tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2825210600950516052024-03-13T21:02:49.177-05:00Select HopsBrenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.comBlogger208125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-9628311270451286712016-01-16T13:53:00.001-06:002016-02-01T16:09:52.128-06:00Braguette<span style="font-size: large;">I've noticed that writers go for months complaining that nobody reads them, nobody pays them any critical attention, nobody knows what they're doing. Then comes, maybe, a blast of recognition of one kind or other--an award, a big publication, a ceremonial honour, a burst of braggadocio--which is fun until the writer wishes everyone would go away so he/she can get back to work. Chronic grumps, chrumps, some writers. If they were content, they wouldn't be writing, I suppose. This all comes to mind because something has to. Last night at the poetry slam, most of the participants offered a version of poetry heavy on the confessional but light on craft--a slim model of poetic (I thought, munching on a strudel at the back) that no one seems to know how to explore. </span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-21932696858068181482016-01-10T12:12:00.000-06:002016-01-10T12:12:28.943-06:00So mouthyThe grosbeaks are going on and on like -35 is something. A soup day for
sure. Last night I bragged about H's old-fashioned Quebec pea soup. I
bragged about his baguette. Brag while you can, I say! Repeating
yourself is another matter entirely. I noticed at a function this week
that we were telling people stories that appear in my book. You could
see flashes of recognition, a quick WTF race across their brows, before
their socially adept faces returned to form. Oops! Please excuse me.
It's time to revisit that pot of pea soup waiting in the fridge. And
where's that glorious baguette? Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-76144328931438671862016-01-08T19:26:00.001-06:002016-01-08T19:26:55.386-06:00Mouth piece<span style="font-size: large;">I pulled over to chew on the choice between alley and street. Either way gets you, but one's got benches and signs about loitering. Ones got bars. What's stately out front turns peephole when you get right back to it. If I say I prefer the backs of things I mean it. By the way, you read somewhere about--it was in <i>Fifteen Dogs </i>now that you think of it--that form in which the name of a dog is spoken, when the piece is read aloud, but not written, <i>hula sepeia</i>, for example.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-63185871169217189142015-12-31T14:40:00.001-06:002015-12-31T15:29:00.366-06:00Looking back<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s what we tend to
do on this day. I’ll speak for everyone here because why not? Looking back just
a few minutes, I knew as soon as the plastic ripped that it was a mistake to crack
open the bag of mini turtles so early in the day, but I popped one in my mouth anyway
and bit down. This is how a year comes to a smashing end. A swallowing of chocolate, chopped nuts (ouch!),
and a caramel centre, though when you come right down to it, it’s impossible to
swallow the centre without becoming the centre, the chopped nuts (ouch!), and the
chocolate, but that's not all, nor does it necessarily follow. The thing is, the uvula gives it all a little pat like everything will be ok, it’s
got your back, and for a moment you believe it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-23502979167330147552015-12-26T18:45:00.001-06:002015-12-29T16:16:31.669-06:00What people come down with<span style="font-size: large;">Where did I get this back, the wounded lower one, wow. Not wounded but strained, not strained but what deep orbit shines from a bruise? I did sit down to play the piano the other day. Did piano make pain? Let's hear it for playin' pain in the deep center, beyond left and right. J</span><span style="font-size: large;">ust as professional drivers, the taxis and semis, can be trusted to drive safely and efficiently, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I've been a critter long through the neck and back and, therefore, not prone to injury to such a vital span. But I tell you, somehow in twenty-four hours I grew a derange of motion I'll have to devote several days to releasing. How slowly? The person ahead of me holding the door gave up and went inside. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And this just in, three days later:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was the damn rowing machine. Ever since I got it into my head that we tall men tend to make good rowers, if we can harness the furthest reaches of our power stroke (our purr stroke, we call it, when it works), all it takes is two minutes. The deep power, as if pissed about sporadic access, wrecks everything. A week later, the transition from seated to standing still takes care.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-55733796304627367662015-12-19T13:31:00.000-06:002015-12-31T14:53:13.707-06:00Handheld Night SceneIt's a mode. I gave it a try, albeit a hasty one, last night. It was a
cold night, the half-moon half hazy, ice crystals almost wafting, softening the glow and blunting the points, though wafting isn't really the word I want here. It looked more like someone breathing on their
glasses before cleaning them with a once-black t-shirt
that had been washed one time too many, but how do you put that into a
tidy little word with the right music to match the sentence and
occasion? Standing in the dark, I lined up a decent composition, pressed
the shutter button and heard the camera take three quick shots which it
then sewed together to create a sense of clarity if I understand the manual correctly, and I thought
wow, the things people come up with. Like that tidbit of gossip going
around. I lined up the next shot, but of course by then I was wondering
why I haven't received an invitation, or at least the particulars so I
can plan the journey, and I sewed together three possible scenarios.
That picture was blurrier than the first, but I kept it anyway. Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-4323083845263330852015-12-17T10:05:00.002-06:002015-12-17T10:05:35.951-06:00Mooncount<span style="font-size: large;">One moon is said to have "taken the geese and squirrels but left the holes." Another appears as a film of moondust on a glass table or a "season of giant moons." It could be a "horse's skull" or someone's name. Could a moon leave traces of her body in your bed? Maybe the moon is wrong, I asked once. A football moon. And one I'll never forget: I was bat boy for the ball team in Herbert, the Herbert Hawks. We were about to start a game in Rush Lake. As he swung a couple of bats to warm up, the coolest, tallest, most handsome guy I could ever hope to be looked up to the moon and said, Yup, good moon for smootchin'. </span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-35610589916571995942015-11-22T17:50:00.000-06:002015-12-31T14:53:35.799-06:00A chain of events is keyLook 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. <span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-88692548920221332952015-11-20T22:21:00.000-06:002015-11-20T22:21:13.296-06:00Day freeze<span style="font-size: large;">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.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-52809303304482193572015-10-21T13:57:00.000-05:002015-12-31T14:53:58.346-06:00Yesterday the rain froze on the windowsI 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. Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-53163723284019869982015-08-20T20:55:00.000-05:002015-08-20T20:55:18.898-05:00Idea for a chalk festival<span style="font-size: large;">Key word: chalk. You write it wherever it will take, preferably a concrete wall downtown. Find new spaces, in </span><span style="font-size: large;">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. </span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-66563104644203742432015-08-18T20:55:00.000-05:002015-08-18T20:55:32.439-05:00Sunny one minute, pouring the next<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-52711200259438102662015-08-08T22:21:00.002-05:002015-08-08T22:21:12.916-05:00Susie's bag<span style="font-size: large;">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. </span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-26210027168838469902015-08-05T16:41:00.000-05:002015-08-05T17:02:28.037-05:00Rain rain<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-20493288601494276192015-08-01T11:13:00.001-05:002015-08-01T11:13:21.210-05:00Heating<span style="font-size: large;">I woke up with one eye seared shut, the other not commenting. My hat had done to my head what a bag does to an onion. My neck wasn't even needed. When I spoke to my sister, she burned away. Otherwise, <i>cool</i>, we said. This was 10:00; like tomatoes, I was just starting. The papers said to beat the heat by sleeping it, by heating in. That's why I've been this way.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-3271137881902185232015-07-26T20:16:00.000-05:002015-07-26T20:16:06.514-05:00Same old story<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
You know the one where
the mirror needs cleaning and it’s too hot to do anything else so you grab a
rag and take a swipe and WTF! Who the hell are you and why are you wearing my
cap?</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-39835118346366317212015-07-22T11:16:00.000-05:002015-07-22T11:16:01.459-05:00Repeating<span style="font-size: large;">I woke up in my car the other night in the mountains west of Rocky Mountain House. I was in transit along that route between the Edmonton area and the okanagan that I'd driven yearly since my parents and sisters started living out there (or, as I say from the coffee shop in the Mission district of Kelowna,<i> here</i>) in the 70s. I'd decided to try sleeping in my Matrix with the seats folded down and a mattress laid out. It was darkest night, brightest stars, when I woke up the other night. I'll claim face-to-face, me and the Dipper, one the mask of the other. We opened at each other, no words. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">No words but I've told the story a couple of times now--camping at Two O'Clock Creek as I used to do, opening my eyes to the stars there.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-30670516999692692092015-07-15T12:00:00.000-05:002015-07-15T12:52:24.325-05:00What was that?<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I’m trying my hardest not to stare at the neighbour while
he rebuilds his retaining wall, but his chainsaw is making some weird pulsing
noise and I’m a bit concerned. It sounds
like he’s repeatedly sticking the tip into an electrical outlet. Because why
not! Seriously though, I'd get that thing checked. That or my ears. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-84885775892167833532015-07-12T14:59:00.000-05:002015-07-12T14:59:15.437-05:00Facing<span style="font-size: large;">I thought I'd bike east and did, so far east I looked at people as ways out. Until then we'd all seen each other but hadn't said or nodded much. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I'd asked one guy if he had bike trouble. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I stopped to consult the compass on my phone and a map. I was heading the right away but had turned onto the fairy-tale path through a development. Once I found the road past the cemetery, I was home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I report one other public incident:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So far east, I'd spotted a couple of boats east of the bridge, where they weren't supposed to go. By the time I got back to that bridge, two or three hours later, the boats were passing beneath me. I hollered down something about reading the sign. They just looked at me.</span><br />
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<br />Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-893027136492142292015-07-08T22:30:00.000-05:002015-07-08T23:49:48.693-05:00Just a little gore<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
It's bizarre how bugs bite
your face and leave you bleeding and you’re clueless until someone looks at you
and their eyes bug out. I posted this, or something like this, on social media this
afternoon and it fell flat, not that I let it stand long. I know better. Bloody
posts are a bit too vampire for a Wednesday, especially in July, the newsfeed
full of castles and gondolas, cottages and terriers, and GIFS of cats filing
their nails, not to mention the CanLit crowd ‘arguing’ over the so-called death
of CanLit yet again like they do every spring and fall, visions of ARCs dancing
on their desks perhaps, or something like that, but who can blame them, and, let’s face
it, it’s pretty entertaining, much like my face at the moment. The bites might
be a bit ugly, but, like always, the swelling will go down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-1668785180255240992015-07-07T15:07:00.002-05:002015-07-07T15:07:55.953-05:00Death in the afternoon<span style="font-size: large;">Where did death come from? I meant to say blues, blues in the afternoon, the title of a new painting by Anne McElroy facing me, just hung. I'd seen it at the Station Arts Centre in Rosthern where Lloyd and I and Lynda shared a reading last month. We'd stood in the gallery space chatting with the women who run the place about our event that evening. I began to notice the paintings; the paintings began to rise into me. I chose one, lightly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It had been in Fes, Morocco, that I found Hemingway's <i>Death in the Afternoon</i> in a bookshop run by the only guy to give me good directions to my hotel that day. It was <i>Death in the Afternoon</i> that led me to the bullring in Seville three weeks later. The bullring was closed for the season but later I sat under the head of Inclusero, the bull, adrift in the afternoon.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-38081811563361931182015-07-04T19:30:00.000-05:002015-07-04T19:30:36.073-05:00The scapes<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p> </o:p>A little olive oil,
medium grill. Those were the instructions. I had no hand in the preparation,
however. My only part was a clean snip in midafternoon so the wound would have
a chance to begin healing before nightfall. I learned how thanks to a video on YouTube.
And the snips were indeed clean. I know all about scissors. I harvested only four
scapes, handing them over as the wind picked up and the smoke thickened, then I
went my own way. The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. At some point the
scapes appeared before me. All I know is they slid down and I experienced the
divine. I left the tips for they were as burnt as I’d imagined and seeing them
lying on the plate after I was finished brought a measure of relief. At least I
know enough to trust my visions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-36328200262988354732015-07-03T19:05:00.000-05:002015-07-03T19:05:08.956-05:00The facing of the mezzanine<span style="font-size: large;">Hit a ball up there, you won't see it. Lay off the slider down and in. It's all about looking at your scouting reports, and it's three more days, muscle of smoke. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The blend of smoke and light produced parked cars. What could Do Not Enter mean?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We hope for people's lives where the smoke is.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-35806179968230393362015-07-03T17:47:00.000-05:002015-07-03T18:18:06.473-05:00It’s smokier than ever<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I have a feeling it
will get worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I have a feeling tonight
it will hail through the smoke and nail my garlic. It's a critical time. There’s a risk of thunderstorms overnight and active
warnings for the fire zone just a block west, so the possibility is there, yet I opted not to pick the garlic
scapes for some reason. Sometimes feelings are just feelings. Sometimes you
go with them. The scapes have curled around like sleeping bears or thoughts of bears,
but this is the first time I’ve grown garlic and I’m not sure they’re fully grown, thus the hesitation, not that they need to be mature to be worthy. I suppose if it doesn’t storm we’ll grill
them tomorrow. No amount of oil will keep the pointy ends from burning. That much I know already. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I have a feeling a bear
will unearth my potatoes in the meantime, drool baby potatoes as it heads for the chives. The
bear is puffing. I’ve had this feeling for days. The reduced air quality must
be causing Smokey Bear flashbacks. Regardless, the chives are especially nice
this year, perhaps thanks to the ash. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
I have a feeling this
feeling in my chest will pass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Brenda Schmidthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03576550905189206215noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282521060095051605.post-62824268920015678012015-07-02T19:30:00.002-05:002015-07-02T19:30:29.438-05:00What west looks like before the paint job<span style="font-size: large;">They were taking pictures yesterday of the sun in its salmon hue, the way it dove toward Viterra, southwest corner of downtown. People worked out their finances walking home in smoke. Those inclined to do so wrote about hordes of spear descending. On air, the broadcast had broken down, Jays struggling to hold off the Sox. We couldn't tell air from the page of a book.</span>Gerald Hillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05252429320186782729noreply@blogger.com0