Writing Straight Up

I have my writing shoes on and am work/walking at my treadmill desk. I love this great concept that incorporates a desktop and a treadmill. My ‘desk’ is fastened to the front bars of mill above the programming modules. I sense that Arthur Slade, the author who introduced me to this idea, must have been a more athletic type than I am. (No pun was intended but I like it so I will keep it.) At first I am wobbling, then doing a drunken two step and now I am marching along. My desk keeps sliding into my belly button and my mouse is on a rampage, spinning and circling like a mad crane. These shoes are made for writing

Ten minutes later....

The physical challenges are under control and the treadmill world is stabilised. I can trot like a horse or plod like a Meg either choice seems to keep the writing going.

I have given the treadmill her own name. It is clear to me that we are going to develop some intimacy as time goes by and I would feel badly referring to her as It. She is Wilda The Walking Wonder. The exciting aspect of my relationship with Wilda, is that she spontaneously introduces inclines in her orientation every once in awhile. I then stumble up hill toward my desk top. This is good. It shakes new thoughts loose and plops them out to be considered.
The monitor is perched on the window sill. Viewing it from eight feet away is odd. As long as I bump up the point size to 18 it’s easy to see. At that distance, there is definitely no screen radiation firing molecules into my system.

The most challenging aspect of this set-up is that I am not linked to Face Book. I wonder, “What am I missing as I stroll along to somewhere going nowhere?” Will I get lonely as I work/walk? A writer is an independent soul but we like to touch the outside world for brief visits. No obligations-just insights into the world.

One hundred and twenty minutes later....

Arthur assured me that the machine would auto stop after an hour but so far this has not happened. I did step off a couple of times because I couldn’t get my wireless keyboard to connect (You have to hold the connect button down for a looonnnnnggg time!). Surely Wilda, didn’t note my departure and up the ante by extending the time before a break.
Do you think my internal editor (Miss Monkey Mind) is messing with the keyboard? Perhaps she is attempting to distract me with wonky equipment functions. Is she afraid to start the process? She knows that the writing today will be strictly stream-of-consciousness and she won’t be able to interfere. Poor Monkey you lose.

From my usual office with a view, I look out over the river to the west and our lovely yard to the east. The treadmill is, unfortunately too heavy to heft up three flights of stairs. The result? I am working in the exercise room which is located on the lower walk-out level. This cedar clad space is not as bright as my upstairs study but smells wonderful. Here I look North. I have a cosy view of a little cobble-stone patio which peeks through the leaves. The forest at this side of the house accommodates a generous gathering of trees. The woody conference is hosted by a seasoned forty foot spruce tree and his Scotch pine relatives. Faithful attendees include: honey bushes, lilacs, elders, three story high Saskatoon berry trees, 14 foot pin cherries, poplars, and other arboreal varieties of unknown origin.

Little birds zoom outside the windows; wrens, chickadees and, at this time of year, nuthatches. They swim in the green shadows eager to collect the pine nuts that fall so generously from the spruce trees. Does it make them spruce nuts if they come from spruce trees? Somehow that sounds rude. The sun beams through the woods, making white on white stripes on the garden chairs that husband Rob made several years ago. These deep seated Muskoka chairs have mellowed in the adversity of weather (as we all tend to do). Now they blend happily into the framework of cobbles, lilacs, Virginia creeper and spruce.

The window is open as I walk and write. I can smell the fecund scent of fall decay. The Baba Yaga in me likes it. It imparts a sense of safety and a promise of renewal. For me smell evokes wonderful images particularly of times past. I must admit though, I hate the odour of rotting pin cherries and their ilk. When this type of berry rots, it tangs of blood not earth.
After several hours of churning her belt Wilda finally tired. I think she did notice my time away to fix the keyboard. It was hours before she stopped to cool her motors and gave me a moment to down some icy limeade and stretch my tight calves.

Ten minutes later....

The break is over and I begin once more. Oops! I almost lost my stream of consciousness there. No, I am not going to pass out. My mouse was moving stealthily toward the spell check icon. “Miss Monkey Mind, behave yourself”, I say. “This is a streaming exercise and you are not invited”. Fortunately the menu bar is too small to read from the mill. I caught the trap as I leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. And thus I am saved.
There are lots of typos and goofy sentences staring back at me from the screen. The urge to spell-check and edit is almost overwhelming. My fingers are not used to the rocking of walking while writing.

Sixty Minutes Later....

Walk. Walk. Walk. Work the body work the brain. Wilda, my purring companion and I have taken the first steps toward new adventures. I feel so good that I promise Monkey Mind I will spell check tomorrow.



The sun has paled and the birds are at rest. I’ll leave you to muse on my journey to nowhere that is somewhere in my heart. I know I will continue with my Writing Straight Up.

Lipstick circa 1950

Scarlet lipstick. That was the hallmark of the woman of the fifties. Fire-hot, glistening mouths were visible from blocks away. Words were etched in bloody frames, too often appropriate to the gossipy topics their owners’ loved.

In that time, lips moved front and centre, out of proportion in otherwise bland, Ivory soap-scrubbed faces. No one wore eye shadow or mascara aside from actresses, dancers or ladies of the night and other persons of scandalous intent.

Lipstick smeared teeth with coagulated cherry streaks were the trade mark of the honest woman too busy and distracted with children to spend the time blotting and powdering the greasy stuff.

On Sundays, churches were filled with vampire teeth not belonging to the damned but to the saintly. How unsettling it was for the children to see ancient ladies grinning with radish-tipped dentures.

What an odd sense of propriety these crimson mouthed matrons had. Did they not realise that ruby lips were intended to entice men with visible reproduction of the engorged dark peony coloured labia slick with the want of sex? It’s highly unlikely that they figured it out but Charles Revlon understood and built an empire on the mimicry of blood filled genitalia.

Image is courtesy of Artist Sheila Norgate.

Autumn in the Hamlets

This morning I was out picking Battleford apples from one of our trees. My feet were bare, the grass was lush and sparkling with dew. I couldn't stretch to the top branches where the biggest gems lurked, but a good shake showered me with a sweet storm of fruit. I felt like someone from a Gene Stratton Porter novel. Absorbed in the soul of nature.


The manchurian elms and the poplars are vying to see which can exhibit the most magnificent tansluscent lemon color. The Virgina creeper wins out however. With her scarlet robes she really stands out in the crowd. But like all else in life her glory will fade as the deep blood red of the Japanese maples appear. Virginia the scarlet

Riverside Hamlet is quiet today as everyone heads out to do whatever it is one does to prepare for the nasty cold that will soon arrive. We took a little drive down the road and around the fields to buy fresh corn from the Coles. They live in Furdale, another Hamlet but one that makes Riverside look like a metropolis.

The sun has warmed the earth of their corn fields and the scent of rich earth and green smell of corn rows erase all else from the air. We will eat only corn for supper, an annual indulgence. I will bake the corn in the husks. This a process, I believe, makes the kernels sweeter and more tender.

As we passed harvested fields, we enjoyed seeing a rabble of cranes and geese settled in the golden stubble. They had come together for a rare treat of sun-toasted grain and a good gossip.

The combine that prepared the feast.

Cranes sound as if they have a thousand frogs chorusing in their long neck. Geese reply with inelegant twanging nasal honks. Perhaps they were all Country singers in another lifetime.

A late arrival to the party.

The apples picked this morning are glowing in the late afternoon light breathing through the west kitchen window. Molecules of apple aroma dance throughout the room. A comforting yet enlivening smell.

So ends another day on the outskirts of Saskatoon.

All photography is by R.E. (Rob) Morgan

Freedom from Self

The waste basket is the writer's best friend

Isaac Bashevis Singer

Singer is one of my favorite writers. His stories are fables that delve into the arcane heart to find the real meaning of existence. He is a story teller who respects a rich Jewish tradition. His writing is an homage to ancient wisdom yet he adds his own touches to the tapestry of words. I can see him scribbling away refining and refining as he eliminates the dross and seeks the gold. I am sure his basket overflowed with superfluous words and unimportant thoughts.

Life works in a similar fashion. In our mid-teens a strange manifestation takes place. A translucent cloak enwraps us and distorts our view of life. In our cocooned world of self-design, we see ourselves as the center of the matrix. There is a simplicity of thinking that was black/white and totally ego-bound. Those who peopled the world outside our center are perceived as either friends or enemies. Events and interactions are viewed as either glorious affirmation of our worth or devastating holocausts designed to destroy us.

As we mature, we are called upon to eliminate the deceitful constructs of youth. As the days pass, the sheaves of psychic skin that overgrew our eyes, our hearts and our souls begin to shed. At first the shreds fall infrequently and blow way in the wind unnoticed. But soon the hurts, sorrows and scars accelerate the cloak's decay. In our middle years the shedding may take on the proportions of a hurricane. Confused, in pain from the tearing way, we may seek refuge in the well worn paths of behaviour from our adolescent years but as the giant funnels continue to strip away the layers, our heart's sight begins to clear. The sheets of protection tossed into the universal wastebasket. It is through this process we realise the events of life are not for us or against us but just ARE. Like the weather or the weeds what is, Is.

He Wore Stilts but Refused the Highhorse

I have a dearly loved adopted cousin whose last name is Routh. He is the father of three adult children and numerous grandchildren. I recently discovered that his last name meant abundance and sent him a note to tell him. In the note I was referring to progeny but he sent me the following story about his father in response.

"Abundance can be displayed in many ways. If we go back to World War II a young Canadian non-com serving in England looked up a family named Routh in an attempt to trace his roots.

The Englishman gentleman assisting him asked the Canadian his name, "Bud" he replied. "Is that your full proper name?" inquired the British Routh. "No." Bud responded. After a momentary pause he reluctantly stated, "It is Horace Clair." Bud Routh on stilts & son circa 1964

At this point the Brit proudly asserted, "You are named after the Knight in the family, Sir Horatio Routh." "No, I'm named after my Father." was the disbelieving young man's quick reply.

Sure of the continuance of the lineage to the Lord, the Englishman said, "Then he was named after the Knight." At this point Bud Routh asked the only logical question, "What was he Knighted for?"

Family history tells us the English Routh's chest swelled and with overflowing pride announced, "He carried the rations through at the battle of Waterloo."

Here's where the other concept of, Routh meaning Abundance, enters the equation..... My Dad darted back, "A true Routh then, always thinking of his stomach!" There was little else that the English Routh wished to exchange with the Colonial Routh after that."

This story reveals so much about Ron's father. In my heart he is always laughing and telling wonderful funny stories, often poking fun at himself and the crazy things he had done, usually with hilarious outcomes attached. He had a robust spirit that was firmly grounded in the earth. He was not afraid to push the boundaries but he was most himself when he was savoring his homemade wine or sausage, working his eay through huge potluck dinners, calling square dances or dancing them.

I remember summer regattas where he and my father rigged canoes with amazing contraptions (no standard paddles allowed) and raced along the rocky shores of Lake Ontario near Pickering. The day wasn't complete until someone went in 'the drink'. The first to tip his fantasmagorical creation was always followed by the other who would leap with a tremendous Whoop! into the icy water.

I also remember the Routh Outdoor Drive-in Theater. Bud and my Dad would rig up a wooden frame, tack on a sheet and then we would all settle to watch home movies. These performances were side splittingly funny, especially with the accompanying narrations from Bud and my Father. When the evening was over, we would go home stuffed with popcorn and sides still aching from the laughter.

Compared to a man like that, a Knighthood, however honestly won, seems small in comparison.

Thank you for sharing your story with us, Ron. Be sure your abundant progeny read it.

Compulsive Writing

Its been only three days since I determined that it was time to return to the writing life. Already I fear I may need counselling.

Natalie Goldberg, in her wonderful book Old Friend from Far Away, suggests that we prime the pump with I remember.... Initially I thought this was a great idea but now I find I am 'automatic writing' as my mind commands my fingers on the keyboard without any consultation with ME. Thus far I have pages and pages of memory lists and one tiny story which has yet to mature. Do I continue my lists? Try to force a real story? Abandon all hope? Continue to let it flow? You are my counsellor and I hear you asking "What do you want?"

Thank you wise one. I know now what to do.

The lists of I remember... feel good to me and so far my internal editor has been forced into inactivity because there are no sentences, structure, or plot to impede me. The lack of criticism from my internal task master allows me to feel more confident about what is to come. The real treasure in this process is the characters that are coming back into my life. There were some very fine humans in my history and some devilishly bad ones. I am enjoying meeting them again. I think I will continue, for awhile, to indulge this delicious process. As a counter balance, I promise to continue to create small stories that will someday grow up to be full tales of life.

Games Are More Than They Seem

Kim Ayres has an interesting, well written blog. This is one of his recent comments.

9 months, 3 days and untold numbers of espressos later and I've finished Extreme Su Doku: Bk. 2, by Wayne GouldI can't remember how long book 1 took me, but I now have book 3 at the ready.

These Sudoku books have become a part of my life over the past couple of years. There's a wonderful meditative quality when my mind is so occupied, that for the duration I'm no longer thinking about anything else - fears, concerns and anxieties are nudged out the way. It's almost become another form of self medication, only with less harmful side effects.
Kim Ayres

I am heartened by Ayres' Sudoku addiction. I am also delighted by his rationalization for the participation in what appears to be a 'useless' occupation. You see, I have become attached to several facebook based games. I thought I was wasting time playing Farmville, Farm Town and Barn Buddy but now I know that I am actually meditating. How sublime!

You can view Kim's blog at http://kimayres.blogspot.com/