by the time she came to a panting halt in Naucrate’s outer chamber her curls were hanging against her neck and back in a tangled mess.

Princess! What is it now? Come here and sit by me…”

Naucrate smelled like lemons, as always, and her hands were as firm and gentle as ever, tracing long lines on Ariadne’s back, but the voices and blood did not stop their pounding. Ariadne pulled herself free of Naucrate’s arms and ran to the table. She swept everything off it – all the tiny jars and vials and boxes. Kohl, perfume, figs and glass rained down onto the stone.

Ariadne,” Naucrate said, into the silence that followed. “Oh, Minnow, what is wrong?”

Pictures; almost no words.

Last night, Peter and I went to liberate some of the gazillions of snails that have taken up residence in our aquarium. Semi-unwittingly, we chose the sweet spot between thunderstorm and sunset. In the space of about half an hour, this is what we saw. (God, I love living where I do.)

(NB: the odd orange/pink/blue variations had nothing to do with a failure of my camera’s; they occupied the sky together. All I did was pivot and point and shoot.)

Snails: be free!


Ave atque vale, Ronald Watts

I struggled, before and during the writing of this. Ron didn’t want anyone except a chosen few to know about him. And yet I’m writing this. He’s dead, so I can. Hence the struggle.

Part of this is selfishness, because this is a story I want to tell. Part is principle, because this is an important story.

Peter has written about his father’s life. I had none of this context. In 2009, I met a sad, sweet old man whose dentures were never quite anchored, who could never even half finish the Admiral’s Platter at Red Lobster, though he always asked for it. A man who was stolid and steady and almost entirely non-defensive about his faith, which meant that he and Peter had chronically unsatisfying but also reliably non-violent conversations about it. He kept chocolates in the fridge. He was handsome and frail. One evening while Peter was in another room, he spoke earnestly to me of the importance of having let his sons make their own choices, then said, in low tones, “But it is my greatest regret in life that none of them found God.” He tried to order port at the Oakville Oliver & Bonacini, and the server thought he said “pork”, and laughter ensued. Sometimes these dinners were all Peter and me, trying to make conversation. On rarer occasions, his dad would speak suddenly, apparently out of the blue: “Does she know about me? Have you told her?” “I think a lot about how hard it must have been for you when we moved here.”

He always wanted us to come back to his place after dinner and watch a video (yes, VHS) or DVD. Peter brought Alien along, once, and his dad watched it (and napped a little), and when it was over declared the guns implausibly big and noisy. After one dinner, though, we didn’t go straight into the living room; he ushered us into his office and eased himself into his desk chair. He cast about in his computer files until he found the one he wanted: a podcast by and for young, gay Christians. We listened to the intro for a minute or two, and then Ron said, “What I want you to hear is later on…” and clicked until he found the place. “Time for listener email,” one of the hosts said. The other: “We have a really special one for you tonight.” And he read a message from a 92-year-old, who wrote of his longing to be “normal”; of his hope, as much younger man, that marriage would “cure” him; of his remorse at having caused his wife pain when he could no longer hide what he was. Though, he stressed in his email, he had never had any homosexual encounters. Not a single one. And now he was so old that he knew his dream of companionship would never be realized.

Ron had hardly spoken during dinner. Now his hand shook a little on the mouse as we all listened to what he had to say—to the young, gay Christians whose lives were so different from anything he’d known; to us.

This post would have horrified him—yet all I want to do is honour him. I hope that’s OK.

Where the Dew Drops Cry and the Cats Meow

A former student of mine just sent me this photo, from her recent trip to England.

It’s sublime.

The sublime isn’t truly happy without the ridiculous, its badly behaved twin. So as I gazed at this photo of Stonehenge, all shivery with awe, I found myself thinking about This is Spinal Tap

—which in turn led me to Woody Allen’s Love and Death. I’m not sure why. Without overthinking it: This is Spinal Tap satirizes a musical genre; Love and Death satirizes a literary genre. Both do their satirizing with uncanny brilliance. Both make me laugh, a lot.

And here’s a funny thing: when I consulted Wikipedia for the sort of random yet pertinent details that only Wikipedia can provide (details of which my younger daughter says, “You can never ever believe them”), I stumbled upon this quote, under “ridiculous”:

“Napoleon, reflecting on the state of his existence following his retreat from Moscow in 1812, famously remarked to Polish ambassador D.G. De Pradt: Du sublime au ridicule il n’ya qu’un pas (There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous).”

Love and Death takes place during the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. Coincidence or convergence? Doesn’t really matter.

The Stonehenge of Chiara’s wonderful photo and the dwarf Stonehenge of Spinal Tap. Napoleon’s sublime and ridiculous and Woody Allen’s. Twinned images, all—two faces on the same body.

Which brings me to my final image of this peripatetic entry. (I swear I didn’t intend to write half of this, when I started it.)

Strong, silent Janus—god of time past and time to come, and that strange, eternal place between.

It’s December 31. The sun (such as it was, today) is setting. I’ve got Baileys and egg nog in a glass at one elbow and at least one cat at the other. (The number and combination of cats varies.) The tall science fiction writer whom I married in 2011 is just beyond one of said elbows, tapping away at his own laptop, sipping his own ‘ggnog. This is Spinal Tap and Love and Death are all cued up. Perhaps we’ll graduate to bubbly as Derek gets stuck in his pod; perhaps we’ll time the popping of the cork to Boris’ last—and eternal—dance.

Happy New Year.

Photo by Rebecca Springett

Release Date - October 2015

Published by: ChiZine Publications

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