Fumes

On late seasons

That scene in the film when the plane, mid-air, starts to emit a sputtering sound, the craft jittering slightly as it snorts through the last of the fuel, still soaring in its intended direction, but soon the nose will start to dip toward its home, and it’s up to the pilot to negotiate what comes next.

I love best the beginning of each season. But the bedraggled ends have become my teacher: the brown of November, the ice of March. Life shifting toward new forms. The exhausted green of August, right before the turning.

The point when the campfire has nearly gone out, embers twinkling expressively, no longer a source of light or heat, but then a flame reappears, a still-possible reaction with whatever fuel remains, a last buoyant ignition. We are ready for sleep, the glass is empty, but the flame carries on in its deep assertion, this draw, however small.

I have been consistently, violently allergic to good-paying jobs and what they demand. I’ve become, instead, someone who works from the moment she wakes to the moment she sleeps. Following my ancestors. I make no money. When I get to the question on the tax form about whether I have taken a vow of poverty, I always assume I should answer yes. I have made such promises. Yet I do not live in poverty. The nets have appeared beneath me. I am noting this constantly.

Overcast everywhere except to the west, a starry night approaching. But before this patch of earth spins away from the sun, a most brilliant, scarlet sunset, entire, soaks the whole sky in its colour. We know the meaning, the reason for this startling shade, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Look how beautiful.

To say anything is still taboo. I write notes to myself and put them in my pocket and forget them forever. What’s this wad of hardened pulp I pull from the washing machine? I could turn away and never turn back. I develop systems and tricks, mostly effective, creating such drag. Sometimes I can’t attend for the organizing. I’ll step out the door, follow the monarch on its perilous route. Cicada on a sidewalk, unwrapping herself from her encasement. A stack of unclipped pages beside an open window, and in my hand a rock, and we all know what the winds will be doing today. Such craters, prolonged vacillations, knocking me off-axis. Papers blowing around the room. Rock set down somewhere I can’t remember. To have been a person in a mode for a time, and then to come to the end of that mode. I’ve managed not to have children. Whipping around all day, completing tasks. The picnic table has become a personal symbol, a kind of wish. In a mass turning away, in a watching so closely and coming apart from it, in a make-believing, a great ailing decline, within a thickening silo, I want nothing, desire nothing. I want so much. I want so differently. I want for the futile. I want the impossible. I want spring. This hasn’t changed.

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Thanks for reading. Now, a quick bit of promo. My next book will be out next month, when the ground will perhaps be iceless and bare. I’ve got a whole whack of dates for folks in Ontario and beyond to save. Drop me a line if you want more details about anything below.