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These, gathered from the jeep, idle pick-ups from the summer. Not enough time spent gathering these for sure, but the location - work - well, time off I avoid the place.
The arrowhead's on the left, the black stone on the far right is a curiosity, curved, shows definite signs of knapping, heavy, harder, not local.
Detail of arrowhead. This is small, at most an inch long.
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In other news, the weather's been turning, rain, on the windshield, through the crack in the unclosed door, running down, up early to get a coffee and get warm.
Read the internet, the elections, imminent, Alberta, political news from there always triggers that Banjo music from "Deliverance" in my head, another obituary for another of our customers, one of the golfers, only saw them once this year, they were always very generous, but one was not looking in such good health.
I had joked that the restaurant would not open in the spring, would be sold, but at this rate it's going to open to no customers...
This is the routine. Then to the thrift shop to do my sorting, unboxing, treasures a-plenty.
By Thursday I've cleared the backlog and the back wall, for the first time in 6 months, is visible. I turn my attention to the jewelry, thinking that this will be a relief from all the kitsch and kitchenware I've had to endure.
I was wrong. Unknotting chains, mostly costume, cutting apart necklaces for the beads, bad hemp jewelry, or poorly crafted pendants or beaded bits of earrings, bracelets, occasional bits of fake silver, real silver, the glint of gold plating or - much rarer - a diamond chip set into 9 karat gold...
These are not the treasures I was looking for.
Saturday, Sunday, winter's here. Overnight, the wind howling, snow drifts piling, in the middle of the night the cities black, the power is off, and I'm largely warm but getting cold, colder, my feet, there's no way to keep them warm.
Another sleeping bag, another layer.
Bloody hell.
Make my way to Oso, run into V*****, a Quebecois who sits with me and tells me about his life, the moustached squirrel that broke into his cabin and spent 3 weeks inside eating everything, shitting everywhere, pissing everywhere, all while he was away in Quebec, and now he's returned to find this mess...
...and about work, and his son and chopping wood and all the trifling local news and how he needs firewood and his truck won't make it up the hill, too slippery...
I wasn't writing anyways, so sit and just listen.
I meet J***, an acquaintance of V*****, who joins the conversation from a neighboring table, young, very handsome, fluent in English and French, by which I mean he has no accent, contrasted with V***** who has the classic accent.
I get a call from the Police, they're reporting a break in at my jeep, and - for a moment - I'm confused.
"Who should I call?..." I wonder. I head down to check it out, door flapping in the wind, only a few flashlights stolen as far as I can see, tape the door closed.
And, walking down past the commercial space I'd considered renting for the winter - didn't get around quickly enough to it, and somebody else rented, taped paper over all the windows and I have the feeling that they are doing exactly what I would be doing, using a bogus business, "Quack Medical" or some such, as a front for their living space.
Which brings us to the moment, free now, after a fashion, a million things to be done and it's time to get serious, and time as well to get moved indoors...
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Halloween, and nothing going on, which was sad because I'd made big plans to go to a rave or club and in the end did nothing.
Almost nothing. A friend invites me to a school Halloween do, outdoors. It's one of those "alternative" schools, and with no reasonable excuses as to why I can't go I'm in.
Now it's cold out, unseasonably, and dark, and the "tour" begins in the parking lot, from which you walk through the forest along lighted paths to various stations at which you're given (or more the children are given) "quests". There is nothing in the least scary about this Halloween, it goes against the schools teachings. This Halloween we're on a quest to find "Puffer-Nuffer", a magical leprechaun that on Halloween can be enticed to give away his gold...
So the parents walk with their kids to see first the Fairies, then various other woodland creatures, all done in lighted tents, ...
... and I'm laughing, because this, this quest to find the fairies, the.... the lights, the woods, it's grooming the kids into rave culture, and this "Puffer-Nuffer", I'm thinking that's a reference to the most socially accepted vice out here, and I'm not sure they did this on purpose or simply because it's so woven into the culture it all just came to them without thinking...
Anyways, that was as close as I got to a rave this Halloween, and you don't need to tell me, I'm disappointed as well...
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Sundays are the worst Wake up, hit the café, but you can only drink so much coffee. There's the heat of the afternoon, find a bench, enjoy the sunlight, follow the sun from bench to bench, lie down, nap, listen to the fading of conversations passing by, invariably trivial things that really don't need to be spoken about, certainly not out loud. Move on, find another bench, read a book, by 4:30, 5;00 it's starting to get cool, then by 6:00 it's time for a sweater. And the sun goes down and there's little to do, spend money in a bar, restaurant, but all this spending money, it's unsustainable. And these days off, October, it's crazy to see how on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon the streets are empty, where is everyone? Sunday, no library to hide out in, nowhere, really, and the weather, for a few hours OK, then too cool and even that will soon be over.
I need a place, and soon...
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On Sunday, the Poetry Slam, moved indoors, into the old used bookstore on Baker, the room is full. I'm late and so have to sit close to the front beside an older hippy. Carpet Vest guy isn't here, perhaps it's too far from his home under the bridge, or, as likely he's picked up with winter approaching and found himself better digs.
The standard readers, with an emphasis tonight on the older readers. Beside me the older hippy gets on the sign-up sheet, he'll be reading, not poetry, but a chapter from his upcoming book on his life in a commune...
When he gets up and begins reading it's clear it's not what should be read here, much like an agricultural report or dry biographical details of someone you have no interest in whatsoever. He's reading to us from Chapter 73 of his untitled Opus, in which he details the commune experience, "100 elders and 200 children, we worked 3 days on, 3 days off, except for the summer solstice....we talked about the Vedas and the Upanishads...we took turns minding the children..."
After about 5 minutes the host/mediator gently tries to cut him off...it's only supposed to be 3 minutes. "Almost done..." he barks, he's got to get this read....after another minute the bell rings, and he barks again "I'M NOT DONE YET!" as if he's paid for the time, and then, swearing at the hostess, the audience in general, he's lost his temper and he's as much swearing at himself for tipping his hand, all of this, and he storms out of the crowded bookstore. Your classic bad sport, your older hippie-asshole who's mastered the theory of some spiritual practice or another, but not the application, and if this reading was intended to reach or convert any new disciples it failed miserably. His was a heartfelt entitlement and arrogance, the first example I've seen at one of these readings.
It will be an interesting winter...