words starting with ‘a’

~ carin ~ 3 Comments

Sorting through shelves the other day, I happily re-discovered my copy of The Meaning of Liff, by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd (Pan Books and Faber & Faber, 1983). Essentially a dictionary of words that are not words but should be. They are, in fact, place names in Great Britain that (as Adams and Lloyd write in the introduction): “…spend their time doing nothing but loafing about on signposts pointing at places.”

They go on to say—

“Our job, as we see it, is to get these words down off the signposts and into the mouths of babes and sucklings and so on, where they can start earning their keep in everyday conversation and make a more positive contribution to society.”

To which I say hear, hear!  Bloody lazy words. (And with so many things out there in need of a few well arranged letters to define them…)

_

For example, a few under ‘A’:

Aberystwyth (n.): A nostalgic yearning which is in itself more pleasant than the thing being yearned for.

Abilene (adj.): Descriptive of the pleasing coolness on the reverse side of the pillow.

Ahenny (adj.): The way people stand when examining other people’s bookshelves.

Ardslingnish (adj.) Adjective which describes the behaviour of Sellotape when you are tired.

Aynho (vb.) Of waiters, never to have a pen.

_

Is is just me or does the whole world suddenly feel a teensy bit more coherent?

to list IS divine

~ carin ~ 2 Comments

The New Quarterly’s List Issue has arrived on my doorstep and it’s completely gorgeous. (True, my own listy piece is included, but even so, and even if it weren’t, it has to be said: the thing is a work of art—the cover, layout, design.)

And, yes, the contents. Who knew (Diane Schoemperlen, that’s who) that lists could evoke so much and in so many ways?

There are found poems from lists, lists written on the backs of things—regrets on a black and white snapshot from the 50’s—and on a Good & Fruity box, the contents of a pocket enroute to jail. There’s a list of things taken to a nursing home to visit a mother (so simple and stark and perfect it made my eyes water).

A collection of lists found in a large purse; drawings and random jottings; glossy pages of collage, photographs, observations— things that otherwise get missed because they’re tiny and ordinary, seemingly insignificant and therefore don’t merit a whole story—but fashion them into a list and you realize they are a whole story.

The cover art and collage pages inside are done by Diane Schoemperlen (who also guest edited the issue), as is a piece titled ‘A Nervous Race: 22 Brief Notes on the Study of Nature, Human and Otherwise’— which begins:

“This is not exactly a story. It is a construction or a deconstruction or a reconstruction (or maybe all three). I did not exactly write these lines. I discovered them (like a continent), mined them (like gold or coal or potash), unearthed them (like bones), excavated them (like archaeological artifacts), solved them (like a crossword puzzle), deciphered them (like a secret code), erected them (like a building or a flag), organized them (like a filing cabinet or a clothes closet), choreographed them (like a ballet or maybe a barn dance), arranged them (like a symphony or a bouquet of flowers). Let me explain.”

And then she does.  And, frankly, if there were nothing else between the covers but this and the collage, it would still be an amazing and beautiful issue.   

The launch is tomorrow in Kingston. (Oh to be in Kingston in the Spring!)

lumbricidae-ish milestone

~ carin ~ 4 Comments

I recently touched a worm for the first time. On purpose I mean. I touched it very very lightly and with just the very tip of my index finger for possibly one millionth of a millisecond, then jumped back a couple of metres. It was an oddly cavalier thing to do given that they’ve been making my toes curl in a bad way since I was a kid walking to school on rainy mornings, dodging what seemed like hundreds wriggling all over the sidewalk. (And please don’t even mention Danny something who used to scoop them out of the sewer near the back entrance and dangle them in your face as you walked by.) 

My fear of worms never stopped me working in the garden of course—I just did it in my own way—weed weed EEK!, dig plant dig ICK! (Making Peter shake his head and say things like: don’t you think it’s a little weird for someone who spends as much time as you do mucking about in dirt to be afraid of worms?) 

He obviously didn’t know Danny something. 

Still, I suppose it was a little weird to be eeking my way through three seasons. Maybe the shame finally sunk in.  

So I’ve touched one.  And now they don’t scare me one bit.  Well, less.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to touch another one on purpose. Nor does it mean I’m going to challenge myself by picking one up. No no no. There will be no pictures of me holding any member of the family lumbricidae like a prize. I’m just happy the screaming is over, and my toes can finally un-cramp. 

Although if I find an unusually long and fattish specimen (they can, theoretically, get to 3 metres), I really can’t guarantee anything… 

to each their own...

spring vs summer

~ carin ~ 1 Comment

Without question—Spring—best time of year in the garden. Better than summer when everything’s clamouring and shouting, a riot of colour, a blur, mere background— like a gallery full of exquisite art—impressive as a collection, but impossible to give each item the attention it deserves.

Right now the garden is quiet, still stretching, yawning, relaxed. A humble place where the most excitement is every day another bit of green has replaced mud, a bloom has opened pink or blue or white, and that clump of leaves—still undistinguishable—is either cardinal flower or coreopsis. Does it really matter?

It’s excitement enough.

Oh sure, god bless summer and all that, but by July there’s so much to see I think we actually see less—whereas right now, and for a while longer, it’s possible to see everything…

Last night’s rain on this morning’s lupin and lady’s mantle.