Photos my daughter took today...

My daughter's into the digital camera (finally)... here's a merge of moi, from this afternoon, now how self indulgent is that? Nothing like those rich carpets of gold leaves... we are in an older neighbourhood with many beautiful trees, they are massive and wise and soothing, and often I reach out and touch their trunks, the knotted bark, and caress leaves as I pass by...

All images ©2005 Kyra Clews

A NaNoWriMo month...

If anyone doing NaNoWriMo this year would like one of these nifty counters for their website - I've put mine in my banner - go here: National Novel Writing Month Progress Meter. Last year I swear seeing the little pointer move incrementally around the dial kept me going until I jubilantly huffed across the finish line with 50,000 words on the last day... (this from a woman who's got many unfinished manuscripts littered about, pieces here and there, until, that is, NaNoWriMo, a marathon writing month when you join in with tens of thousands of other insane writers around the world and convince your muse to take the worded trek, and to travel with you, offering you ambrosia and nectar and good kicks in the butt when needed, writing a first draft of a book of novella length by the end of the month)...

Shadows On The Wall - photopoem

Our Doggie...

Our dog, Keesha, taken today by my daughter (who doesn't like digital cameras, prefering the SLR, but, oh, Keesha was so cute...)




























A writer's dog?... flaked out after a day of heavy writing? You can see our minimal conditions at present: yes, that is my desk, which is also my couch, and my bed (shhh, it's actually very comfortable).

Keesha is a purebred Springer Spaniel, not the show dog though, the one bred for hunters. She's very domesticated. Very cuddly, sleeps mostly, loves any kind of treat, dog treats, people treats, droppings from cats (where she keeps small children's sandboxes in the park clean to my discomfort), organic recycling bins, bones, and sticks are good to chew too. She never walks anywhere, but pulls whoever's walking her (usually me) like I was a toboggan and she was a sled dog. When she's off leash, which is mostly if we're not crossing too many roads, she races from house to house, or field to field, or bush to bush, sniffing and exploring. She's got it figured out in the park socially too, running over to the owners of other dogs to get a pat from them first, before playing with the dog, and usually even dogs that don't like other dogs like her. If a bunch of children come running or walking towards her she barks at them, mostly because they scare her. She'd never bite anyone, and wags her tail like she's auditioning for competing with windmills for making electricity when patted. She's been somewhat of a barker ever since Ralph in Grange Park though, Ralph was a barker, and Ralph's owner & I liked to talk, so we'd move away from them, and they'd keep happily barking for maybe an hour, and we'd laugh and chat ourselves (she was trying to get pregnant by her fireman ex-boyfriend at the time, who lived in another city and would arrive ready for the task, alas, she didn't beget). After she moved out West, Keesha kept barking, looking for another Ralph... which can be annoying, let me tell you. Lately she's abated a bit; maybe, finally, she's forgetting the fun she & Ralph had letting loose with their vocal chords. She's 5 years old. She has limited so many rental options for us, but we'd never give her up. Who else would there be to talk about stuff with? Any stuff, she doesn't mind. Who else is always there at 3 am when you're stressed and can't sleep and need a hug? She's smart enough to recognize a good number of words, follows me around like a loving toddler, is funny, sweet, adorable, and only occasionally irritating... she's actually taught me much about unconditional loving, holding still, being present. I couldn't imagine a life without animals...

3 - BOD (Book of the Dead), continuing the story...

Posting some sections of my NaNoWriMo novel, BOD (Book of the Dead) from last year. This time I'm including a little of the narrative of the woman's day-to-day life...


She checked the phone, and there was a message. It was from Jarret, "Hi, something's come up. I'm putting the children on the train. They have enough money for a taxi, so don't worry. They should be home around 6. I'll be back later, maybe tomorrow."

Nothing more, no explanation of why he wasn't coming home. She felt herself crumbling and began to cry. Why did women always cry when they felt overwhelmed or helpless? She cried deeply for a long time. It helped to release the tension inside. Where was her husband? Was the woman who had answered the phone really with him that morning? She sounded like a one night stand, since she didn't seem to know the name of the man she was with. Could it really have been her husband?

It was nearly six o'clock. She went to the bathroom and washed her face. She put on some lipstick. She smoothed her dark curly hair back. She tried to look like she might normally. She heard the key turn in the door and went to it to greet her children.

"Hi Mom," they each said as they dumped their bags on the floor.

"Hi my honeys, how was your trip?"

"Great," they both mumbled and headed off in different directions, one to the kitchen, one to the bathroom. She heard a bath being poured. In the kitchen, her son was opening a bag of chips and holding a can of pop.

"Hey, it's dinner time, not snack time. Let's get pizza tonight."

"Ok, Ma," he munched as he talked. "Oh, yeah, Dad said to tell you he met a business contact and decided to arrange a meeting. They couldn't meet until tomorrow or something. He'll call later. He'll be home tomorrow night probably."

"Oh. He left such a short message I didn't understand what had happened. What," she said, changing the subject, "would you like on the pizza?"

"Everything."

She dialed the number of the pizza house, ordered, and went upstairs to her computer. Sitting there, mystified at the events of the day, she called her friend, Taim, and left a message asking to meet her for lunch the next day.

It was a quiet evening. She spent it sitting in the semi darkness of her office meditating.
.

Bones were certainly interesting. Within the organism, they provided the structure, the underpinning, the foundation that held the body together. Bones were living and were crucial. Yet to hold a bone, they never felt so important, so central, but light, almost too airy. They are what is most hidden, except for the teeth, and so to hold a human bone was a strange experience. To hold it knowing it was a thigh bone, of someone who died there. That this was all that remained.

Only our bones are left in the corridors of time that we have passed through, rattling on the floors…

Even our bones return to the soil, are ground up in the recycling of time, they just take longer.

It was a few days later, when the Police Station phoned and asked for her.

“Yes, it’s Shona Leicht.”

“M’am, you found the site where the bones lay?”

“In the cemetery, yes. Do you know who it was? Was it a woman? Or a man? It quite frightened me.”

“Well, the thing is, m’am, our department took a look at them, ran a few tests, and they seem to be quite old.”

“You mean they were there a long time? Can you trace them back to anyone missing?”

“Our department says there are a few more tests to make sure, but the bones appear to be at least one hundred to one hundred and fity years old.”

“What?”

“That’s what I got written here. Seemed in good shape for bein’ that old to me.”

“That is very strange indeed, officer. Could there be a mistake?”

“Well, as I said, there’re a couple more tests, but it looks like they’re from maybe 1850 or 1900. Could’a been a pioneer even. Who knows.”

“Male or female.” She was trying to keep her voice steady.

“Female, older though, post-menopausal, cause there’s some osteoporosis around the hip joints.”

“Is there any indication of the cause of death, officer?”

“Funny you ask. I was asking our guy in Forensics, and he said there was nothing to indicate the cause of death, except maybe freezing.”

“Oh!”

“Sorry, m’am?”

“Officer, I would like to give the bones of this woman a proper burial, and would like to know if I may have them? Or if I make arrangements at the funeral home, if they can be sent there for interment?”

“Don’t see a problem with that, if that’s what you want to do, m’am. I’ll have to get my supervisor’s signature, that’s all.”

“Should I pick them up? Or will you take them over?”

“We can take them over to the funeral home. It’s time to go out on patrol anyway.”

“Okay, I’ll call them. Thank you, officer.”

Then she called the funeral home and explained that the police would be by shortly with some bones that she had found in an unused and old part of the cemetery, and that she wanted to bury them properly. After some discussion, she chose a standard package, a single plot, the lower of a double depth grave, a vault and a simple coffin, and a simple marble slab on which they would engrave, "An unknown woman, who froze to death in 1850, in honour.” She said she would be there within the hour to pay for the burial. It was agreed that the burial would take place the next day in the morning.

2 - BOD (Book of the Dead), continuing the story...

Posting some sections of my NaNoWriMo novel, BOD (Book of the Dead) from last year. Some other things happen between what I posted yesterday and the continuation of the story here which leave her rather frazzled, one of which is a 'crank caller'...


The phone rang again, and absent-mindedly she answered it. “I have been trying to reach you for hours,” said a deep male voice. The connection wasn’t good and there was static on the line.
“What do you want? Why are you calling me?”
“I wanted to tell you that there is a body in the graveyard, in an old and untended section…”
She hung up the phone and began screaming, loudly, hoarsely, and then sobbing. When it rang again, she picked it up slowly, “What do you want?!”
“To tell you that it wasn’t a dream. An old, homeless woman died in the cemetery where you worked. Her body is still there. You must find it and give her a proper burial.”
The line went dead. Shona shivered deeply. She felt suddenly cold, a sense of dread overcoming her. If it were true, did she cause the old woman’s death by dreaming it? Or did she somehow tune into the experience? Why did she dream of a homeless woman freezing to death alone in an old cemetery and now she has been told by an anonymous caller that there is, in fact, such a body. She dressed quickly, locked the door behind her, got into her car and drove to the cemetery.

She passed shops and houses and parks on the way, and people walking on the sidewalks, driving in cars, in the buses, it seemed surreal this morning, this world, its activity, like ants in an anthill, carrying on our tasks, day after day, keeping everything going. Yet there was a spark, something indefinable, a joy to the whole moving, buzzing, profound venture that life is. She felt a tension between her angst and that joy as she sped towards the cemetery, parked, got out of her car, stood, began looking in all the directions, trying to sense which way to go.

Pulling her coat tightly around her, she began walking towards a forested area, in the far corner; it took three quarters of an hour to reach the copses of trees. The area was overgrown, unkept, had reverted back to wilderness. If there were gravestones, they had crumbled over time. She was moving through tall grasses, whitened with the frosting of the night before, for Winter was setting in early, and brushing her feet along the ground, looking for remnants of gravestones. She wasn't sure that this was part of the cemetery anymore. Her foot hit something, and she leaned down to look, but it was only a field stone. She kept walking. She closed her eyes, seeing if following an inclination other than sight might help. She walked, the day was warm, and she puzzled over the dream, since the woman had frozen to death. Her nostrils filled with an indescribable smell, not of decomposition, but something faintly perfumed, and she opened her eyes.

Before her was a white gravestone, buried in the underbrush, half of it crumbled, and she leaned down and felt it with her fingers. She drew back, it had the feel she recalled from her dream. For awhile she simply stood, her eyes shut, swaying in the morning breeze, her mind silent, poised for what was coming next. When she felt ready she opened them and walked to the other side of the gravestone, looking for the body.

There was nothing. Only tall grasses bending under their own weight. Now what? She walked around the area, looking, but not wanting to look. It was difficult. Her foot touched something hard and she bent down to see what it was and saw a whiteness and found herself becoming dizzy.

Her fingers reached for it. She touched it, feeling the smooth calicified length. She picked it up. As she held it, a life came swirling back to her. The burden of a life came swirling into her heart and mind. She felt overwhelmed by the tragedy of this life, its loss, its loneliness, its abandonment. This person had lost everything, and died here, without anyone knowing or caring. What if it were the goddess herself whose bones had lain here for an eternity, awaiting care? Wasn't even an old and ill homeless woman a goddess? Worthy of dignity at death? She stood in the cold wind and felt anger rise in her chest. "I am here now!" she shouted defiantly to the sky and the trees and the birds and the animals hidden in the leaves and in the forest, but she was speaking to a whole culture that left its old and ill and lonely to die in such ways. "You will be buried properly!"

She turned, with the bone in her hand, and walked back to her car. She drove to the nearest police station and walked in and placed the bone on the counter and said to the officer on duty, "I found this in the cemetery, in an old part. It is obviously human. Can you run a check on it, and please let me take the police to where I found it."

The officer looked at her suspiciously. He reached under the counter for a clipboard and some forms. They went into a small office, and he wrote down everything she told him about going for a walk in the cemetery and finding the bone in an obscure and overgrown corner.

After he had finished taking her statement, he left the room, and returned with two other policemen. The funeral home had been alerted and the manager of the grounds was waiting for them when they arrived. She led the small troup of men across the fields of gravestones towards the forest; at the edge of the wall of trees, she pointed to the gravestone in the underbrush and said that was where she had tripped on the bone.

The police cordoned off the area and began carefully searching. After a couple of hours of watching them scour the area, finding bones and carefully placing them in marked bags, she decided to go home. They said they would call her as soon as they learnt anything about the remains.

At home, she lay down, dizzy and exhausted. The scene was still swirling in her mind, as was her dream of a few nights ago. It was so real as to be surreal. Everything made sense, and nothing made sense. She was confused and yet it seemed as if everything was perfectly sensible. She couldn't encompass the fear and relief she felt at finding, not a dead woman, as she had expected, but calcified bones. She wondered what the forensic department would uncover about her death.