Okay, I cannot stop there; what about this Russian author, named Saunders? I am interested
enough now to want to read his favourite short story called, “The Overcoat, by Nikolai Gogol.
He says it’s his favourite because it’s “funny and sad, and I think it’s the way God actually
thinks of us.” (Saunders) I wonder if that’s true? I wish I had the time to read the short story. I
will. When space opens, and I find a corner of desired dreams where I cannot sleep, I will read
the Overcoat.
There are many authors that some won’t enjoy. but the author’s that touch my imagination at the heart of their song in life, is a true artist that leaves me begging for more ‘story.’
by Christine Reeves
I haven’t been home since December. My friend had a double mastectomy then had to get her
second knee replaced. She was hard and heavy into sport; this created havoc on her knees. She
has become one of my closest friends, not because she is kind and loving (which helps), but
because she genuinely cares. I mean, who else can put up with my drama of crying all night
because I can never reach my son. She lets me be myself, even when I fall apart. Her husband
died last year of cancer what are the odds? She is strong, one of the strongest women I know
besides my other good friend. She has recovered from cancer. What does that say about my friends? One would think that my friends are radioactive or stepped both feet into a storm that bleeds a hurricane, but they have this amazing appreciation for life. It’s like
watching these two write their life testimony while under the wheel of a semi-truck. They are
both on the mend.
Conquering cancer is like conquering whatever mountain you find the hardest to climb. Mount Everest seems fitting for their success in battling the monster.
Clicking into the digital brain of our class. Everyone is making conversations. I wonder if they
all know each other, or is it just me who feels like I have walked into a play and caught the last half
hour of it? I am curious about spirals, but I missed the idea of it. I feel cheated; I wonder what I was
doing when the Professor shared his spiraling ideas on paper.
I missed the meaning of the spiral talk because I was looking outside at the sun shimmering on the snow. The sound of the wind and the Canadian flag blowing back and forth, almost like I’ve stepped into its sail travelling to an unknown land within my imagination.
What do you hear when I write about the sound of your footsteps crunching through the cold, dry snow or the sound of diamonds glistening upon the fresh powdered surface where it looks like stars on top? I can write about the wind, but will you hear the sound? I write when the wind pushes away from me into the trees, and the plastic bag is caught up in the branches. The crinkly sound it makes as I pass by. Can you hear it? When I write about the rain when it hits the lake, what sound can you hear? It might make a sound like E or E flat; depending on where the sun is shining, it can turn to a B by the brightness of the sun slapping upon the water. What about the sparkles of the melted snow on the side of the pavement where it glistens as I pass by, the wheels of my car rumbles and rolls over it; did I describe it? Can you hear it? I don’t know.
Writing is a quirky world where describing things is wrapped up into a ball like the earth filled
with water, electricity, and mirth. Somehow, I don’t laugh anymore unless my nerves the stress of the day is overwhelming. Like when I was at the bar with a friend before COVID, and we were chilling before our writer’s group. We talked about Africa and how in Heaven it would be cool to lie with a lion and a lamb and not get eaten. Then my mind wandered. I thought about giraffes. How would that be if a bunch of giraffes were in the middle of our streets running wildly down our highways? Their necks are so long that they would get caught in the wires. How does that look? I exploded in laughter. I understand this was not a funny sight at all, to see giraffes caught up in street lights and wires with their long necks twirling around like some wild African nightmare.
It was a strange and funny random thought that relieved my stress. By the end of the evening, we were both laughing so hard that we couldn’t contain ourselves. We didn’t even have any alcohol.
Okanagan Valley View 