Eramosa · River · Journal

Today Dr. F. pulled my nasty tooth out for me. Wasn't that nice of him? My jawbone is pretty dense, so there was a lot of tugging involved. Plenty of work for him, and I'm very grateful.

Ouch.

What happened is, I was flossing my teeth last Thursday and it snagged a filling and pulled it right out. At first there was a dull ache, and I couldn't afford to go to the dentist, so I took Ibuprofen and hoped the pain would go away, but yesterday it escalated intensely. So my writing partner recommended her dentist, who works walking distance from where I live, and he was able to take me this morning.

The lost filling was a very deep one, below the gum line, and this being a wisdom tooth, it was not worth trying to save a second time. This is only the second tooth I have had extracted. The first, a premolar, was lost to a botched root canal in 1984.

As a teenager I needed a lot of dental work. Nice, straight teeth, but the enamel was not so good. My dentist at the time asked whether I had ever had a high fever. Yup, when I was seven I had pneumonia. That was just when my adult teeth were budding, and they all ended up with a weak line.

Because my wisdom teeth did not come in until I was 14, they escaped. My jaw is wide (my fingertip fits around the corner behind the teeth), and those four were straight, so there was no immediate cause to pull them. I believe the three remaining are the only teeth in my mouth that have never had a cavity.

I just hope no more fillings decide to fly the coop anytime soon. This was my first visit to a dentist in more than five years, and fortunately it was not too expensive. General anesthetic would have been nice, but I guess this way was more interesting.

Several weeks ago Tempo, the daytime Classical music program on CBC Radio 2, started a new Friday feature called Music that rocks your world, inviting people to request music that had changed their lives. This inspired me to knit a story about Sibelius's Symphony No. 2 and send it in. Apparently my selection aired on the program today. Unfortunately Les and I were on a service call to Kitchener and Cambridge, so I did not hear it and was unaware.

An unfamiliar reader commented on The Yarn post today, and checking the stats I found it had received an unusually large number of hits. So I went to the Radio 2 website and found not only had they aired Sibelius's Second, they had also posted a link to my story on the program's blog.

Happy Halloween. Here are some sweet recipes for your recipe pumpkin.

Beets are one of my favourite vegetables, but I always just boil, peel, slice and serve with butter and a few sweet spices. Kind of boring, and it is not a meal unto itself. I was going to attempt borscht, but the recipes generally call for cooking and then shredding the vegetables; I rarely have patience for such process.

I'm a crock pot sorta guy.

So today I improvised this slow cooker recipe for me and Danny. The resulting texture and appearance was a bit odd, too crumbly for meatloaf but not really a stew. Avoid adding more liquid, because the roasted flavour is nice. Next time I might try adding a little tapioca flour to thicken the gravy in the bottom. But if it tastes this good, I don't care if the gravy is runny. I served it with Lundberg Wild Blend rice.


Beetloaf

• ¼ cup lemon juice
• 1 tablespoon ginger purée
• ½ cup apricot conserve (recipe below—or substitute any preserve containing citrus—marmalade would be excellent)
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• salt and black pepper to taste
• ½ cup water
• about 1½ pound beets, peeled and cut into ¼-inch cubes
• 1 generous pound of ground pork
• 1 leek, sliced
• 2 cloves
• 1 cinnamon stick

Combine first six ingredients in a small bowl. Place beets, pork, leek, cloves and cinnamon in a slow cooker and stir to combine. Pour ginger mixture overtop. Set on low and cook for 10 hours or until the edges begin to brown.

I wouldn't hesitate to try adding a dried chili or two to add a little zip, but there's plenty of flavour without.

I can be terribly absent-minded about seasonal things like fruit and wildflowers, which ironically are one of my chief pleasures in life. One wonderful thing about living across the street from the farmers' market is I don't forget about the seasonal fruit. This year a cool late summer made a long season for Ontario peaches, and I enjoyed them almost every day (with breakfast granola and yogurt) from early August to mid September.

Mom and I used to make a peach or apricot conserve (I can't remember which) that contained pineapple, maraschino cherries and almonds, but the recipe is lost. This is adapted from one I found online. It sat here by my keyboard for weeks as I intended to post it, but apparently never did until now. It's delicious on vanilla ice cream or robustly flavoured toast such as rye.


Apricot conserve

• 2 oranges
• 1 lemon
• 1 quart apricots
• 1 540-ml (19-oz) can crushed pineapple
• ½ cup maraschino cherries, quartered
• 4 cups sugar
• ½ cup slivered almonds

Sterilize jars for at least 4½ pints.

Slice the oranges and lemon whole, discard seeds and cut into chunks.

Drop apricots one at a time into boiling water for 10 seconds. Remove promptly. The skin will peel off easily. Discard skin and cut fruit into quarters.

Drain pineapple, reserving the juice.

Mix juice with sugar and bring to a boil. Pour syrup over fruit and boil for 25 minutes. Keep the heat just as high as necessary and avoid stirring too much. You may add a small piece of butter to eliminate foam.

Add almonds and boil one more minute.

Remove from heat. Stir gently for five minutes, skimming foam if necessary. Pour into sterilized jars and seal.

I seem to have arrived at as good a place as I have ever been. The move in August has helped.

Another good thing is I am finally establishing a morning routine that accomplishes some of my goals and puts me in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day. I've been struggling for a couple of years to get my rising time moved earlier so I would have space for this routine. Nowadays the clock radio is set for 5:40 and I'm getting out of bed around 6:15. Yes, it takes me that long as a bare minimum; that has been the struggle.

So here is my routine:

1. about 25 minutes knitting in front of my new light box (to combat SAD), with an apple to stimulate appetite and get the blood moving.
2. a semi-aerobic workout, abs every morning plus a couple other muscle groups, while listening to Classical music, about 25 minutes
3. shower
4. breakfast
5. write in my journal, 15 minutes

Usually I can do all these things and get out the door for work by 8:05. Knitting in front of the light box has been crucial, because it gives me something, which doesn't require much brain power, to look forward to when I get out of bed. I enjoy keeping a journal, but if I try to do it before my mind and body wake up, it tends to be depressing. After some light, food and exercise I can write more fluently.

This has only been working for a week and, while genuine habits require at least six weeks to establish, I take encouragement from the fact that I've made progress on several of these elements over a longer period. Now they seem to have come together in an effective combination.

Meanwhile my weight has fallen to 186 pounds, 25 pounds since last winter. This has not come from trying to lose weight specifically, rather from dietary shifts to decrease my blood cholesterol in the wake of Dad's heart problems last winter. Unfortunately my cholesterol seems to be more stubborn than my weight, but I'll take whatever benefits I can. So I have finally lost the weight I put on after starting to take Remeron (antidepressant) five years ago.

My libido also seems to be returning. I suppose this coincides with the weight loss. I had assumed the decline was due to age, so this waxing comes as a surprise, and I'm not sure what to do with it. I have been content (and still am) being almost monogamous with a partner I see two or three weekends each month. Now my perspective has changed, and I see this energy more as a resource than a need. I had a friend who believed sexual energy and creative energy were the same thing. Maybe when I feel horny (like after lifting weights), sometimes I'll try writing instead of masturbating.

I am still alive, as evidenced by these photos. Working, writing, knitting, posing, and worrying but enjoying life for the most part. LJ still fits in somehow, but I have to figure out where and when. This week I am working in Toronto, cleaning up Danny and Bill's backyard.

These are from a new set of photos by bitterlawngnome.








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Late last evening I drove to Toronto through pools of light, mist and shadow. Moisture smeared my windshield. Fog spilled like lakes through the low areas. Penumbras and sheets of dim luminescence surrounded each streetlamp, pulling me from one view to the next as shifting sets on a stage. Trees drifted dreamily from scene to scene, slender limbs coiled demonstratively, traced with silver and pale gold, emerging, vanishing and re-emerging.

Along the highway moved pairs of exclamatory eyes, white and red. I wondered whether anyone paid attention to the play, but the drivers kept pressing urgently past on the right, upstaging one another, oblivious to the deeper story unfolding around them.

The new Guelph City Hall hosted its grand opening today. Danny and I attended almost by accident; we crossed the street for breakfast at the farmers' market, saw posters, and he mentioned he had seen tents being set up on his way down from the bus terminal last night, so curiosity drew us. As it did for apparently hundreds of other locals.

I had not liked the hulking complex previously, but today it impressed me favourably. We heard Mayor Karen Farbridge speak, emphasizing its environment-healthy features: the green roof, reduced consumption of energy and water. During demolition of the hockey arena an old wall was discovered and conserved from the original building for the Ontario Winter Fair, which moved between here, Toronto and Woodstock during the early 1900s. It is almost as massive as the new architecture erected behind and above it. Indoors the effect is imposing but, as Danny said, "not cold". It feels hospitable.

The broad front plaza will eventually host a shallow fountain pool and skating pond that can be quickly drained to provide extra space for public functions.

We are in Ottawa for the long weekend. Until now I had spent less than eight hours of my life in our nation's capital. I especially enjoyed coming by train. I had a nice visit with Sylvie, who moved here earlier this month, and we have been hanging out with shadcub and rticboy.

Friday night I observed someone, who looked like ghostsandrobots with a bob cut, channeling Alanis Morisette at gay karaoke. It seemed like one of Ziggy's dreams except it really happened. Swizzles is a tiny dive down a flight of stairs at the back of a parking lot, like a gay bar that didn't bother to emerge from the underground.

Yesterday djjo and I walked around Parliament Hill before indulging in lunch at Byward Market, then taking in a couple exhibits at the National Gallery. The art was underwhelming, and my legs would rather have stayed in a sidewalk pub in the market.

Brenna is down for a few days. Last night at dusk we went for a long, brisk walk up the Eramosa River. This afternoon we made nine quarts of dill pickles, then carried the camp stove, hamburgers and condiments down to the little yard behind the building and had a picnic. She has inherited my great fondness for fresh, ripe peaches.

When I have a free day I seem to have trouble nestling into the luxury. This morning I got up early, made a cup of tea, pottered for a while online, had breakfast, and pottered some more. When I got up from the computer it was three hours later and I was jittery as hell, torn by various priorities. Most of the things I have to do I also want to do, but there are too many of them and the day is short. Life is short and I've wasted three hours!

This is insane. My mind is too deeply rooted in the drive to accomplish things, to prove myself (even if only to myself), to make my life count or be remembered. I keep piling on anxiety, so the mind partly shuts down and slips into avoidance mode. Then I turn to mindless distraction rather than choosing something worthwhile. As long as I run in a half dozen directions at once, I will achieve nothing.

I've been contemplating Barry Lopez's suggestion that we should not "dole [time] out in a fretful way like a valued commodity" but let it lie flat and undifferentiated as the Arctic tundra. An hour of labour when my activity is dictated by other people's priorities is no more or less valuable than an hour to myself, which I can use creatively. Each is part of the package of my life, providing what is necessary. What is the use of time to myself if I am torn apart, unconscious of my motives, angry or otherwise miserable?

Of course there are things I want to do, and I should do them. My friend Pippa mentioned to me she read somewhere, "Self-discipline is remembering what you really want." In order to remember, I must slow down, stop worrying, reflect, and make decisions. I will place myself in the path of creativity and allow the most powerful inspiration to seize me.

Yesterday on the way home from work I stopped at Belgian Nursery and bought four houseplants. This was a risk because when anxious or depressed I tend not to look after things. Only four of the hardiest, scraggliest indoor plants have survived from the dozens that lived various times at the old place, and I had practically sworn off purchasing more. But these days I feel a fresh wind blowing, and am open to risks and possibilities. Two of the new ones are easy-care, but the Croton and blue Plumbago will not tolerate neglect. The latter is the flower in this icon. I developed a special fondness for it from that photo. It will thrive in my southwest bathroom window if I take care of it.

Last night a tremendous consolidation occurred. I shifted boxes from room to room to room and back again, unpacked a few, reorganized and squeezed what remained into two particular corners. Boxes of similar things are stacked together. This apartment lacks storage space, so I plan to obtain a large cabinet to contain bulky things that get used infrequently, like canning jars and art supplies.

But the movement freed amazing floor space and left the apartment neat enough for living and entertaining. What remains to be done can be broken into discrete projects and handled one space at a time.

I have placed my prize possession, the 1920s oak library table, in an exclusive writing space. Cheque books and money matters are forbidden (my desktop computer and paraphernalia of worry sit in another alcove of another room). Even art projects are not allowed; the large living room provides another corner for that. So I should never need to move my writing to make room for another project.

And for the first time there is enough space for my entire library. I acquired a few hand-me-down shelves from OOTS and designated an entire living room wall for books. They are all unpacked now, awaiting organization, and bringing a studious air to the room.

Someone asked for photos of my new place, so I will give a tour gradually as the place pulls into order. First the bathroom with its old clawfoot tub. I finally hung curtains Sunday evening so now I can shower, but before that I did not mind the excuse to bathe every day.

I've been working on renovations at Les's house. Spent yesterday stripping stipple off the ceiling of his hall. It's tedious and exhausting. Les tends to putter around, work on his computer, run errands. Yesterday the heat and humidity started to get to me. By 2:30 my shoulders were burning from working over my head hour after hour and I had to knock off.

I came home, showered, and after a brief interlude, headed to my shift at Out On The Shelf. It was great to meet with Writers' Circle later and have eniastoa join us.

Today: more stipple, another room. I keep reminding myself I need this work badly.

I have a beautiful space cleared around my desk by the window and can't wait to spend time there writing.

Another thought from Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez:

The land is like poetry: it is inexplicably coherent, it is transcendent in its meaning, and it has the power to elevate a consideration of human life.

Monotropa uniflora grows all around our cottage. It lacks chlorophyll and is parasitic on fungi, which in turn take nutrients from tree roots, so it thrives in dense shade. But each evening the setting sun slants through the trees from the road cut and swamp west of our property, illuminating the plants like pale ghosts with light from another world.

From Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez, in a description of Pingok Island off the north coast of Alaska:

If the mind releases its fiduciary grip on time, does not dole it out in a fretful way like a valued commodity but regards it as undifferentiated, like the flatness of the landscape, it is possible to transcend distance—to travel very far without anxiety, to not be defeated by the great reach of the land.

I'm home from a week at the cottage. We had the best weather of the summer so far. I visited with Brenna and Tory, Dad and Betty, and Marian and Kerri, spending an inordinate amount of time on the highway between Lake Fletcher and Port Hope, but it was well-spent in conversation. I played Starship Catan with Marian, went with Brenna on a canoe trip to Bloody Lake, swam, knitted and wrote four squares for The Yarn, cooked, ate and slept.

I also spent some important time with Joyce, our neighbour and Mom's best friend from high school. Sunday evening Brenna and Tory went to Blueberry Island so I sat talking with Joyce until midnight. Among other things, we talked about Mom and cried a little.

Everyone else had significant others along and I missed Danny a lot. Family is changing. It seems peculiar that my younger daughter's boyfriend was the only partner who was also there when we got together at the cottage last August.

A year later, I still like Tory a lot. He is polite and kind, a lot like me I suppose. It seems likely he will be the only son-like person in my family, and would be a good one. They are only 15 and 17, so it's a long road ahead and I hope they make it.

Kerri is son-like in her way, too, quite a character and I like her, also. Time will tell.

M, K and T could only be there for two days, but I got to spend most of the week with my youngest.

I hated to leave Lake Fletcher on such a hot day yesterday, but for the first time in many years was really looking forward to home—the new pad.

marian_w's business appeared on CBC's The National last night. In a report on student unemployment she is a success story. The segment starts at the 11-minute mark.

The move was exhausting but otherwise went well (more about it on The Yarn). Unpacking is going well, too. I am surprised at how spacious this place is compared to the old one, and can hardly wait to get it set up so I can invite company over. Internet wasn't set up until today, but I suppose that encouraged me to unpack.

Dropping into LJ this morning I learned of the departure from the world last month of my friend ranjtheobscure. My thoughts are with noveldevice, through whom I met Ranj. His presence on my F-list was indeed obscure so you probably didn't know him, but Ranj went out of his way to be friendly and encourage my endeavours in photography. When I started my Flickr account four years ago he wrote a thoughtful testimonial on my profile page. When I bought the Canon Powershot he advised me to take many, many pictures. Whenever I get distracted from doing photography, as I am now, his words haunt me. So he will always be with me, and I will miss him.

[Edit: bitterlawngnome has a link to a memorial post in the comments section.]

marian_w's new fibre business made it into her local newspaper. She plans to set up an etsy site in the near future. I am extremely proud of her.

Several times I have posted and referred to a favourite poem of mine, first titled Agape (the Greek word, a-gaw-pay) and later revised as Stardust to be used as the text for a commissioned choral work. Today's episode in The Yarn relates the story behind that poem, and the song that inspired it.