Look at any mystery. There's nothing more satisfying than your basic whodunit. A late night, a dark alley, the inevitable body over by the dumpster. Ever notice the lack of moon in these stories? Maybe it's because of smog or light pollution, but even when a body is pulled out of a trunk somewhere in the woods there's no moon to speak of. Perhaps the moon is absent in each case. Perhaps it simply turns away pretending such things never happen under its watch. Perhaps it feels above it all. But that's the moon for you.
Friday, November 20, 2015
They say a chain of maple leafs got crushed along the boards tonight. Their brains interpreted the imprint of the boards on their faces as pain. As always, the trainer had to be escorted over to fallen wingers on the arm of number 17, somebody said to NK after the game. NK seemed to want to look away, perhaps in fear that he'd lose his place in line at the post-game buffet, chops 'n beets. He's the reason they installed the keyboard in the dressing room but you'd never know it. The lock bears the keychain of a public utility for which a young man, Dale, drives a Dodge van for he's not sure how much longer. Dale's wife Larraine has other ideas.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
I knew it would be slippery out there, but I had to step out and I had to be careful as I couldn't afford to break a hip and be late, not when I have a date with a pyrotechnician. We meet twice a year in a public space for reasons that don't pertain to this story, but I will say I drove right by the pyrotechnician on my way to the flu clinic the day before and didn't know it. Nor did I see any man with white gloves, but apparently I drove by him too. He was standing right beside the Grey Cup. I didn't see that either, but it was there, just two blocks from here, and I was clueless. Mind you, that's not quite true. I thought I felt a wave of chills as I drove by and I gave a little shudder, but now I suspect it was cheers I felt along with the remote shutter of the camera as the pyrotechnician took a selfie with the cup and the flash bounced back and, well, you get the picture.
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 1:57 PM
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Key word: chalk. You write it wherever it will take, preferably a concrete wall downtown. Find new spaces, in black and white or colour. At this point, remind nervous merchants or developers that the chalk will wash off in the first rain. Should this rain want to occur as the chalk is first applied, writers/artists will be supplied with a 24-hour waterproof fixer to spray over their work. The more surfaces covered with chalk, the better. An all-ages event. Over in the beer garden, the chalk slam begins, poems scrawled on chalkboards the size of home plate. At the signal, all home plates are brandished for the audience to read and, with the usual hoot-and-holler of poetry fans, out-call. Of course, the local mall will have commissioned ten local artists to create large-format chalk pieces for installation in the mezzanine. Everywhere on the streets, volunteers hand out chalk.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Puddles everywhere. My shoes were still wet when I went to put them on this morning and one smells much worse than the other. And I mean smell! Go figure. They’re meant for hiking, but I wear them for gardening as it’s the safest way to get around, and they’re waterproof, too, up to a point. Last evening, running through the ditch at a speed, I found that point about halfway, just as the rainbow ahead of me doubled. Just keep going, H said from the road. He was right. It was too late to turn back.
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 8:55 PM
Saturday, August 8, 2015
had garlic in it. The bag was from something else, the garlic was for me. She advised me to chop it up with a T or so of olive oil and a t or so of vinegar. At that point it can be frozen for later. But preparing the garlic was a little like organizing geese for the relocation, all the flapping. I felt fine with garlic on my hands but my grand-daughter shied away. A little later she didn't mind so much. Then came the night of the pork chops with a t or two of the stuff, which the chops tried to ignore. Next morning I ran hard on the treadmill, garlic in my step.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Don’t go away! It’s a cool day, the kind of day where you look out the window and say Man, I grow some fine lettuce. Look at those frilly leaves wringing water out of the dishrag sky! That’s what I’d say on a bad day, just cuz, but this is not that. Out with the dishrag, out with the woolly bag! It’s too much. Sag sag sag, look, the lag bolt has let go. The deck now tilts in this direction. The lettuce points it out as if it all comes down to me. Post-lunch onion breath fogs the window, a slow death in this humidity. Don’t overdose on chives while the garlic cures, I tell no one in particular for no particular reason. Of course no one listens. No one ever does. I used to recite that e e cummings poem, you know the one, but I don’t remember it anymore, not that it has anything to do with onions or garlic. It’s more the breath thing perhaps, but who knows. It's anyone's guess. From an easel in the entrance hang two varieties of hardneck. They’ll be there for weeks, bundled and suspended, swaying in the breeze. The smell makes me hungry. Yesterday I sampled the one called Music. Once free of its wrapper, the clove dripped. I’m not sure what I heard, but it was something.
Hop by Brenda Schmidt at 4:41 PM