Morning Routine

This week I wanted to write about something I haven't really experienced personally, and started with the idea of tying up one's own long hair. I saw a girl on the bus recently putting her hair into a bun without even thinking about it, so I decided to try and get inside her head. This is obviously not what was in her head.

I also will make a permanent home for my new posts sometime this week! But for now, here's the main story, Morning Routine.

                When Patricia got off the bus on her way to work one morning, she stopped and touched her hair. It was wet and cold, and still in the bun she had made hastily on her way out the door. She regretted putting it in a bun as soon as she walked out the door, because the unforgiving Ontario winter air would make sure her hair stayed exactly in the shape it had upon contact with the outer world for at least fifteen minutes after entering her office. Near the end of her elevator ride she let her hair down and tried to shake it into a dignified shape, but with her hair dryer far from reach, Patricia knew she would have to do a better job improvising. It was a very expensive hair dryer, and according to the online reviews she read for it, it was supposed to double as a curling iron, but she had never bothered to figure out how to set the attachment. A few floors from her destination, June entered the elevator. Patricia flashed her a nervous, quick smile. Their cordial relationship had never quite recovered since Patricia misinterpreted June’s behaviour at the office Christmas party as flirting. She knew that June wasn’t even interested in women, but because office rumours always seemed to spread much more quickly than anyone anticipated, Patricia was still a little uncertain. June wore her hair remarkably short for a woman as young as she was, and her second and third ear piercings practically screamed the story of her drug-filled summers chasing other young creatures at rock concerts and in clubs where everyone seemed to be obsessed with the feeling of their own faces.

                Without too much more suffering, Patricia eventually arrived at her floor. She gave June a polite “see you” and sighed a small sigh of relief when she was sure the doors were completely closed. She noticed her hair in the reflection of the stainless steel elevator doors, and groaned at the wet patches that had formed on the shoulders of her jacket. They would undoubtedly leave identical wet patches on her blouse underneath as soon as the jacket was off, so Patricia strolled as nonchalantly as she could to the nearest bathroom. She pulled out her brush from her bag, and pressed sheets of paper towel against large chunks of her hair as she brushed it into a more manageable state. Her brush wasn’t nearly as expensive as her hair dryer, but she had been using it for years, and it didn’t also double as a curling iron. By now she was starting to develop a headache from having a cold scalp for the last hour and a half, and she whimpered at the thought of the coffee pot waiting in the break room. She would have time for a cup before her fist meeting, assuming she could get her hair done reasonably soon, and for the first time in a long time, Patricia didn’t mind that her hair wouldn’t look perfect. Small flecks of wet paper towel were starting to get caught in her hair, but it was doing the job well enough, so she kept at it. When she walked past Stephanie’s desk on her way to the break room, Patricia could feel the judgmental stare on the back of her head, but restrained herself from making an offhand comment about Stephanie’s hideous choice of knee high socks. She was face to face with the glorious coffee pot that would save her from her daily coffee withdrawal-induced hangover. “Hello, beautiful,” she giggled quietly to herself, savouring the dark brown cup of joy she was about to cram down her gullet in no subtle way.

“Beg pardon?” came the unexpected reply from Keith, who happened to walk in on Patricia during her solitary celebration, which she know realized was more of a shouted whisper than a quiet giggle. Cursing herself silently, and revealing most of her teeth in a forced smile, Patricia dismissed his comment and changed the subject by asking Keith how his weekend was. He gave an answer about camping or attending one of his childrens’ recitals or sports games or something Patricia could vaguely acknowledge and bring up in conversation later, but while her eyes were level with Keith’s, her brain and hands were preoccupied with groping for a clean mug in one of the cupboards and the creamer sitting somewhere on the counter. She knew that pouring the cup without watching her hands would be difficult, but breaking the conversation for even a second before Keith was finished his story about the lake or the forest or some mountain in Québec would mean she would have to participate in the conversation and potentially reveal something about her own weekend, which she had spent alone, in her pyjamas, eating nothing but her own leftover baked goods from a potluck she meant to attend last week.

“Ah!” she cried, dropping the coffee pot onto the counter, rushing her fingers under tap Keith had thankfully turned on for her in quick response to the spill. “Maybe he isn’t that dull after all,” Patricia thought, “I really should start listening to his stories.”

“So as I was saying, the next time Paula and I make it up to the cabin by the lake, we’d love to have you and… uh… it would be great to have you join us.” Keith got quiet, and Patricia winced at both the sudden change in the water’s temperature and the mention of her ex-fiancé. She knew there was no easy way out of this now, and she would have to add Keith to her growing list of coworkers she didn’t want to see outside of the office. She grabbed a dishcloth, thanked Keith for the offer, and scurried to her desk to grab her notes. She had spent the whole night previous preparing for this meeting, but all she could think about now was whether the coffee was hot enough to make her skin blister. Patricia had always admired her fingers, and the nail polish she was wearing was one of her favourites. It was more expensive than her brush but less expensive than her hair dryer, so she was nervous that she would have to hide her red and blotchy fingers. She mustered up enough courage to peek under the dishcloth that was tightly wrapped around her hands. Definitely not blistered. She blew on her fingers to cool them down a bit more and grabbed her notebook and laptop from her bag. She had another five minutes to finish adjusting her presentation, and Patricia wanted to make sure that her fingers were still nimble enough to hold a pen. She struggled a bit at first, but willed herself strongly enough to keep the pen in her hands as she jotted down some notes. Most of them were reminders about who to face during each section of the presentation, but she added one at the bottom, reminding herself to watch her hands, and ignore any smirk Stephanie might have on her face when she realizes Patricia’s hair still has flecks of paper towel in it. 

The Meaning of His Life

Marty stared at the pieces of porcelain on his office floor, and wondered if any of the shards had fallen under his desk.

“It’s just a pencil holder. I understand it must have some sentimental value for you, but it was an accident, and you can always get another one.” Carrie stood with her arms crossed across the small room.

“It was actually a candle holder when I first found it.” Marty said quietly, “and I could buy a new one, but it would probably be an actual pencil holder. It wouldn’t be a repurposed candle holder.”

Carrie frowned at this. Why wasn’t he getting the point? Everyone had things from their childhood that they lost, so why was this a big deal? “My mom just threw out a box of my old report cards last year.” She said. “so I know what you’re going through.”

                Hearing this didn’t sit well with Marty. “I don’t want you to know what I’m going through. And I don’t think I really want the candle holder back that badly.”

“Then what do you want?” She asked impatiently.

                Marty paused. His thoughts briefly returned to the pieces that may have been under his desk. If he tried to glue the pieces back together, he would have to check underneath to make sure there weren’t any gaping holes. And even if he did find all the pieces, the cracks would still be there. “I think I want to throw this out and forget about it.” He said finally.

“Well that hardly sounds healthy.” Carrie said. “If it bugged you that much to see it broken, I think you should at least mourn it or something.”

                The two of them looked at each other finally, and Marty smiled. It wasn’t an entirely honest smile, but he wanted to have it on his face. “Let’s sweep it up. It’s well beyond being worth fixing, and I don’t really think I need to mourn it like some report cards.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carrie snapped.

“I just thought that report cards might have meant more to you than this meant to me.” Marty knew he was trying too hard and being passive-aggressive, but he couldn’t stop himself. He and Carrie hadn’t had a good fight in a few months, and he was beginning to miss the make-up sex.

“Don’t think this is going to get you any make-up sex.” Carrie said, “I know this damn candle holder meant a lot to you because you’ve been using it for at least the last twelve years, and it’s survived five moves to new places. I can help you sweep it up, but if you’re going to keep thinking about it, then I’m not going to get in the way of your thoughts.”

She turned on her heels, walked upstairs, and made sure to close the bedroom door loudly enough for Marty to understand he wouldn’t be getting his way tonight. He grabbed a broom from the closet next to the front door, and stared at the pieces again. He picked up the biggest parts – half of an apple, most of a bumblebee, and the face of a sun – and threw them in the trash. After sweeping the smaller pieces up, he got on his knees, and peered under his desk. The drawers of his desk stood about an inch and a half above the ground, so he had to squint to see anything. A fine layer of dust sat undisturbed as far back as Marty could see, so he stood back up and went to bed. He muttered a half-hearted “good night, Carrie” before turning of his bedside lamp, but didn’t care when she responded with a light snore. He doubted it was a real snore.

Carrie woke up the next morning before Marty, and decided to make herself breakfast before work. Scrambled eggs. She made enough for Marty to have a half portion, but ended up eating the whole thing because she was hungry. She justified it by telling herself that Marty wouldn’t have known she made him eggs. Still, she felt a little guilty, so she decided to make some more. When Marty joined her in the kitchen, he asked her if she wanted coffee.

“I’m still trying to cut down.” She said hesitantly.

“Just don’t have another cup before lunch?” He said.

                She looked at him, and smiled. Carrie didn’t worry about thinking whether or not it was a real smile, and Marty knew that. Carey put her arms around Marty, and didn’t notice that the eggs were starting to burn.

My return to writing!

This is only the temporary home for the first post of my new project (one piece of public writing every week for a year). It doesn't have a name yet, and it's unfortunately based on a new year's resolution, but at least it fits in with my regular writing pattern: I had an idea for a few days, my deadline approached, and I scrambled up until the very last minute. I'll re-post this in some fancy new format (potentially in a wordpress), but here's my first entry. Happy 2013!


A Dead Owl

                I saw a dead owl today. It was lying partly on top of a fern, but mostly on the landscaping’s topsoil. The first thing I noticed was that its wings weren’t askew or crooked, and it didn’t have a bad leg or some other deformity. Apart from a red smear on its beak, I could have easily mistaken it for a taxidermied specimen that had fallen out of someone’s window. But it was without a doubt an owl, and it was not asleep. I rarely contemplate death these days, so I was disappointed when stumbling upon a dead thing didn’t instantly trigger memories of my volatile youth. It was shocking, because I don’t see too many owls in my neighbourhood. Wildlife isn’t rare, but usually I come across more urban fare – a squirrel, or a crow. Owls are one of those things I associate with driving an hour out of town to see in a real forest, rather than the urban and suburban parks I still try to lose myself in. I know in my mind that the parks have been intentionally designed to make it easy for anyone to navigate and make their way home, but sometimes I imagine walking off the footpaths and blazing a trail to somewhere new. I try to convince myself that there’s some hidden pond that I can’t see from any GPS map, and it’s got cool things that they can’t have in the main park like a fox’s den or a small beaver dam that’s the real reason the creek seems to spontaneously dry up.

                There wasn’t a whole lot of thought in my immediate actions after seeing the owl. I didn’t stop to think about the partner it may have had, or whether it was on its way to fetch a snack for its children, or try to attribute anything particularly human to it. I don’t know much about owl ecology, though I learned to track them by looking for their pellets. You know you’ve come across owl pellets when it’s white and chalky looking, because they eat their prey whole and can’t digest all the calcium from the bones. Small knowledge bits like that are what keep me from humanizing this owl; I can’t relate on a personal level to something that doesn’t have the patience to spit out its food’s bones, despite knowing it will do a number on its digestive tract. But then again, I eat french fries. So while I may not have been this owl’s gastronomical superior, I’m going to revel a bit in being the only one of the two of us still alive to make the comparison at all. It’s a pitiful victory, and I know that taking pleasure in outliving a bird ought to be morally beneath me, but lately I’ve enjoyed feeling a bit less mortal than the world around me. I’ve made it to nearly the halfway point in my life with no serious medical history. Who can say that? Women count having a child as part of a serious medical history, so I haven’t got many friends of my age who know how much of a relief it is to have avoided regular hospital visits, long-term drug regiments, and constant check-ups with people who seemingly want to poke me in every orifice I’ve got then tell me I’m fine. I could pay a girl to do the exact same thing, only she would get me off as well.

                I found one of the property’s maintenance staff – Jeffrey – and brought him to see the owl. I imagined he would look at the owl, say something mildly meaningful, tip his hat, and ask me to help him ceremoniously bury it in the forest, where it could give itself back to the earth. Jeffrey wasn’t wearing a hat to tip, though, and as much as I would like to believe that he was a sentimental man with humble working-class values, Jeffrey decided that the best solution for the owl was to scoop it into his half full bag of yard trimmings, and get back to his begonias. I was stunned. I didn’t make up any ideas about this owl, yet I had an expectation that I was going to respect its death and treat it like I would a child. I didn’t feel sad, but I wanted to mourn. Jeffrey didn’t, and while I could have asked him to put the body back, or run back to my place, grabbed a shoe box, and asked him if I could bury it, I didn’t think it would be worth the look he would give me. Or the offhanded comment he would make to the next person he saw that day. I have friends of friends living in this building, and I didn’t want to chance one of them hearing about the owl I decided to bury in an old Reebok shoe box. I’m not even sure if I have the right to bury something within the property lines as a renter, let alone the logistical barrier I’d face of finding a shovel. I’ve been gradually accumulating all those things TV tells me I need like a proper tool set, decent cookware, and an impractical collection of coffee table books, but a shovel has never fit into my lifestyle. Burying owls has never had much room, either, but I think today was a perfect example of how I need to plan more for the unexpected. Tomorrow I could suddenly be hunted by the revenue service for accidentally filling out my taxes incorrectly, and would need to make a speedy getaway in the car I don’t have, or I would need to climb out of my fourth-storey window with the emergency ladder I don’t have. I know I ought not to be paranoid, but once you start thinking about all the misfortunes that could possibly happen to you, it gets pretty overwhelming.

                This owl doesn’t need to worry about being overwhelmed anymore, though. And while that should provide me some more morbid comfort, I wonder if owls even experience anxiety or stress the same way humans do. Its brain is nothing like mine, because I wouldn’t mistake a few trees’ reflection on some glass for a forest. But still, staring at an owl in a Reebok shoe box, sweating and panting because I just ran up the stairs to avoid being seen carrying my fluffy bundle covered in grass clippings, and desperately hoping that Jeffrey doesn’t look inside his bag again, I have to question my own reasoning.

Dear JoMaWriMo Readers,

As you may have come to gather recently, things are getting tight here on my end. Unfortunately, due to pressing issues over which I have no bodily control, I have to delay the pleasure of writing my blog for a few days. I'm being a very naughty boy, and really ought to be punished for being so naughty.

I know this means I'm failing the challenge I set myself, but disappointment is a part of life, and I swear, the last five entries (days 27-31) are gonna be amazing.
-Jonathan

PS: you can take this hiatus time to read all those posts you've been meaning to, but haven't yet!

For the Greater Good

            Specimen H4-09 woke up to his first day of life in a warm, sterile room, on a bed of woodchips alongside his many siblings, and exhausted mother. His nose prodded at a warm spot on his mother’s belly, and he promptly went to sleep. He awoke a few hours later to the feel of rubber. It was an unusual sensation, and stood in stark contrast to every sensation of warmth and softness to which H4-09 was accustomed, so he reacted in the only way his body could: he bit at the strange, foul-tasting tubes wrapped around him. He kicked as hard as he could, but the tubes had a firm grasp on him, so H4-09 was helpless to do anything as he moved into a new room. He was placed in a cage similar to the one containing his mother and siblings, alongside, on top of, and underneath dozens of similar cages. When his feet felt woodchips again, H9-04 scurried into the far back corner of the cage, and nestled himself as well as he could underneath the wooden camouflage. Still an infant, his scampering was entirely ineffective at keeping the rubber tubes away from him, but fortunately the giant creatures that manipulated the rubber tubes were already more interested in the inhabitants of the other cages. H9-04 fell asleep soon afterward.

A Personal Appeal from Jonathan

            Okay, folks, it’s time we got personal. I only have about an hour to write this blog post, and I have too many have-developed ideas to commit to one that I can successfully develop and crank out in the next hour and eighteen minutes. I may also throw in filler words as often as I can find places to put them (see what I’m doing?). At first I felt like this was a cop-out, and defied the challenge I set for myself three weeks ago. However, I thought about it for a second, and after some serious ego rationalization, I’ve decided this is a challenge in its own right: I usually spend at least two hours on a blog post, and I’m seriously lacking in the time department right now. How about I talk about my creative process for a while?

Ethics and Purity Reclaimed

            I can’t even begin to tell all of you how grateful I am for the opportunity to speak in front of this beautiful audience today. While I don’t usually attend speak publicly at political activist campaigns, I feel like this issue has persisted for too long, and deserves my utmost attention. Never again should a child be subjected to parents of two different races, or have to endure the pain and humiliation of being born a half-blood. My name is Cassandra Gedrarian – though most of you know me by name online name, Cassy Gregarious – and I am pro-pure marriage!