How to Make It from the 11th to the 12th. Or Any Other Day.
11:42, McGill College & de Maisonneuve
18 minutes to my class. Red light for car and bike traffic, green for pedestrians. An elderly couple -- both in their late 60s -- are crossing leisurely. She holds herself proudly upright, talking to him but looking straight ahead, and making small but measured ballerina-steps in the flat shoes peeking out from underneath her neatly pressed white-cotton trousers. Her bust, in a flowing colourful long-sleeved top, is sailing forward, leaving a scent of certainty and equilibrium in her wake. Walking protectively a couple of inches behind to her right, he is listening and then thoughtfully responding, equally proud and upright but chivalrous. I have a vague notion they are speaking Arabic, and imagine they look Egyptian, then watch them glide down the sidewalk: a compact, well-balanced two-ship fleet, navigating gracefully through another day.
14:50, Atwater Market
Looking for the bakery, I pass by a butcher shop. Two men in stained white overalls are busy hefting or arranging hairless hunks of meat. Between them, in the middle of the shop, a woman who also works there stands absent-minded, her glazed-over eyes fixed on something ahead visible only to her, her hands fumbling around her waist, trying to find the ends of the overalls belt so she can tie them. Her hands are feeling left and right automatically, slowly, with no real agenda. Her eyes are empty suitcases. She simply isn't there.
15:05, by Canal Lachine
The sun on the bench feels good. I put the freshly-sliced Première Moisson bread loaf in my bag, take out some notes on loose leaves, and start to read. Legs of passers-by or the wheels of their bikes file on in the background, when suddenly there's joyous barking approaching fast. I look up and see her -- an exhilarated floppy-eared terrier, unleashed into the luxurious warmth of the mid-afternoon by the river, bouncing up and down, on three legs. Her entire front right leg is missing, but she doesn't seem to notice; she's intent on running up to the first stranger she sees, a girl bent over a book on a bench closer to the water. "Molly," calls her owner, leash in hand, with the rising intonation of a half-serious warning, "leave people alone." But it's too late; Molly is already there, pushing her muzzle up to the girl, shamelessly asking for love on this sunny warm day, disarmingly happy. And the girl gives her all she's got, without a moment's hesitation: a big rub on the matted front, a half-hug around the neck. Quicker than any thoughts of on-lookers, Molly is already hopping back happily to her master, lighter than any four-legged loveless day.
18:15, the yard
Deven is 11 and just got English in school. Writing is his weakness so every now and then he crosses the back alley and comes to check his homework in our yard. Right now he's trying to figure out how to write "has," which he has spelled ase (much better, actually, than his "when," spelled as ene). "So," I say mercilessly, but he likes it, "what's the first letter in 'has'?" "A?" he offers tentatively. "No," I shake my head. He thinks some more, eyes looking up towards the sky. "Well, what does it sound like when you say it?" I try again. He begins to mouth the word silently, his lips contorting into all kinds of elastic elliptical shapes. "You really need to say it out loud," I stop him. He inflates his cheeks with air (expecting, I suppose, that he'll need an hour's worth of air supply before he gets this impossible thing right), then releases it, balloon-like, and begins to pronounce in serious slow-motion each particle of the first sound, aspirating it with gusto. A few seconds in, his eyes pop out with a sudden realization, "I got it! It's an 'H'!" he yells and bends down immediately to write it down, a legitimate victor in this Grand Battle with the English Alphabet.
21:30, the washroom
After a shower, I dry my hair in front of the mirror, listening to the hair-dryer's soothing monotone. I think of Pipo the canary, who loved such unvaried powerful sounds (the blast of the water running from the tap, the sustained metallic drone of the vacuum-cleaner) and always used the opportunity to sing his loudest and most heart-felt songs. I start whistling, and modulate the pitch until I find it -- the exact frequency of the hair-dryer. Then I hold the note as long as I possibly can, feeling the vibrations inside and outside.
18 minutes to my class. Red light for car and bike traffic, green for pedestrians. An elderly couple -- both in their late 60s -- are crossing leisurely. She holds herself proudly upright, talking to him but looking straight ahead, and making small but measured ballerina-steps in the flat shoes peeking out from underneath her neatly pressed white-cotton trousers. Her bust, in a flowing colourful long-sleeved top, is sailing forward, leaving a scent of certainty and equilibrium in her wake. Walking protectively a couple of inches behind to her right, he is listening and then thoughtfully responding, equally proud and upright but chivalrous. I have a vague notion they are speaking Arabic, and imagine they look Egyptian, then watch them glide down the sidewalk: a compact, well-balanced two-ship fleet, navigating gracefully through another day.
14:50, Atwater Market
Looking for the bakery, I pass by a butcher shop. Two men in stained white overalls are busy hefting or arranging hairless hunks of meat. Between them, in the middle of the shop, a woman who also works there stands absent-minded, her glazed-over eyes fixed on something ahead visible only to her, her hands fumbling around her waist, trying to find the ends of the overalls belt so she can tie them. Her hands are feeling left and right automatically, slowly, with no real agenda. Her eyes are empty suitcases. She simply isn't there.
15:05, by Canal Lachine
The sun on the bench feels good. I put the freshly-sliced Première Moisson bread loaf in my bag, take out some notes on loose leaves, and start to read. Legs of passers-by or the wheels of their bikes file on in the background, when suddenly there's joyous barking approaching fast. I look up and see her -- an exhilarated floppy-eared terrier, unleashed into the luxurious warmth of the mid-afternoon by the river, bouncing up and down, on three legs. Her entire front right leg is missing, but she doesn't seem to notice; she's intent on running up to the first stranger she sees, a girl bent over a book on a bench closer to the water. "Molly," calls her owner, leash in hand, with the rising intonation of a half-serious warning, "leave people alone." But it's too late; Molly is already there, pushing her muzzle up to the girl, shamelessly asking for love on this sunny warm day, disarmingly happy. And the girl gives her all she's got, without a moment's hesitation: a big rub on the matted front, a half-hug around the neck. Quicker than any thoughts of on-lookers, Molly is already hopping back happily to her master, lighter than any four-legged loveless day.
18:15, the yard
Deven is 11 and just got English in school. Writing is his weakness so every now and then he crosses the back alley and comes to check his homework in our yard. Right now he's trying to figure out how to write "has," which he has spelled ase (much better, actually, than his "when," spelled as ene). "So," I say mercilessly, but he likes it, "what's the first letter in 'has'?" "A?" he offers tentatively. "No," I shake my head. He thinks some more, eyes looking up towards the sky. "Well, what does it sound like when you say it?" I try again. He begins to mouth the word silently, his lips contorting into all kinds of elastic elliptical shapes. "You really need to say it out loud," I stop him. He inflates his cheeks with air (expecting, I suppose, that he'll need an hour's worth of air supply before he gets this impossible thing right), then releases it, balloon-like, and begins to pronounce in serious slow-motion each particle of the first sound, aspirating it with gusto. A few seconds in, his eyes pop out with a sudden realization, "I got it! It's an 'H'!" he yells and bends down immediately to write it down, a legitimate victor in this Grand Battle with the English Alphabet.
21:30, the washroom
After a shower, I dry my hair in front of the mirror, listening to the hair-dryer's soothing monotone. I think of Pipo the canary, who loved such unvaried powerful sounds (the blast of the water running from the tap, the sustained metallic drone of the vacuum-cleaner) and always used the opportunity to sing his loudest and most heart-felt songs. I start whistling, and modulate the pitch until I find it -- the exact frequency of the hair-dryer. Then I hold the note as long as I possibly can, feeling the vibrations inside and outside.
posted by Tijana | 11:50 PM
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