Monday, March 07, 2005

Springtime in Megland Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling. Walt Whitman (1819–1892) The sun is shining outside! This is nothing to be taken for granted, here on the notorious 'Wet Coast'. Given even a momentary absence of cloud cover, we end up uncoiling like worms splayed across a post-shower sidewalk, the moisture slowly evaporating from our bodies in response to the big yellow ball in the sky. Now, as I type this, the unfortunate nature of that simile hits me, since the worms I speak of aren't so much 'lying out', as waiting to croak. I suppose I'd be better off speaking of touseled kittens curled in squares of light, pale-green blades of grass arching themselves towards the horizon, or blossoms bursting into colour in the warm Spring air. Thing is, I've always had a bit of a thing for worms...and snails, actually. Hmmm. Worms are useful and lauded creatures on many fronts. Everyone loves them: gardeners, fisherman, Fear Factor producers, little boys...the list goes on. Snails, however, like Jerry Lewis, seem to be palatable only to the French (unless he's doing a telethon...Mr. Lewis, that is, not Mr. Snail), and even then, they have to give them a poetic moniker like 'escargots'. There was a Hosta plant (in the midst of writing this, I did a Google Image Search to try and figure out just what kind of Hosta it actually was, and uncovered a strange cult of Hosta lovers at play on the web. I had no idea people loved these plants to this extent...but I digress) in the front garden of a basement suite in which I once lived. This poor Hosta was absolutely knackered with snails. They were dotted about the broad leaves like tiny, colour-swirled cottages in some Lilliputian version of the Hamptons(albeit cottages more along the lines of a Lishman underground home than perhaps P. Diddy's or M.Stewart's pad). I used to prod them a little, just to watch their bodies curl inward like seahorse tails, and occasionally, with fervent disregard for their Hosta homesteading, I would pick one up to try and peer in at their wee delicacies. They'd make themselves scarce as soon as the sunlight hit their undershells, and leave me feeling like a jerk. I did make up for my cruelty with snail-karma kindnesses: stealing them back from hockey-playing cats, shoving one further up a Hosta leaf when he seemed to be slipping, and now and again, depositing one in a muddy spot on the lawn when he seemed trapped in the middle of a hot summer sidewalk. The length of time I just spent discussing snails really does more to prove my next point than I'd care to admit. I go a little mad in Springtime. Not truly mad, inasmuch as I would end up being harmful to another living thing (snail or otherwise), but just a bit more trippy, dippy, flaky and blissed-out than usual. Everything I cook is rife with plants and generous squeezings of lemon. I find myself running outside as soon as the sun appears for longer than three minutes, trying to figure out how to get a comprehensive tan while the UV rays are still weaker than a cup of my grandfather's tea (dip the bag, serve). I find myself wanting to sing at the drop of a hat, and dance anywhere more than two contiguous inches of space exist. I want to drink cold juices by the gallon, and find myself inexorably drawn towards fruity things. I haul out every bit of pink clothing I own (which currently consists of one shirt, and one large fabric flower given to me by my beloved roomies), and wear it with rosy, blushing pride. I giggle, I ramble, I prattle, I goggle, and I generally cease to make more than 10% sense at any given point in time. I fall in love with everyone and everything (including snails, apparently), and read romantic verse line by delirious line. I want to paint rooms colours like these, and open up every window that dares get between me and the air outside. I squeeze babies a bit tighter, spend a second longer scratching the ears of strange dogs tied to posts outside of stores, and wink at old men in the coffee shop, just to see if they blush accordingly. I throw off my shoes and don flip flops....oh, wait, that was unnecessary, I was already wearing them! Essentially, all that glows within me for the coldest season bursts out like a fuzzy yellow chick from the fragile white egg of winter. And I'm happy...truly...to be alive. Springtime in Megland...it's no Paris, but we do have French Fries. 6:10:43 PM    build me up, buttercup... [] Back In The Saddle Again... I'm back in the saddle again... Out where a friend is a friend... I'm not going to make excuses for where I've been or why I've been there, or how I made my way back. Suffice it to say, the Prodigal Bloggette got tired of trying to make this blogging thing work on other sites, with other software, and by other means, and now she's back...crawling on her cyber hands and knees, begging to return to the fold. Even the scraps from the pig trough would be enough. And a job in the fields. Or perhaps you could all just start reading my blog again, and we could live happily ever after! I'm going to vote for the latter option; as appetizing as pig slop might sound, I'd rather stick with my current diet of Oreo middles, spring mix, and garlic noodles. Actually, mixed together, that might resemble pig slop. Hmmm. I've missed you all, in your gracious Salon.com glory. I've missed ducking in on discussions, watching other lives unfold in text, and waking up in the morning to find that someone on the east coast actually understood, and commented on, what I was talking about late the previous night. I tried in vain to grow where I was planted, and somehow fit into the proper community for whatever software I was testing at the time. But pish to that, I say. Those communities were no more cozy and welcoming than a tall glass of pirahnas, and a poke in the eye. Enough of this, that, and the other thing. BlogCabin must live again, so that all the other pretenders to the throne pass away, and Jeff Gannon stops showing up on web searches for the name I so lovingly chose. Granted, apparently some TypePad person had it first for some other purpose, but we'll all nudge and wink and pretend it was me, ok? Just as though I were a toddler walking for the first time. No kind soul would dare say to one of them, as they took their first, wobbling, tenuous steps, "Ah, yeah, some kid down the street did that last week..."? On with it, then.  What have I been doing since I was last here? Well, let's see: *Still living with the best twins in the world, who are two of the wackiest women in B.C. From silly walks by the sea, to trying to cook three different gourmet meals on three small burners and the coveted medium one, to fits of loud singing, to ass-bleaching cleaning sprees, no one ever had roommates that kept them laughing and smiling quite so much. "Can I try a bite of that?" *Still flailing about in the freelance sea, and finding an odd phenomenon to be true: people who write exceptionally well are usually certain that they couldn't possibly do it for a living, while those that write horribly are inevitably convinced that they are the next Tolstoy/Rowling/Grisham/Atwood (or some grisly combination thereof). My favourite comment from the latter group is that "spelling and grammar (which they spell 'grammer', without fail) are just rules; getting them rite (sic) doesn't mean you are a good righter (sic)." To you nitwits, I say this: spelling and grammar may not genius make, but both done badly no reader should take! (And the first git that stands up and says "That's what editors are for!" gets it right in the ol' inkwell. You feel me?)   Anyhow...yes, I live on as a writer. A writer, you say? A writer?!? A writer of things and stuff?!?! Indeed! I marvel at the wonder of it all some days, and tremble in fear of my own literary demise on others. It's tight, and I am always looking for more that can be done to make my earnings blossom like buds in spring. I'm not in a snob stage as far as writing work goes, by any stretch of the imagination, nor would I look askance at a job that allowed me to write regularly for an organization or a publication (as long as my employers weren't white supremacists or some other barrel-scraping bunch!). I just want to put words on a page, and let the Doritos fall where they may. *Still single. In the 'I'm Not Married' sense. I honestly believe that when I,  Meg Fowler, perpetual singleton and relationship dork, actually DO get married, some terrible cosmic chain of events will be unleashed, ages-old planetary forces will be disturbed from their classical ebb and flow, the natural order of life will be irreparably disturbed, and the world as we know it will be thrown into utter chaos. That, and I will get a pretty, pretty dress! Until then, read my blog. It's really all I ask of you. That, and a glass of water. Tap will be fine.       12:19:29 AM    build me up, buttercup... []

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