Redwash

My eyes water as I bike into the wind. Usually I peddle twice the speed, but my thighs and neck ache and today the seat is unusually hard. Maybe this is psychosomatic. I know that today I’m bleeding. With each stroke of my foot my wheel churns through the moon cycles: ovulatory secretatory, menstrual. Clinical, mechanical like the two-wheeled machine I power with all my hormones and pheromones and progesterones. Behind me the wheel leaves momentary tracks as it slips, in and out of roadside puddles. I try never to dismount, usually finding myself carrying out dangerous manoeuvres like zipping in front of traffic when the light turns red, instead of stopping and waiting like I am supposed to. Because my neck is stiff I find it hard to turn to check on the traffic behind me. But I find this hard anyway. To look behind me without turning back. They say that women go through menopause because it allows us to end the bleeding and birthing so we don’t risk our health in the later, more fragile years when such energies cannot be afforded. Is this the end or the birth of womanhood I wonder? People say a lot of things about it, but I think most of them are wrong. I imagine the trail of blood staining the pavement from my wheel, my cycle, my endless churning. I smile wishing for the street traffic to know, if only for a moment, where I have been.

For a change I go to the library. I have avoided it for a while because I know I have a fine. I took out a book on wild plants which I didn’t look at once because I forgot about it until it was overdue. There’s a woman outside. She stands squat and proud, eyes squinting in the sun. Her teeth are beared in the form of a smile. Her voice calling to a man tying up his dog. He is confused, and annoyed with his task. The dog keeps running around the pole and towards pedestrians on the street. She calls to him again. He looks up then down at his hands tying the final knot. She calls again. I expect that he will just turn and go into the building. He doesn’t seem to know her. But she just stands there. Not anxious or expectant, just suspended in a moment of electricity. She has just seen her friend.

I am in search of a book recommended by friends, but I end up with “The Bean Trees” by Barbara Kingsolver, and some tapes in Spanish. Everyone knows how to speak Spanish now, so I must learn a few things. I must learn to say “I don’t understand”. no entiendo.

I printed out a map of the world today. I want a reference. It hangs above my desk so I will learn the names of foreign countries when I am bored. Now I must teach myself different names of countries and the languages they speak there. Trivia or trivial? Is there a difference? Does it help me to know the vague dotted shape of a place when they mention it on the evening news? The little brightly coloured puzzle pieces fit together so much easier than the world does, but then, everything works better in the abstract. So the best use, is to check off the little irregular countries along with the names of friends who have visited these places. Then at least, I will have one face, one reality, that goes along with these titles.

We met two weeks ago in the bus station. I just looked over at him an asked how he was, as if we were old friends. And so we sat together on the bus on purpose. For our third meeting he brought his mother’s recipe. We ate plum-potato dumplings and plum syrup crepes in my kitchen. While the cat wove in between our legs. I was giggling and dripping potato. The night and the tea and the stove top heat went to our heads and we were elated and smug in our accomplishments and mutual appreciation. Twelve midnight signalled his departure. And I fumbled his toque as he tied his boots and we kissed goodbye before I had made up my mind to do so.

out and about when I used to go out

Making conversation haphazardly is strange. When I do this, my boldness surprises me. Why am I afraid of people? I am afraid, petrified, of agonizing small talk. My own thoughts are usually preferable to banal discussions of keggers and university majors. What is interesting to talk about if not politics, science, social phenomena,...? it peaks certain interests, puts off most. So in my search for interesting people, I decide to attend an event. I stumble into the philosophy society debate with only fifteen minutes left. I am hot and I smell of chlorine from the YMCA pool. I am still in my post-pool haze when I am welcomed by my prof. I try to make eye contact with other individuals I recognize from class, but to no avail. I just want to be talked to - argued with. The tall metrosex blonde has his eyes on me. I remember him well from parties and concerts last year. He dances wildly, always. Throwing his body into arhythmic movements, arms passing out and then in. Hips everywhere. I remember once he told me I was a good dancer, and I smiled and backed away. He maintained fierce eye contact, emploring me,.. to do what? It was the same yesterday. My martini in hand, he deliberately walked to my right side, waiting for me to look, waiting to catch a glance. Maybe he remembered the salsa? I decided to meet him halfway. I met his eyes. "are you a philosophy major?", he asks. And so it begins. I tell the same story I tell to everyone. I don't know why i still use it because it never leads anywhere interesting. I think at this moment that I should really spend some time coming up with a new one. Transfer student, unhappy in science, boring people, unengaging. Now - better, we talk about people. blah, blah fucking blah. He knows someone from my highschool. Now nearing the end of my martini, I tell an embarassing anecdote. His girlfriend, or friend-girl is growing anxious. After fifteen minutes he makes his excuse, "I row at five a.m. tomorow". Perhaps this is the martini's fault, but I have no reason to disbeleive this. He invites me to chew shrooms with him on the weekend. I tell him i have to go visit my parents. I sing some blues songs to myself on the walk home. I do not alter my volume for the passers-by.

mis. givings

I walk a few blocks east of my house. Downtown the streets are alive. Young and drunk, riant nineteen year olds pour in and out of apartments and alleys. Running diagonally across intersections, causing late-night drivers to honk in irritation. Boys pass, “Interested in weed?”. Business majors. I stare at the sidewalk. Bottles break. The bass slaps through narrow corridors and shakes opaque cardboard guarded windows. The city is alive with the riotous abandon of liberated youth. I see a man, my age, lying on the street in front of a convenience store. In front of him, a pink, sour puddle making it’s way to the gutter. “You alright?”. I’m worried. He takes a moment to answer. I am alone and uneasy. I size him up but he is in no shape to hurt me. He says he is “alright”. I know this is not true. Why didn’t I stop to help him up? I could have used my twenty to get a taxi. I have never puked on the street, but now I feel close.

From the kitchen window I watch boys in Scottish cilts use camp fuel to light the ends of sticks on fire. This is fun until the canoe leaning against the house ignites. I tell the people to get baking soda and a blanket, but they run with beer glasses full of water. The fire is put out by the cilted boys before we get there. I get kissed impulsively on the cheek by a woman my age. “You’re my new best friend”, she exclaims. Our eyes meet. This to me seems incredibly sincere. We have just spent the last half hour talking about things that make our voices deepen. I have met her before, but not drunk.

Tonight I meet a new friend. We draw pictures together at an ‘art potluck’. A new type of event created by a friend. I receive praise for my black and white scribbles. He draws something that is Spanish and political. On the street, we sneak ahead of the others to speak passionately about traits that mutually annoy us in other people. I can tell he wants to escape with me. In what way I don’t know. We return to the party. He is not drumming tonight. I dance anyway. I seek early leave only because tomorrow I want to attend the writers symposium at the university. We embrace. I realise it’s been a long time since I’ve hugged someone, so I hug his friend too. He follows me a few steps down the path. “We really should meet up again. Let’s go out soon”. I smile and nod and turn south. On my way home I stop for a few moments at the place where the drunk, now gone, had rested in his misery.


I let my head fall back against the theatre seat. My legs relax. I close my eyes and let the words enter me. I pretend that I am alone. The seats in my row are empty anyway. I am upset that the readings are poorly attended. New Canadians, foreign exiles, espouse poetry softly, wet mouths recklessly enouncing the words I only utter to lovers in the dark. They have committed themselves to speaking these words in public, but I know from the podium they can see our individual faces. I am heavyhearted. Like them, I wanted more for this; real words, real people need to be heard.

Justice should not be a blindfolded goddess, but a woman with her eyes open.