Where the heart is: Trauma Farm, BC

Trauma Farm

The mind is such a fickle thing. It is completely certain that, only when it has already made itself up, it knows everything. Then nothing at all.

I’ve come on here more often in the past week than probably an entire month of last year. Maybe that’s an exaggeration – but I’m too forgetful and too bothered to go back and verify that statistic. You see, I’m starting to distrust numbers, or at least how they’ve been used in today’s terms, and the illusion of confidence they instill in us. Instead of accepting facts as absolutes I’m reclaiming my natural inclination towards the absurdity of life and my mistrust of authority. Never let the rebel in you die.

Numbers are only a story. As I’ve read in Trauma Farm, probably the best novel I’ve ever read – and I don’t think “novel” is the accurate word – in a long time. It’s an 18-year personal history of small farming and rural life on the Canadian West Coast told in the format of one day, reaching equally into the past and future. It starts in darkness and ends in darkness. As much as I could gush about it to you on here, I’m so enamoured with the words, stories, and absurd personal history of author Brian Brett that I’m reading it again, which will probably benefit us all the greater. I just finished it in December, but I am so drawn to the dense web of fact and fiction that make for a beautiful stone in this West Coast (Brett grew up here in Vancouver and lives on Saltspring Island) that I’ve got to finger through this jewel again.

I don’t know if I’ll walk out of here a poet or a farmer, but I can assure you I’ll walk out of here a better writer and proselytizer of this beautiful homeland.

happy sunday

yesterday was the day after my parent’s anniversary
in the kitchen, my mom said “there’s coffee”
as she poured a cup for my dad and herself,
and i kissed her and said “happy sunday.”
“yes it is” she said and
handed me my cup

Thanksgiving is best celebrated always

I can usually find three things every day that I’m thankful for. Not thankful like “I just caught the bus” or “Thank God she didn’t sit next to me” (although those are legitimate things to be thankful for), but the kind of things that really make me appreciate myself. I live in Vancouver, and as I’m sure you know, it is very rainy in the autumn. Many people complain about the rain, but that is the price we pay for having wonderful, tall trees and green pastures. (The same people also complain about the sun in the summer.) Rain means I get to wear my boots and carry an umbrella. It means I get wet. If you’re the average person then you might not understand (I know everybody says the average person doesn’t exist, but I’m sensible enough to know I shouldn’t believe what everybody says), but it really is a lot of fun to dodge car splashes from massive puddles on the way to the bus stop. It reminds me that I’m alive and I get use these things called my “legs” and “my senses.”

Life gets busy fast, and time slips by on a schedule of its own, so it’s important to remember the things that you live for.

Today, I’m thankful for three things that never go out of fashion: tea, chocolate, and books.