Hannah (bonus entry)

I couldn't figure out where to put this entry, so I decided to tack it on as a bonus. It is a short story presumably written by Agnes. There were three for four copies of it scattered throughout the hard drive.


Hannah

I am Hannah who dives through the window. And who would I be if
there were no contstraints? No husband or children to take into
consideration, no mortgage or car payments? No one. If I let
myself go and flung myself through the window, to a new life,
what would that life be like?

If Hannah could write freely and well, if she could write without
stopping to feed the children, or to feel guilty because she's
not feeding the children, or to go get up in the morning to make
the bed, or to go to work, or to live a pretend life for her
husband, her inlaws, her neighbours... What would Hannah write
about?

About flinging herself through the window. About strong sexual
urges she doesn't dare explore, about despair. About running and
running and running through fields at night and leaving the
children and housework behind. About returning to depressing
farmhouses and houses in general, dead inside, exhausted, and
about feelings of guilt and hate for being a slave in such an
ugly situation. About men who soak up the sun and the earth on
the farm and women who scrub and pick and can and cook and wash.
About loneliness. About not knowing there are other women like
you, isolated, exhausted, frightened, close to madness. About
wanting to die, but living, living a long life. About
magnificent prairie landscapes that flash before women's eyes and
which they know everything and nothing about. Only the violence
of our senses. The beautiful sun and sky we would love to reach
out to but can't because our household duties say: "Can't!"
Gotta run! Hang the clothes on the line while the wind is just
right. Plant the peas, the carrots, beans, put in the tomatoes;
weed the rows; pick the beans, peas, can them; freeze them; cover
the tomatoes; pick them; can them. Pickle, freeze, can, run,
work, sleep, and winter finally comes. Long, dark, dreary.
Depressions, crying in the staircase. Impatient husbands.
Sex-hungry husbands. Babies and more babies...

What do you do? Fling yourself out the window? Lock yourself up
in your room? Dream? Eat rat poison? Work harder?

Why not run away? To an island in the South. Warm, sensuous.
Lie down, roll in the grass, laugh out loud and reach toward the
sun. Feel your body, suddenly strong, brown and beautiful. Feel
its urges and give yourself to the sun and the wind. Let your
hair fly, whip your eyes. Let your skirt fly high above your
thighs.

Close your eyes. You're home. On the Prairie, home you love so
much it makes your body ache. The dry wind. The whipping sounds
it makes. You're alone, free. The fields belong to you. You
inhale the dark scent of the earth, the stuffiness of clover,
your own sunburned skin. A whirl of colours makes your head
spin: mustard, sage, purple, gold, brown, green. Tall grasses,
short grasses, butterflies, grasshoppers graze your body. You
twirl and dance and hug your shoulders. You're a child again;
running wildly through the meadow. You scoop up wildflowers; put
them in your hair, behind your ears, in your bib, between your
toes. You sniff them, drink up their colour.

A child's scream, men's workboots trudging through the kitchen.
You are woman again and all that it entails. There is little
time for beauty or dreams when you are an adult prairie woman, a
farm wife. But that's what growing up is all about. Didn't you
know? Practicality. You work, you slave. You cook, sew, change
diapers, wash, scrub, dig the garden. You knit, save your rags,
bake bread. There's lots to do on a farm and lady if you're
depressed, it's your own damn fault. Keep your hands and body
busy and you won't have time to think you're depressed.

You've got food on the table, a roof over your head, a good man:
don't drink, don't swear, don't run around, healthy kids, what
more does the woman want?

I want to thrive! I want to reach out, as far as I can go. I
want to have time to stop and lie on my back and lick up the sun,
the dust. I want to hear my laughter ripple in the prairie wind.
I want my soul back.

Instead, I'm caught in a square little box. It's dreary, sombre.
I scream at the children. I swear at the men under my breath.
Out in the yard, I swat the chickens and sneer at the pigs.

At night though, when all is still, Hannah sits on a cracked,
slanted porch, cat and dog lovingly cradled in her arms and lets
another violent sunset sear her wounds.


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APRIL 10, 1996.

Depression sets in, deeper and deeper. Thoughts of suicide, of
taking loved one along with you as you wonder if it isn't time to
end the cycle once and for all. I wouldn't do it of course but I
am so exhausted with life; I just don't know where it's taking me
nor why. I'm like some crazy weather vane, blowing in every
direction. I don't dare talk of these thoughts I have to the
people I know because it scares them and they always try to
reason with me when I am at the end of my rope, when I have
exhausted all reason there is in me. I am nearly ready to leave
everything behind and disappear one morning, leave far away with
nothing else but the clothes on my back, a small bag with my
toothbrush and a few essentials and do like the warriors of old.
Cross the ocean, the river, lake or whatever and make it with
whatever resources I can muster. Do or die, sink or swim.
Sometimes, I think I couldn't possibly make it. I can be so
introverted. Other times, I tell myself it would be the
opportunity of my life. September, October, I'll take off for
the winter and the road will take wherever it takes me. I'm long
due. I'm still in that mode of counting on people, waiting for
them to work with me, call me, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Take
for example what I'm writing. I don't know why I bother because
it's as good a lost forever as Gilles has taken the printer back
and I can't even print what I write. Do I care? Some days I
feel like destroying every journal I own, partly to start anew,
partly some days out of spite, but when I reread bits and pieces
I occasionally come upon gems, not so much as the writing style
is concerned but the content represents a good many people, what
I believe a lot of people think, thought along the way but don;t
dare express. I'm surprised by my honesty sometimes. There is a
lot of censure but once in a while, I am angry enough that I
break through the silence and say exactly what I think. It's not
always easy to swallow but it's the best of life I think. My
life for the moment is stagnating. I am in limbo, perhaps just
as much as when I was married. I don't want to settle down,
don't feel I'm in the right place to settle down so it makes for
an artificial situation. Everything is temporary. My work, my
place, my car, I don't want to start any projects, buy anything,
decorate my apartment, invest in the house. I'm living for the
day I leave. Actually recently, I've even started thinking about
packing some of my things, collecting boxes. I've taken out my
resume, gotten a couple of addresses for overseas assignments.
It scares me. I sometimes see myself a lonely old lady still
looking for what will make me happy in life and never able to be
grounded to the point of settling down. That or I settle down
and the person I love can't stay with me because we don't share
the same liking for the place where I want to stay. I'm tired,
really tired. I don't know if I can take any more losses or
disappointments in my life, knowing full well it's not over. I
don't want anything excessive it seems. I want a man, let me
describe him, warm, affectionate, funny, a bit of a tease, happy,
demonstrative. Show me you love me, hold my hand in public, kiss
me on the cheek in public until I'm old and withered. Make me
laugh, tame me, bring out the best in me, the love, the
tenderness, the humour, the stamina, the intelligence, teach me
generosity by giving me what I never had, the affection, the
touch I so much needed, the words of comfort, of encouragement
even if I seem like I don't need them because my armour protects
me. Break through that armour, that tough skin and teach me to
surrender, that surrendering is not always harmful, that
sometimes it can be for the best. Where are you sweetheart? I
look forward to the day we shall meet, to the day we will be
together.
A.C.


This is the final entry in Agnes's life journal.


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January 25, 1996.

I've just come back from dinner with Chistian and les nanas. A
wonderful evening filled with food, drink, tears, laughter,
friendship. It's something that can't be compared. I feel more
at home there than anywhere else. Talk of everything under the
sun: emotions, sex, old memories, comparisons between cultures,
reminiscing, the future, I can't get it all on screen at this
point. It's just too much. I have to stop now and take it up
again when I'm more sober and better rested. It's the stuff
movies are made of. Good night.

A.C.


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September 8, 1995.

This post was originally written in French. I have posted the original French copy of the file here, but have provided an English Babelfish translation below it.


Original French version:

Le 8 septembre 1995


Madame Monica Fundy
Coordonnatrice des programmes des ressources humaines


Madame,

Á

planification et des programmes en langue franÀ'
Àaise. Je suis heureuse de me joindre À!
À l'À)
Àquipe
et j'ai bien hÀ
Àte d'entreprendre mes nouvelles responsabilitÀ)
Às et
les dÀ)
Àfis liÀ)
Às À!
À la tÀ
Àche.


Á

savoir un salaire annuel de 42 157$ et je suis au courant que le
salaire pourrait faire l'objet d'une diminution dans le cadre du
Programme de RÀ)
Àduction de la semaine de travail.


Á

Monsieur Heinz. Entre©temps, je continue de m'informer au
sujet des activitÀ)
Às, y compris la politique et
l'offre active des services en franÀ'
Àais.

Je vous remercie de votre confiance et vous prie d'agrÀ)
Àer,
Madame, l'expression de mes sentiments distinguÀ)
Às.




AgnÀ/
Às Chartrand
523, rue Oxford











English Babelfish Translation:

September 8, 1995


Mrs. Monica Fundy
Co-ordinating of the programs of human resources

Madam,

I with pleasure accept the station of co-ordinating of planning and the programs in French language. I am happy to join to me has the equipe and I have well hute to undertake my new responsibilities and the challenges dregs has the spot.

I am satisfied with the conditions of which we agreed, has to know annual wages of 42 157$ and I am with the current which the wages could make the object of a reduction within the framework of the Programme of Reduction of the working week.

I will be at the office on September 18 such as indicates by Mr Heinz. Meanwhile, I continue to inform me about the activities, including the policy and the active offer of the French services.

I thank you for your confidence and requests agreer, Madam from you, the expression of my feelings distinguish.

Agnes Chartrand
523 Oxford Street


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July 1, 1995.

I am filled with rage! I don't even understand why. I left the
house on Oxford not a minute too soon. I said I was going to
work on some editing which I may eventually do, but the main
reason I left was because I was so angry. I'm angry and filled
with hate and rancor. I can't quite put my finger on it. I hate
our house, our yard, the way things are so disorganized. I hate
the fdact that I can't love a man, that I can't commit myself to
anyone. I sense that even if I do fall madly in love, I'll
always want to run away. Knowing that makes me angry. I would
like a scapegoat. I would like to hate Gilles, at times, I am
full of incomprehensible hatred for him. I hate living with him.
But I can't let the children go. And I also can't take them away
from him. In any case, I'm not convinced they would want to live
with only me. They love their house, their friends, their part
of town.

First of July and it is already fall weather. Luckily I enjoyed
the sun when it was out, got a bit of color.

I am fit to be tied. I could blow up right now. I could drive
very fast off a cliff and kill myself. I could drink myself
silly and pass out. I could make love out of desperation and run
off leaving my lover in utter incomprehension.

This life wasn't made for me. I just happened to slip by when I
should have been elsewhere or nowhere but now, I have to wait it
out, make the best or worst of it. Death if I chose it, could be
so quick. I don't even know why I persist, why I hang on to this
hell. It's going to be the same wherever I go. I know that. I
won't attach myself to anyone; I'll always be lonely for exactly
that reason. I would like to attach myself; it's just not a
question of whether I want to or not. I can't. The thought of
"the couple", for better or for worse, in sickness and in health,
until death do us part, makes me nauseous. We have children; we
make them, carry them, bear them. They remain in out hearts
until death and beyond. We love them, hate them, we have every
feeling imaginable toward them yet we let them go. We don't
insist they stay with us, care for us, on the contrary. We throw
them out of the nest and force them to fly. We encourage them to
go far, to make a go of it and to come back and visit. We bask
in their glory; we're happy for them, but we don't live with them
forever and share everything with them and expect everything from
them. Somehow with a couple, it's somewhat like that. Take our
vows, for instance. They're unrealistic. Take our idea of love.
My mother told me I wasn't to kiss a boy until I was married.
How stupid! So I get married, kiss my husband, discover we're
not at all physically compatible, and then, what do I do? As it
was, I did kiss a few boys before my marriage, but not enough. I
should have fallen in love a number of times before settling
down. I should have discovered that you could fall in love more
than once, with different types of people and before settling on
one, I should have known who I was, who I was best suited to share
a life with. I should have waited, yet everything and
everyone around me said settle down, have babies, make a nest.
Fuck it all! I still am the same ungrounded person I was when I
finished highschool. I still want to take off even as I know how
lonely I will be. I won't fall in love. I won't let myself.
Correction: I will fall in love, probably over and over again
but, as I've said before, I won't be committed to love.

I'm still in love with Fischel. I'm still waiting for him. To
me, it's such a sick notion. But he's the first man I remember
longing for, waiting for. It's never went away. I still think
that when I die, he'll be the one greeting me in the other world
if one exists. I know it's not rational and I'm not happy with
the way things are, but that's the way they are. Two parents,
neither of them committed to thier child, to their children and
though I've tried my damndest to be different, I can't seem to
learn to change things. Maybe the right person hasn't come
along. I think it's more than a question of the right person
though. I think there can be no right person because I am too
critical and in that way, I am ensured that there never will be a
right person. I realize too there are a lot of people just like
me who are playing the same game, for more or less the same
reasons. We might at one point find each other and leave each
other relieved not to have forged any great attachments. And
life goes on. I am weary. I really am. I must nap once again.
A.C.

Nap over. I have a big knife in my kitchen that cuts really
well. I'd like to take that big knife and cut my wrists right
through. There would be no risk of failure because it's so
sharp. I could lie in the tub and relax, let the warmth of my
blood soothe me and I would finalyy fall into a deep slumber, let
go of everything and leave for good. Just like in my dream with
the Percheron horses sho run me over with a wagon and kill me.
Sometimes, I hunger for that feeling in that dream; the feeling
of no longer fighting for everything I have, for every day of my
life. I would like to take life easy for a change and it seems
to me it will only come along with death.

The world, people weary me. I don't want to go out, have fun.
I'm sometimes tired of consoling people. I used to think I'd
like to get sick so I could take a short break from the world but
now, it's past that point. I'm tired of writing about myself, my
troubles, my needs, my failures. I'm tired, tired, tired. I
would like to be violent now. I should knit, crochet, embroider
lovely little things to take my mind off the violence invading my
body. I should make more babies, I should immerse myself in my
work. I should buy muself new clothes, new make up, get a
manicure, a pedicure, a facial; I should take time for myself, go
out on a dinner date with friends, make time with my mate, take
up a new hobby, do yoga, find a job I like, take on a young
lover, go on a trip, a cruise... What a lot of crock! I've
done it all and still I am emprisoned in this crazy body and mind
of mine that don't seem to function normally. I would like to be
otherwise. I would like to be happy; I strive at being happy,
normal, successful, at making other people happy. Life is a game
I'd finally gathered. I thought I'd finally learned the rules
but I've never been so lonely, so crazy. I'm going to nap again
and get up during the night and work, work on that manuscript on
the memory Jean Lepine sent me. Then, I'll see about tomorrow.
Tomorrow will be a better day. I've got a hormonal imbalance
that makes me crazy. I'm approaching my fertile period, my
ovulation date and I'm not quite myself but in another couple of
days, I'll be fine. A.C.


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June 26, 1995.

I'm on holidays, really on holidays for the first time in a long
time; at least it feels that way. I have nothing pressing to do,
no work, no studying, just nothing. So I'm just going to sit
here for awhile and write.

Last week, I went to see Jolanta, my new doctor, an nold student
of mine. I wish I had found her years ago. I have utter
confidence in her. She did a series of tests and discovered that
my cervix was infected, that I had fibrocystic breasts and she
couldn't figure out why I have discharge but it has nothing to do
with my hormones. I have to go for more tests in July and
August. Gilles tells me I'm perfectly healthy and that
everything will be negative but I don't know. On the days I'm
tired of living, I sort of wish maybe there was something,
something terminal so I could finally get that rest I've been
meaning to take for years and years; so that I can start my life
anew, more confident, and do the things I'd intended on doing.


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June 13, 1995.

Two more days of courses left and then, I'm on holidays. I just
made an appointment to get my hair colored. Something dramatic,
something that changes me completely. Some red, some blonde
streaks... Then I'll look like Frederik who just dyed his hair
blonde. People say we look more and more alike. Now, I have to
keep up with him.

I'm worried. I have discharge coming out of my breasts. It
doesn't look healthy at all. My body is also sore all over that
at times, I have a hard time sleeping. I don't want to think
about it but I feel it's the end coming. I'd like to think it's
just milk but how can I still have milk after 10 years? I try to
do visualizations but I just can't concentrate. The thought that
I have infection coming out of my breasts grosses me out so much
it makes my throat tight.

I look around me to see if my perception of the world would be
different if the doctor diagnosed me with terminal cancer and I
can't say that things would much change. The world can't get any
more beautiful for me; or any uglier for that matter. I've seen
it at its worst in my moments of deep depression and I've also
always been able to appreciate it's beauty, even in its most
minor details. What would I do if the doctor said to me that I
had to follow treatment. I am not convinced I would. I thought
I might travel and do my bit as a foreign and war correspondant
but the I Ching says I'm not to take on anything spectacular.
Which means that I'm perhaps just made to improve my teaching and
give those around me the love of language and communication I
have. Maybe I'm to stay here and live in my little apartment
until I croak and make it the cozy nest I've always hoped for.
It feels cozy. It looks nice to me. I think, wouldn't that be
the ultimate irony, dying now that I've finally had the guts to
go my own way, to be truthful to myself and to others, to be
courageous, to be willing to go out on a limb in areas I've never
dared to before. I think of love for example: I'm ready to open
myself up, no... I wasn't quite ready, but regardless. I had
decided that I would try. I would accept to make an effort at
not running off like a frightened hare and work on letting others
into my world, men included. Maybe even on an intimate basis.
The thought I might be sick changes all that. Someone touching
me when my body is sick and so sensitive? I don't think I could
bear it. In any case, I would feel like a hypocrite. I look the
picture of health. For the first time in years, I'm tanned. It
makes me look leaner. I'm not stressed out. I'm financially
O.K. I have a social life. I can't imagine at this point being
told: you have to undergo treatment. Treatment that makes you
so sick you can't function. I remember now, that awful man on
Walnut street telling me I was sexually repressed and my breasts
were all black. I already had a sore back by then and I had
already had discharge but had convinced myself it had to be milk.
To this day, I don't understand why that man felt so much
hostility toward me. I could feel his hatred and it made me
horridly ill at ease. I felt I was too innocent a person for
him. He tore at me in all kinds of ways; said I was a
bullshitter, a liar, that I wasn't to be believed in any way.
That I was nothing but slow-witted, there was no fast flowing
energy in me. I was too slow to be intelligent or creative.
There wasn't an ounce of creativity in me. In a way, I sensed a
lot of what he was saying was true. I was blocked and that was
why I was going to see him but I could never have been prepared
for the hostility I was to encounter. I'm tired. I have to
sleep. But before I do, I just want to say a few words about
love. At this point, it has lost all its importance. I have
difficulty imagining it would be a priority if I was dying. I'm
not talking about the love of family and friends of course. I'm
talking about sexual love. Maybe it's the ultimate strategy I've
developped to prevent myself from getting involved. It's strange
but all around me, I see women far less than perfect in many a
way and men, too, constantly falling in love or developping new
relationships and I cannot imagine myself being a part of that.
Maybe it's too difficult for me to share. There are men I find
attractive but from a distance. I suppose to me it's all a lot
of trouble. I definitely see it as work: juggling all there
already is to juggle and a relationship too. Maybe in ten years.
Maybe my breasts have decided they've had enough to do with the
male species. Maybe I just no longer want to be touched. I have
a feeling Steve will not call when he returns, I'm certainly not
banking on it. In any case, all this fantasizing was childish.
Writing about it even more but I have decided since I wasn't
allowed to mature properly as an adolescent, I will regress now.
It's quite embarassing. I imagine my children or grandchildren
reading this many years down the road and scoffing at their
mother and grandmother. How could she have been so naive they
will ask? So stupid even... so childish. Better to live out
those fantasies in your youth. Today, I thought of Frederik who
dyed his hair and Thierry whose hair is in dreadlocks. It
doesn't phase me. It's just hair. Yet I suddenly imagined what
would have happened had I done something similar without asking.
I would never have done it. I was so weel trained. How like an
animal I was. Trained; and my mother was proud of the way we
were trained. It disgusts me. A.C.


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