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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June 8, 1995.

Yesterday, I went to see the film "Bridges over Madison County", a
love story about a farm wife and a photographer who fall madly in
love with one another during a four day stint when the woman's
family leaves town to go to a 4-H fair.

I read the book last year. A student had lent it to me and I
remember asking myself a lot of questions after having read it.
It reminded me of my years on the farm; knowing I would live
there for the rest of my life with a man I wasn't in love with,
doing work I didn't like, living among people who were nothing
like me... It was enormously depressing and I could not have
waited 18 years for a Robert Kincaid to come and sweep me off my
feet. I would have died a long time before: accident, suicide,
who knows but I couldn't have endured. I lived in another time
though. Francesca cold have been Anita Jamault, the yoga lady; a
woman of multiple talents, classy, who certainly added colour to
the landscape but who, so far as I am concerned, wasted her zest
for life by living in that little town her entire life.

The one thing that made my heart ache was the love Richard,
Francesca's husband had for her. She couldn't hurt him, couldn't
break him by leaving and living her life. It was an enormous
sacrifice she made; one that I had hoped I would be able to make
but that in the end, I wasn't. I still question whether or not I
did the right thing. I still question what's more important in
life: to give up of ourselves for others or to be true to
ourselves. Being true to ourselves can involve hurting people,
like I have done; it involves enormous change. I don't think one
is better than the other. They are both admirable in their own
way. Perhaps in a way, Francesca was cowardly though. Perhaps
she was in love with the feeling of love. Her stint with Kincaid
was idyllic and she wanted it to stay that way. Leaving with him
would have changed all that, she knew it. It would have become
the everyday. I always wonder what the everyday would be with a
person you truly love. Could it really lead to stagnation like
what one sees in most relationships? I always wonder if the
reason why so many marriages stagnate is that they weren't meant
to be in the first place and then, when routine sets in, boredom,
and eventually resentment, even anger, you can't be bothered to
make the effort to rekindle some kind of warmth. You can't be
nothered because you really couldn't care less. You've worn each
other thin and you'd just as soon each live your own life, in the
same house, share the bills, the work, it becomes a partnership,
no more, no less.

I don't want that. I don't want a partnership with my husband.
I want a lover first, a person who can always sweep me off my
feet and I'm ready to make an effort to do the same for him. I'm
willing to work to keep the magic alive. Actually, at this
point, I'm not ready for that. At one level I am, but
physically, I'm not ready. I wouldn't have the energy at this
point. I could if I was doing only that, but I can't imagine
working the way I do, trying to nurture my family and keeping a
lover happy all at the same time. I don't have time for a lover.
I want a lover though. I want to experience a love that makes me
grow. I think that even if I am not ready for it, I would be
willing to take a chance and see if I have the guts to finally
open that door I've insisted on keeping closed up to now. I
honestly don't know if I could but I want to work at it. I think
it will make me a better person. Steve is on my mind again. Why
did I allow myself to become vulnerable? I question my motives.
Is it because I want the feeling of love, nothing more? I didn't
chase after it and I doubt I ever would. Did I let down my guard
because I realize it's safe anyway because Steve is married?
What if he announced to me that he was separated. Would I run
off like a scared rabbit? My initial reaction is just that.
Just the thought of him being free makes me freeze. Physically,
I feel like a little rock, static, my eyes avoid looking to the
left, God knows why, but when I am avoiding something, I always
concentrate my eyes to the right, directly toward the horizon.
My body becomes tight and I clench my whole being. I sense
myself becoming stubborn. What I feel at that moment is true
stubborness. It has nothing to do with determination. I close
myself off to everything, everyone and no one can touch me even
if they're touching me. I am impenetrable. Where does it come
from? No one, nothing can reach me and it works well as people
inevitably turn away, give up and never return. It makes me
happy, relieved and awfully sad and lonely. I'm so frightened of
bieng harnessed, of belonging to someone. I don't want to belong
to anyone. The idea of a boyfriend never appealed to me because
I felt trapped. I wanted a boyfriend, everything that went with
one, but I couldn't do what was required to have one. The urge
to break away has always been so strong in me, but what the fuck
is it I want to break away from? Look to the left. That's where
I have to look, explore. In my dreams, there are countless times
when I have been faced with two roads, the left and the right
road. It one was always the left one that led somewhere. Maybe
I have to do visualisations concerning those dreams, the side of
my heart. AC


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June 5, 1995.

Things to do which I'm putting off: opening a new bank account;
buying a ticket to Toronto. I probably don't really want to go
to Toronto at this point. I'm writing on a fairly regular basis
and things are starting to surface. It's not time to go. I
would also have time to really let myself go as far as writing
goes starting from the 15th on as I will be unemployed. I am
meeting with Jean Stevens tonight about translation but I will
suggest to him that we work on writing. I think we both have the
critical, skewed mind that would make good comedy. The Gilda
Radner, Father Guido Sarducci kind. I watched an old video of
Gilda Radner live in New York yesterday morning and I laughed
myself silly yet at the same time, it wrenched my heartstrings.
Radner has always been among my heroines in life. Her, Phyllis
Diller, Carole Burnett; women who could poke fun at themselves;
women who obviously at some time in their lives had been homely,
insignificant little girls but who I guess really believed in
themselves at some level and in what they had to accomplish.
They are all actually good-looking women with great bods, a
fabulous sense of humour. They dare broach subjects no one else
would touch with a ten foot pole and carry it off.

This weekend, I spoke to Gilles about the fact that perhaps I
had quashed his vocation by marrying him. I told him I was
serious; that I did not see priesthood in his case as something
negative. What I see, as far as he is concerned, is a man who
has always been more interested in the community than in his
family. He has given enormously of himself without any thought
of retribution. He's not in the least interested in money, in
material things. He answered me that he could never have been
celibate or that he certainly could not regret having given up
celibacy. He would also have been on the fringe because of his
ideas and beliefs. I said I really saw nothing wrong with that,
that it is time for more of his kind to be involved as far as the
church is concerned. It is clear that we are each spreading our
wings in a healthy way. That we are no longer meant to be
together if we are to be true to ourselves. We both realize it
and I finally admit it to myself and to him.

I talked to him about the cheetah in the jungle who is free,
noble, beautiful, admired by all until he is put into a cage.
The same animal then becomes listless, lifeless, cantankerous,
running circles and going nowhere in his limited space. People
comment on his appearance, even laugh because he does not fit in
there. He is the same animal but his spirit is broken. It's no
use even thinking about the future because there is none. Only
more and more days of going around in circles, doing nothing,
having people watch you: eating, going to the bathroom, sleeping.
At one point, you might just like to tell them to fuck off.
People would laugh at you because you have no power, no power
whatsoever. You're just an old cheetah, locked inside a cage,
not capable of inflicting any kind of pain or anything else on
anyone. Imagine the rage of being laughed at! You dream of
escape or let yourself die; it's as simple as that. Dreaming of
escape becomes a kind of non-life because the possibility is so
infinitesimal that it might as well not exist.

Living in the jungle is a lot harder. You never know what awaits
you, including death. You don't know whether or not you'll have
food on a regular basis but the adventure is in the living, in
the suspense of knowing or not knowing what will come about. The
adventure is also developing strategies to keep oneself alive and
healthy, it's building a family and helping them see it through
life, sharing what it is you yourself have learned. But to live
in a cage? What's the point?

My wife and mother days were just that. Gilles said it was true.
No matter how much I wish it hadn't felt like that, that's
exactly what it felt like. It's not easy to say something like
that. We're programmed to see our mothering days as noble, as
rewarding, as necessary and fuck it; they're not! But how can
you say that without making the people you love not feel
worthless? I'm convinced I loved my children, possibly even my
husband as much as the next woman but I didn't fit in that little
cage and no matter how I tried to adapt, it couldn't work. But
we're all judged by the rules that apply to living in that cage.
When I break my chains, I pave the way for them; I give them more
options but I can't take them with me. My children will have to
make their own choices concerning how they will live in society.
I haven't made it easier for them because as it is, I've broken
away myself but I haven't yet figured out whether or not I can
improve things for those who live in similar situations but don't
have the courage to break away or change them.

Children shouldn't force us to be economically dependent on the
state or men. Children shouldn't deter us from wanting to be
educated, from wanting to contribute ideas and energy. On the
contrary, having children often gives us renewed vigour, energy
which we can unfortuntely cannot channel anywhere except
sometimes in our houses. We become maniacal housewives.
Occasionally, we start children's playgroups so our children can
have someone to play with and we can talk to adults. The two
hours over, we return to our homes, cooking, cleaning, driving so
and so to whatever, picking up so and so from wherever and the
beat goes on. If we've pragmatic enough to marry for money and
not only for love, we can occasionally treat ourselves to a
manicure, massage or pedicure to pamper ourselves, to escape the
drudgery of our existence but sometimes, that can only make
matters worse. We return to our home and castle all dolled up
with no place to go and reality sets in even more harshly. I
we've married for love or lust and definitely not into money,
we'll be stuck just making ends meet. Forget organizing
playgroups; forget even cleaning eventually. Forget even trying
to pretend entertaining the kids. We'll drink coffee and smoke
ourselves to oblivion. What is there more to do in these tough
Canadian winters?

bullshit! Our options are minimal. We can go back to work if we
can't stand the thought of going mad staying home all day and try
and juggle both. Inevitably, we get caught in the materialistic
madness of North American society. How can we do otherwise?
There has to be some kind of compensation for what we're going
through and it can't just be spending our evenings with the
children.

Let's be honest. Children are gifts; yes they are, but not only
to their parents. They are also commodities. They are
tomorrow's workforce, tomorrow's parents, the producers of our
future workforces. If we can't afford to treat their caregivers
properly, if we can't treat them properly, then we risk having
frustrated adults who won't much care for people when they become
policy makers.

Where are we when we're at the point we don't have any more
imagination than to stick children into bootcamp to make them
behave. When despite our hightech sophisticated warheads, the
only solution we have to crime is the death penalty. We're still
thinking deterrents. Isn't someone in the liberal arts field
thinking? Or is it just that we have no time, money or will to
bother with the liberal arts. Science and technology have become
all powerful but they are worth less than nothing if we are
raising serial killers by the dozens.

Once an adult, we all make our own decisions, are responsible for
our decisions. I agree, but to be able to make intelligent and
human decisions, we have to be taught. We have to have someone
sit down with us and tell us about respect, about charity, about
doing on to others as you would like them to do on to you. We
have to teach them why these rules are good rules not just to
keep people in line but because it makes our world nicer to live
in. But we also have to have time to sit down and teach the
children those things and we have to have time to spend with them
to show them the example. It's not by rushing out at 7:00 A.M.
and driving them half asleep to daycare, picking them up at 4:00
or 5:00, rushing home to make supper, or maybe stopping in for
some fastfood, cleaning up, rushing them over to Scouts, hockey,
ringettes, soccer, music, saying a quick goodnight, and then
with a sigh, putting up our feet and falling asleep in front of
the T.V. that we will teach children values, that we will make
children human.

Let's make politicians accountable. We elect them, allow them to
run our affairs. Let's demand more imagination for the salaries
they earn, more solutions. You can't tell me that with the money
they're paid, with the pensions they earn they can't push
themselves a little harder. And hell, if it's not working, think
of a new way. If women with no money can get together and set up
all kinds of organizations, than surely, politicians with their
networking systems, money and time can work wonders and hell if
you can't, go work for daycare free and let other people find
the solutions.


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June 1, 1995.

Hot, hot, hot. It is a sauna in my apartment. Maybe I'll go
play badmington with Gwenith, but I haven't heard from her yet.
I had lunch with my students today and met Aline and Denise at
the Cafe Jardin. Sent off my editing to Jean and am now entitled
to relax.

Want to start off on a new foot this June, write about different
things. Let's start now.

Relationships. Mine is over. What makes it over? I am getting
mean with Gilles when I am with him because I don't really want
to be with him. I want to break it off because I know I have to,
yet I don't want to because it changes my entire perspective on
life and it changes my entire life, my sons' lives, Gilles'
life... It changes absolutely everything. But, the bottom line
is it has to change. It can't stay that way because in my
dreams, I imagined it would be that way. In any case, did I ever
really imagine it to be that way? No. I never actually imagined
a constant man in my life when I was young. I remember imagining
children, already raised, and me tromping around the world, but
there was never any husband in sight in these dreams. At one
point, during my teenage years, I imagined a rather vague idea of
a man, a proper, well dressed, distinguished looking character,
British. And then, there was the rogue. I imagined myself
falling in love with a roguish type, laid back type, but all the
way through it, I never was attached to anyone. I went to a
party the other day and met a couple of old girlfriends who
talked of their old boyfriends and I realized no one could ever
say about me that I went out with whoever while I was in
highschool. I had a few short flings with several guys, but
never anything long standing. Same with my lovers; all very
short lived relationships; all except for Gilles. Amazing how it
is that I would have had a long standing relationship with the
only guy I wasn't in love with. For 19 years.

Reasons for it? There were many. The fact that I couldn't do
better than those around me. I don't think I would have married
had I not married Gilles. I would have become a specialist in
something or other but I was told frowned upon and asked who the
hell I thought I was to think that my life's destiny could be so
different from that of all those around me. I had little self
esteem and thought that it wasn't right to think I could achieve
something when no one else around me was going to achieve
anything other than the norm. Silly of me. What's wrong with
achieving anything? It really makes me chuckle today. So today,
20 years later, I am following my destiny, the road I was meant
to take. It's like in my recent dream. Two women are riding
bikes and weaving hemp into rope on the handle bars of their
bikes. They are each on a different road. One is concerned with
doing things for looks, the other is doing what she has to do
with no other thought behind her actions other than riding her
bike into the next town. The one is resentful of the other. She
starts stuffing a loaf of bread with all kinds of junk and trying
to make it look esthetically pleasing yet her bread is shit. It
would never be edible. The other makes a bread that is loose and
elastic; a bread that can smile.

Just before, in my dream, I was in a car with Gilles and he drove
it into the garbage can. I was naked and had lost all my clothes
through his fault. I was very much annoyed with him but I was at
the point I really didn't care anymore.

Significant? A relationship, into the garbage. Time to throw
away what's used, no longer useful and time to weave something
new. Time to get a "handle" on things: I'm weaving on the
handlebars and moving forward as I'm doing so.

I no longer wear my rings. Neither my wedding band nor
Fischel's. I find it hard. It makes me vulnerable. I don't
feel married anymore and that's exactly what's supposed to happen
but not being married makes me feel like I should be available
and I don't want to be. Probably never. That makes me chuckle
too. I will eventually fill my life in a way that fulfills me
and I don't think I would ever be fulfilled living with one man.
I could be wrong but for the moment, I won't be tied down. What
occasionally makes me yearn for a man are the same things I've
yearned for in my dreams. It's the idea society made me yearn
for. It is the house with the fine furniture and entertaining
facilities; the little well brought up family, clean, preppy-looking,
intelligent children; the trips here and there... Did
I ever really want those things except to fill the void I had
accepted when I accepted to let go of my destiny? I don't
believe I really cared about nice houses or things other than to
admire good craftmanship. I would have been content to roam
until I discovered my destiny. The bottom line is I don't want
to be tied down.

To fill the void and avoid my destiny, I had to do a lot of
things that went against my nature. I accepted to marry a man
whose eyes I didn't like. I wore a ring and wore it like a
talisman. I was now part of society the way everyone wanted me
to be and this band protected me from involvement with other men.
I now had to start this life I had chosen. The next logical step
was children. Another good way to satisfy society, to fulfill
the role I had chosen to play.

The loneliness that comes from not following your destiny is
incredible. It brings you to the brink of madness, of death.
Yet because you are allowing yourself to be molded by the
dictates of society and conforming, no one cares whether you are
dead or alive inside. In fact, they'd just as soon you be dead
than break the norm. Because when you do break that norm, you
are putting things into question and confronting them with their
own oftentime misery. How many friends have a hard time looking
at me today because they are wishing they could do what I have
done. But, they'll either go on bad-mouthing their husband or
the exact opposite, covering up the things they hate about him
all the while slipping in and out of depression. And the things
they hate about their husband is the way he reacts to their
depression, most often: his lack of concern, understanding,
patience, time, and all these faults he has developped because he
feels incapable of filling her needs, he demands; doesn't know
how to react to her depressed moods other then to spend less time
around her and so the vicious circle begins. She's resentful
because he's never home, nags, he spends less time home, she's
depressed because he doesn't seem to appreciate her anymore, lets
herself go, physically, emotionally, intellectually. He sees a
better product outside the home and falls for it.

Women still don't allow themselves to be much of anyone. We
still let everyone and everything around us dictate the rules.

Today, I am relatively free. No rings, no children, no husband,
no house or yard to clean. I write, listen to music, work, talk
to people, think, try to be a better person. There's still a lot
of work to done. A lot of mind exploring, soul searching but I'm
on the right track. Cigarette-free for two days now. I still
would like to smoke but have determined I do not have the time to
waste. Plus it stinks up my apartment.

Gwenith called but is so busy she can only play at 9:00. I am
going to die of heatrash before then. A.C.


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May 31, 1995.

Lunch. Payday. Final review. Questions, questions in my mind.
About love, marriage, children, life, values, right and wrong,
what's best...

I wanted to smoke but I am out of cigarettes. It annoys me to be
out. It annoys me that I am annoyed. I will not buy another
pack though. I will do something else instead, spend the money
elsewhere, maybe at the YMCA, who knows, but I will do something
rather than sit in a little appartment and destroy my lungs.
What though? It makes me nervous. Study? Make love? Join a
committee? Open a restaurant? Travel? Smoking is so much
easier. I can see why people go to opium dens. You lie down and
forget that you are doing nothing with your life. You can't even
remember to feel guilty or mediocre, you just fly high.

I am nearing the end of my period and can feel the energy
surging. I am determined not to fantasize a week straight. I
don't know what I'm going to do but I am going to do something.

I feel helpless; like my life is a straight line going nowhere.
The end of the day will roll around, I'll come back to my
apartment, finish my editing, eat my soup, go bike riding; then
what? Write al little, about how life has changed, how kids
can't go out to play by themselves anymore. And then what? I'll
phone Daniele around 8:30, talk awhile, and then what? Phone
Denis and see if he wants to go for a drink? And then what?
Bed, another day of courses, and more of the same; wondering how
I can fill up my life. There's got to be more. How, where can I
find it?


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May 30, 1995

A little Gypsy Kings music, a warm rum and coke, the heat of a
Manitoba summer...

I am by myself and making a life for myself; or at least trying.
I just talked to Edith on the phone and it was fun. I told her
about my "trying" weekend and she was encouraging. Told me I
had class and it wasn't something you could buy. I am still
reviewing my options and I think a house is a crazy option for me
at this point. I am a gypsy who doesn't want to be tied down to
a house. I go bike riding and see people mowing their lawn,
working in their flower beds and it really doesn't do anything
for me. I need a bigger place, a little bit bigger, maybe an
extra room with a balcony or small private yard where I can go
out and sit in the sun, get some air; a private entrance so that
friends can come in when they feel like it. Room for my children
if they feel like spending time with me. I am thinking of going
to Toronto for a week, somewhere toward the middle of June, just
before Frederik's graduation. Courses are basically over. I am
reviewing, playing games, going out for gelatti, taking it more
or less easy.
I tried to phone my friend Daniele in Ottawa tonight but her son
told me she was gone for a beer, something she rarely does, he
said. So I said I would call back tomorrow at about the same
time. It is fucking hot! 31 degrees. It reminds me of last
year in Strasbourg. It would be nice to go out and sit on a
terrace with Mohammed for a beer. Instead, I sit in a squelching
apartment drinking rum and coke and writing. Quite happy
actually. I was telling Edith about my student who read Bridges
over Madison County to his wife over a bottle of wine (how
romantic) and told her that was what I needed. I want a man, a
romantic man who will dote on me and whom I can dote on. I'm in
no rush and I have no doubt it will eventually happen. I think
Steve, just like I mentioned before, is a step in the right
direction; just like Mohammed. Two men who have made me feel I
am still a woman, a desirable woman, an attractive woman. Edith
told me: "write an ad in the personals in the Globe and Mail".
Would you? I asked her. She said, "Absolutely!" Two of her
friends recently did and came out winners.

Wanted: a man who one evening will read Bridges Over Madison
County out loud to me over a bottle of wine, dance with me to
Gypsy Kings or Gershwin...or even Black Box; I'm flexible. I
would love it if you painted my toenails an outrageous color, and
for this, I will reciprocate by belly dancing on alternate
evenings, making you laugh with my repertoire of jokes and
stories and occasionally cook great meals with fresh herbs and
shitake mushrooms. Faults? Yes, I do have some. I can't swim,
I'm a night person and my mother says I'm stubborn.

Do I have any takers?

For my fortieth birthday, why not?

My ears are ringing. I guess someone out ther is looking for
just my type of woman.

I still have a bit of editing to do but hell; tonight is tonight
and the night is young.

I have not called home this week and I kept the car and I'm being
my stubborn self and not feeling guilty about it. I wonder if
they even notice. I don't think they really do.

Gilles can't pay me 30,000 dollars; I can't pay him that amount
of money and it's absolutely crazy even to think about it. There
are other solutions. He's not a solutions guy; I am a solutions
gal so I will have to think them out myself. I love my children
and they will come to realize that one day. Carrie-Lee accepts
her parents for what they are; crazy as her situation has been.
Maybe it hasn't been all that crazy. Maybe, it's what most
people dream about but never have the guts to do. I for one am
doing the unthinkable but in the long run, it is the right thing.
I am being true to myself, honest.

You stroked my arm, looked into my eyes, and asked, "What are you
hiding behind those eyes?" "Nothing!" I answered almost
vehemently. And little by little, I discovered what it was I was
hiding. A hatred for myself, a feeling of incompetence, of
ugliness, fear, unfulfilled needs which I had accepted would
never would be fulfilled. You killed the old me and with time, I
was awakened to the true me. Not an easy process, especially
since I firmly believed there was little good in me.

But guess what? People have told me I look younger, I have
class, I am attractive, I am funny, I am an excellent teacher, I
am a good money manager, I have rhythm, I am liberal-minded, I am
not out of reach, I communicate well, I write well, I am a good
friend, I can be trusted. Hey, it's a start.

I have one last cigarette to smoke and then I want to quit. This
is the first time in my life I am finding it difficult yet it is
the first time in my life I really don't want to keep on. I live
in a small apartment where it is too small to smoke. It will
stink if I keep on. It's too hot in here to have such a vice but
I am actually quite enjoying it. I will have to replace it with
something and I will have to make a concerted effort to do this.
Tomorrow, bike riding, no editing, no smoking, I will eat my
brown rice and shitake mushrooms and take in a bit of fresh air.
My ears are ringing. Someone is thinking about me. It could be
any number of people. My children, my husband, my girlfriends,
my boyfriends, my sister, my brothers, Steve, maybe it's all
those people put together. I am thinking of them all and sending
out all my love and good wishes to them. Now, it is time once
again to sign off and get to work. AC.


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May 29, 1995

It's incredible how time flies. It's been a rollercoaster time.
I'm slightly bitter over the turn of events but what comes to
pass comes to pass. I spoke bitter words to Gilles this weekend.
I told him I believe his parents were negligent when
raising their family, that they played on guilt and that any
woman who tells her son to bow down his head because others mught
think he's too proud is wrong to do so. I told her that any
parent who allows so many tragedies to happen in her family is
negligent. There is no excuse for it. If they couldn't handle
the number of children they had, than it was up to them to
prevent so many children from happening. I said I hoped one day
he would be able to walk with his head high, that he deserved to
do so but that we weren't born for a pittance and it was not
something I was going to accept any longer.

On my way out the door yesterday, I said my goodbyes, gave out
hugs and kisses and when I kissed Gilles, he said,"listen, I've
been thinking about what you said and ..." I thought he would
say, let's go for counselling, or, maybe you're right and my
parents haven't been very understanding, but instead, he said:
"I'll give you $30,000 and I'll keep the house and assume all our
debts and the children or the other way around." I had to laugh.
It was really a slap in the face. I laughed on my way out and
then cried all the way home.

Then, I had a strange dream about being attacked by a man with a
pointy tongue and a pointy penis and losing all my clothes and
Gilles losing the car and then crashing into a garbage can. And
then, two women were riding their bikes on parallel paths and
weaving hemp on the handle bars. One was concerned with quality;
the other with appearances. One cared nothing about substance,
the other kneaded a loaf of bread that smiled, literally smiled
and was very flexible. Shew cared nothing about what others
thought, only about what she had to do, her role in life and she
forged ahead, riding toward the town.

I'm no longer wanted. I have to accept that. It is partly my
doing. Had I known, would I have left or would I have endured
another 8 years and waited until Nicolas was an adult? I'll
never know because I can longer backtrack. I have to move ahead.
What hurts the most is Frederik's resentment toward me. He hates
me, despises me, and can't understand or explain why he does.
There is nothing to do about it but play the waiting game and
hope one day he can at least accept if not understand.

What does last night's dream mean? That Gilles and I are headed
for the garbage dump? I suppose. I suppose it's time to discard
old worn out things. Sharp tongues and penises are out to get
me, I am naked, humiliated, but I do live through it and life
continues, the strands of life are woven, the bread of life is
kneaded and that bread comes to life with a smile. What is
important in life are not appearances, superficial things; it is
not to tend the interior rather than the shell, something I have
perhaps been neglecting.

Fortunately, the year is ending and I will be able to breathe a
while. I am reviewing my options: what options I wonder? I have
artistic talents. Another thing that comes out in my dreams. In
last night's dream, the wooden work table came up again, just
like in my pilot's dream. This time, I was building a shoe and
on that shoe, I attached little figurines, symbols of protection
according to my dictionary of symbols. In my pilot dream, I
found tin soldiers in my tool boxes. According to symbolism, "la
chaussure est le signe qu'une personne appartient a elle-meme,
qu'elle se suffit et qu'elle est responable de ses actes."
Therefore, according to these dreams, I am on the right track.
Fear is still an important factor in my life. If I buy a house,
will I be able to pay for it? If I have a job, will I be able to
keep it? If I do not fight for my children or even show that I
want them, will they one day resent me for not having cared
enough? Lots of questions but no answers. There will never be
answers if I do not boldly take chances though. Just like when I
move out. I could not know what the future would hold; the
situation is not ideal, but, I am not stagnating either. I have
made a start. I have established myself, set up a "home" for
myself, started to open myself up, more and more. I don't want
to be cruel with Gilles. I am having difficulty letting go;
maybe more so than him finally. It is my Libran influence. I
want everything to balance out. And this time around, I can't
expect that. The man has made it clear to me without any words
that he does not want me. I wanted words. I wanted him to tell
me straight out: I do not want you back, I will not take you
back. But instead, he makes love to me, buys me gifts for
Mother's Day. We no longer speak of a future together, of
sharing our family together. That's what hurts the most for me,
I think. I believed in that dream, the retirement home, the
grandma and grandpa doting on their beloved grandchildren. I
believed as firmly as I believed I one day would have a mother
and father who would love me. I was convinced Fischel would one
day look me up and dote on me, that Kay would one call me and pay
my ticket for me to fly down and go see her. I dreamed that one
day I would iron out my differences with Marcelle and that we
would go out for tea together, spend afternoons enjoying life
together. I thought Reginald would get over his cancer and be a
doting grandfather to my precious boys. I imagined him spoiling
them, teasing them, taking them out on outings. I imagined I
would one day marry a man I adored, who would treat me like his
queen. Life would have a fairy tale ending.

I admit the end is not yet in sight, but sometimes, I have to
wonder. I have abandoned my children. That's what I feel. I am
not ensuring for them the quality of life I had hoped they would
have.

The dreams say I have to weave my own story. Now is the time.
Time for a new start, time to be brave even if I'm not entirely
brave. Time to be the warrior I was meant to be.
I will not leave the area. There are a few things I wil see to.
One reason I thought I was staying and which I thought was a
stupid reason for staying was Steve's return. I am not sure he
will call upon his return, but somehow, I think he will. He has
given me the impression of being a man one can count on. Little
things, like waiting to leave until after I got off the phone.
We were having a conversation one day after the course and I was
called on the phone. Our conversation was more or less over and
he could have waved goodbye and left, but instead, he waited
until I finished, said a proper goodbye and left. He always
handed in his journals even if he was absent some weeks or forgot
them. I am not fantasizing over him, am not mooning over him, am
not making plans concerning anything to do with him, but I want
to see him. He has been a boost to my ego over the winter. It
was such a subtle turn of events. I didn't even realize I was
bieng transformed into a new woman. I underwent a
transfiguration because of him. My wardrobe changed. I added
color to my world. I began to smile and laugh, to look forward
to certain days more than others. I began to take care of
myself, to see myself as attractive, to see there was hope; that
I could still be awakened. It doesn't matter whether or not it's
a man, a child, nature, perhaps the awakening is stronger because
he's a man. Perhaps it was also quicker. I think I eventually
would have opened up to life even without Steve. My life was not
miserable this winter even before my heart started being affected
by this turn of events.

In any case, pragmatic as I am, I know this situation is
temporary. Perhaps it is even a thing of the past just like
Mohamed now belongs to the past. I have no remorse, no pangs of
any kind. I am lonely though and for the moment, I do not feel
like seeing just anyone. Dov called the other day and I was very
happy to hear his voice. His life is close to misery right now.
Ruth and him are undergoing counselling. They have no money, two
babies. But to hear him tell Jehuda that Auntie Agnes is on the
phone just warmed the cockles of mu heart. These are my nephews.
Schlomo and Jehuda. I still hang on to these little bits of past
and present despite our enormous differences in background, in
culture.

Enough for today. AC


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May 16, 1995. (Beat)

My mother doesn't like me. Today, it rained. First it wasn't
raining. My brother and I played outside and my mother watched
out through the window. Then, the sky got cloudy, it started to
rumble and my mother told my little brother to come in. I was
coming in too but my mother said no, that I should stay outside.
She said it in a nice way and said it was still nice and that my
brother had to nap. It was morning but Maybe sometimes my
brother naps in the morning. I'm not sure. Soon after, it
started raining very hard. I was wearing shorts and a little pop
top and my white shoes. There was a lot of thunder and
lightning. It cracked all around me and I was scared. I knew
that lightening is dangerous and I went to the door to see if I
could come into the house but it was locked and my mother didn't
answer when I rang. She never lets me get dirty and by now I was
very wet and even muddy. I checked to see if she was watching
from her window; she generally does, but she was nowhere in
sight. I got more adventurous and ran to the fornt yard,
forbidden territory, and once again looked to see if she was
checking on me from her window, but she was not. I stuck my head
under the gutter and let the rain pour through my hair. I
laughed gleefully, partly to try and forget the fear of being hit
by lightening. I stayed outside for a long time, until it
stopped raining. I was cold for a while but even when I knocked
on the door, there was no answer, so I ran around the yard and
eventually, the sun dried me up.

My mother called me in. I thought she would scold me for not
staying in the backyard, but she didn't say a word to me. She
looked disappointed I was still there.

My mother's locked up in her room. My brother and I decide to
play a trick on my father whose office is just down the
livingroom hall. Help me push this armchair, I ask my brother.
He is a fat redheaded kid with a fair amount of strength for a
three year old. We heave and push and finally, the chair is in
place, wedged in the hallway, right in front of my father's
office door. He comes out for lunch and screams: what the hell
have you done? to my mother. I say it's us, my brother and I.
He thinks we are just protecting my mother and is livid. Get
that goddamn chair out of there now! he screams. My mother
doesn't know what's going on and screams in her room, angrier
even than my father at being unjustly accused. My brother and I
are so nervous, we are no longer able to dislodge the chair.

Morning in a darkened room. I am in my crib and I hear birds
singing. I pull the curtain and look outside wishing I could
climb out of my bed but my mother has firmly instructed me to
stay in my crib until she takes me out. She eventually enters
the room and hits me for having pulled the curtain. I told you
not to touch those curtains! Then I wonder why the rod is bent.
Don't you ever touch that curtain again if you know what's good
for you. I cannot understand why anyone would want to endure a
dark house, dark rooms when it's so lovely outside.

Lying in my bed, I watch a fly buzz around the room. I take a
piece of kleenex and the gold initial ring my grandmother gave
me and I make a crown and veil for my ring finger. You are the
queen, I say. You have all the power. You can tell people what
to do. You're very lovely, I say and so is that child standing
next to you. Let's go visit the queen from the other castle so
the children can play together and you can have tea. I doze off
into sleep and am awakened by pain and more pain. Startled, I
open my eyes and see my mother hitting me with a long wooden
stick. You goddamn little hypocrite, she says. Pretending to
sleep, are you. Take that and that and that! and half asleep, I
try and understand what is going on. I was sleeping, I scream,
through tears of pain and humiliation. I was! Well then it's
for the times you weren't, for all the times you play the damn
little hypocrite, she says.

Life is no longer the same from that moment on. There is no
longer any truth, any honesty to life. I must save my skin,
however I can because there are no reasons for the beatings. My
mother hates me, that is all.



Mother chases 10 year old girl around house, through hallways,
living room, kitchen, and round and round. Two children, older
girl and tall boy peer from two different doorways. Woman is
livid, child has intense look in her eyes as she looks back from
time to time.

You goddamn savage, get back here this minute! Stop it you
goddamn mule. Wait till I catch you! Stop now I tell you! You
hear me? Stop now!

The screaming goes on as the mother and child circle the house
several more times.

I can run faster than her. But there's no where to go. I could
run for hours thinks the girl but eventually, I will just have to
stop because there is nowhere to go and I will just have to take
my beating like I normally do. But what if I was to never stop?
What if I was to run out of the house and down the highway and
never come back? Run down the highway and on and on and jump a
train and ride to Disneyworld and maybe some nice people would
take me in as their daughter and I would live happily.

The girl grows weary, opens the basement door and runs
downstairs. This is her downfall she knows because from here,
there is no escape. She runs around the pingpong table a few
times with the mother still screaming the same litanies. The
older girl and boy are now peering from the stairs in awe of
their sister.

The girl is not physically tired however, she is emotionally
drained. She sits under the pingpong table and crouches into a
little ball as her mother reaches under with her stick as if
chasing some rabid animal. Come here you bitch! Listen to me
once and for all. Come out and get what you deserve! The little
girl curls up tighter and tighter, trying to protect her head,
her body at the same time. You won't come out will you? Well
then I'll come and get you, you goddamn savage!

The mother crawls under the table and the little girl has a
second's satisfaction at the thought of her mother looking so
undignified, her plump body in her house dress crawling under
this table, waving her stick and screaming her lungs off.

It comes down, with all the wrath her mother can muster. The
pain on her fingers trying to ward off the blows, the bumps on
her legs, new ones popping up every second. This is worse than
usual but then, I did ask for it the little girl tells herself.
Stop, stop, please stop! I can't take it anymore says the little
girl, but the blows thunder on. A trickle down her leg and she
says I'm peeing, I can't help myself! The mother laughs wickedly
and keeps hitting until the little girl dully lets her body give
in.

Clean up your mess and get to bed! says the mother as she kicks
the little girl to make her move.

Later, in her bed, her soiled panties at the end of her bed, the
girl cries. She tries to break her arm, her legs by twisting
them into unnatural positions but only endures more pain. Maybe
they'll have to put me in the hospital with a broken leg that way
I won't get any beatings while I'm in the hospital, she thinks.
There is the fear though that because her father is a doctor,
they will keep her at home because he can take care of her and
her mother will be even angrier at her for having broken her leg
on purpose so she will get more beatings. Exhaustion sets in and
sleep follows.

In the morning, surprise at still being alive. She prays God
every night, and the Virgin Mary that they take her away that
they take her to heaven, maybe with her real mother whom she
thinks is dead. The soiled panties are hanging on the bedpost
and her mother forces her to wear them to school. She stinks as
her mother does not let her use the sink or any towels in the
washroom. Come here so I can comb your hair, says her mother as
she does every morning. The girl sits on the stool and her
mother separates her hair in ridiculous parts, tying it all up in
a poney tail and adding barettes, pins and a headband. The girl
is ugly, stinks and her face staring at the ground, treks the
mile to school. No one comes near her all day. The children,
though they snicker behind her back to each other do not say
anything to her directly. In any case, she does not look up from
the ground all day, nor does she hear anything. At the end of
the day, she wearily walks back home and her mother asks if she
has learned her lesson.

Morning. Come here, you slut! Hand me that schoolbag. Her
mother goes through every compartment and finds a pharmaceutical
notepad the girl's father has given her. Haven't I told you
enough times you goddamn hypocrite? Haven't I told you, you
don't bring things to school? The stick comes out and the girl
wishes she had been quicker about putting on her skipants and
jacket. She rubs her bruised arms, dresses and walks to school.
The walk to school is delightful. She is late, the streets are
empty of children and she sticks her tongue out to catch a few
snowflakes. At the railroad crossing, she plays chicken with the
train, which comes by every twenty minutes or so. She runs back
and forth across the track until the train is relatively near and
then lies on the crossing, getting up maybe twenty seconds before
the train goes by. The engineer shakes his fist. She waves and
laughs, slides down a hill across the track and walks the last
three hundred yards to school.

Bedtime. A mother's voice, sweet, endearing words. In my
brother's room; across my own room as she tucks in my sister. I
wait. Footsteps, out of the room. I gather my strength. Hear
my words echo: can I have a kiss too? A snicker and the voice
turns harsh. You? You don't deserve one.

A crashing sound. A vase falls off off the coffee table. My
brother and I look down with horror. What will she say? Perhaps
nothing since my brother is the culprit. Stomping steps! My
elbow is twisted up toward her chest as she lashes out her words
of wrath. My brother looks on without a word. She pinches me
until the blood vessels burst. It's not me! It's not me! I
shout. Tell him it's you I beg my brother, but she does not want
to hear. The stick appears and I am once again lost in her fury,
trying to protect my body from these never ending blows. God
will tell you the truth one day, I say. You'll see one day that
I am telling the truth. It only serves to encourage her wrath.
I cannot understand how this god-fearing woman, this church-going,
rosary saying woman can strike a child, an innocent child.
I am not a demon or am I? I go to the bathroom and wipe my
tear-stained face and look in the mirror to see what demon-child I am.
I see an ugly child, bruised, disheveled, bent. Maybe that is
what she hates in me. My ugliness. Perhaps she would have liked
a pretty child like that lovely blond girl in my class who wears
a red velvet dress. Yet my mother always says how ridiculous it
is for a child of that age to be wearing painted nails and party
dresses to school. I myself think Helen is the prettiest girl in
the class.

Today my mother is in a good mood. She teases me and I say she
doesn't love me. You never hug or kiss me I say. That is
because you are always so despicable, she says but don't be
ridiculous she adds. Of course I love you; more so even than
your brother or sister. I have to train you that's all. And she
goes on with her work.

I go into the back yard, in my father's forest, the one he
planted one tree at a time. I am not allowed here because my
mother says it will mess up the yard. I take a bag of alphabet
cereal I have stolen form the pantry and my dog and cat, one
under each arm. I eat my alphabets and share them with the dog
and cat. Then I hit them, one at a time; then I hug them,
squeeze them with all my love and tell them how despicable they
are. They squirm, look puzzled and I hit them again and tell
them how sweet they are and how I adore them. I am frightened
and vomit in the garden. I carefully bury my vomit so the garden
will be clean again.My cat and dog look up at me adoringly. They
are well trained.

It is supper time. My mother is serving beets. Thr sweet smell
makes me nauseous. She knows it and serves me a double helping.
I can't eat this I say. You know you will eat everything on your
plate she says. It is such a lovely color I think, why can I not
eat this? But the smell is so sweet, so perfumed; it is too
overpowering for my senses. I cannot get it down my throat.
Yet, I have no choice and I push the spoon into my mouth and
imagine more pleasant foods. My senses will not cooperate and my
dinner splatters back onto my plate, a sickening fuschia
overflowing on the table. My eyes are watering, my body is
shaking but my mother insists I finish off my plate. I do.


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May 15, 1995. (Monday)

Something has happened to me today. I don't quite know what, I
just know it happened. Like when it's time in your life for a
new phase. Nothing has changed around me, yet inside me, it
seems everything has. I wrote in my paper journal upon arriving
home tonight and I was very tired. I had a little nap and when I
awoke, somehow, things were different. I didn't go to my belly
dancing class, I haven't mooned over Steve, I haven't worked on
my revision for Jean, I made some batter for cookies but didn't
bake them because the thought of cookies suddenly made me sick...

I feel nearly as if I wasn't quite here. As if I was on another
plane. maybe I am. Christa is next to dead, we had a big scare
with Melanie who got a letter from the Canadian Red Cross saying
she was HIV +. It turned out to be negative on a second blood
test but it brought it home how near we all are to death. Gilles
told me he had been terrified for the boys the entire week,
thinking his goddaughter could possibly develop AIDS. If she
could, then, it was quite possible one of our boys eventually
could. I wasn't scared at all. I think I've been close to death
to often to fear it. I've always known it is a possibility my
boys could die prematurely and I think I've always been prepared
for thayt eventuality. I'm not saying I'm ready for it, I'm just
prepared. Sometimes, I'm surprised I've been lucky enough not to
have anything happen to them yet; nothing too major that is.
Maybe all my bad luck has run out and now, I'm on a stretch of
good luck. I feel that way. I feel incredibly lucky. I'm calm,
happy, not overly emotional in any way, just like I've come to a
crossroads in my life and the next stretch will be a enjoyable
one. I'm in love, but not desperately. I know what I want and
don't want. I won't have an affair. I think it's a cowardly
act. I realize that people having affairs can genuinely be in
love, but I don't have the time or energy to spend on covering up
my words and tracks. I've thought about Steve, the fact he's
married, wondered if I could prevent myself from succumbing to
his charm, to his energy if he were ever to come on to me. I
think it would be very difficult, but I think I would have to and
it would show my true strength. I know Steve has a good,
comfortable life, perhaps a little bit of a bourgeois life. I
don't think he is a bourgeois and maybe, just maybe he's tired of
living that life. One so easily gets bored. I was talking to
Carrie Lee the other day, and she was saying, going out for
dinner a couple of times a week, spending money on movies, good
times also becomes routine and you get bored; so you have a
child. Then, that gets routine, and you get up and move or have
another child, or do something else. It's quite true. I know
that's partly why I had children. Life has always been exciting
for me. Though I hated many parts of it, I can't say I was ever
bored. Steve doesn't have any children. I don't know if he
plans on having any. He's studying in education. I don't quite
see him as a teacher. I think he would be bored out of his tree
and I'm not sure he would have the necessary patience to endure
what teachers in today's society have to put up with. I
certainly couldn't. So, maybe Steve is bored and for the moment,
he sees something in me that intrigues him. He'd like to explore
it further, maybe not, but maybe so. We have things in common:
sense of humour, Indian and Inuit art, sense of adventure, I
think of him and my breathing becomes shorter. I know it would
be very difficult to resist him. Yet I don't want to carry on an
affair with a man who's not able to make up his mind. Even as I
write this, I have to laugh at myself. These judgements,
suppositions are rather futile. Who am I to kid myself. I don't
like the idea of someone getting hurt. I don't like the idea
that I would be another woman while the wife thinks everything is
fine under her roof. I do find the lying, inventing, alibis
petty and childish and I suppose I have no patience for that sort
of thing. I can think of other adventures I'd rather live.
There are also other men who perhaps wouldn't hold the same
attraction as Steve but who certainly must have their own charm.
I've let myself fall under a spell too quickly and maybe, just
maybe it's wearing off. I invent entire scenarios, love stories,
end and all and then, I'm too weary to play them out. A love
story is something I yearn for because I've never had it, just
like I've always yearned for a mother and never have had one.
I've come to the realization I will never have a mother and I am
managing to live with it. It hasn't been easy but I've managed.
I won't count on that inheritance. The pot of gold will come
from elsewhere. I think it will come from seeing my children
happy and successful, watching them grow, helping them out as
best as I can. I've distanced myself from them lately in a way I
never have. I've put aside my financial worries as far as
they're concerned. If Matts buys himself a Mustang with the gold
coins he found, then be it. It's money that fell from the sky so
why hoard it? I've hoarded so many things: feelings, love,
anger, fear, food, space, I closed myself and my environment off
to the world and it kept me from living. It killed me slowly,
bit by bit. Yes, admittedly, I did what I could with what I had.
I'm thankful that I got out when I did and allowed my children
the physical and emotional space necessary to live a healthy
life. It's a relief to have that at last. I'm more relaxed than
before. I'm sad too because it's made me realize how I cannot go
back to that existance. I told Steve that this had been a
transitional year and that I now know for a fact that I will
never again live in that family again the way I once did.
There's a peace that comes with all that though, like the peace
that comes after death.

There's something odd in the air. I sense it. I'm not sure. It
doesn't seem a sense of foreboding, something different. I feel
my stomach vibrating, everything quiet, something a little
abnormal. What can it be? Is it something to do with my family?
Is it something to do with my work, my future, with Edith ot with
Kay or Bob, or maybe Christa who's breathing her last breath. I
don't know. Maybe it's the committee who's trying to decide if I
am the best candidate for the job I applied for. It seems
stronger than that. Maybe it's my creative streak that's trying
to pierce through the layers and layers of protective armour I've
accumulated over the years. I just don't know but I sense
something strong happening to me, invading my whole being. It's
not frightening, it's making me slightly nauseous but I'm still
very calm. Maybe I'll just lie down on the floor and see what
comes. Maybe I'll read my cards and see what transpires. A.C.


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May12, 1995.

I'm going for a barbecue at Sheppy's and it's nearly a snowy day.
I'm going to be driving a standard car, I don't quite know my
way. It should be interesting. I think it's Sheppy's birthday
too.

Told Bertrand I had applied for a job at St. Boniface College.
He was very understanding and hoped I got it. I know if they
offer it to me, it's the right thing to take it. No matter how
much I love teaching the military, I don't have much future
there. I also can't stick around for the love of my students. I
see Martine, quickly aging partly because of the long hours and I
don't want it to happen to me too. I also realize to what point
sentimental reasons are keeping me at the Alliance and I'm not
one to be too sentimental when it comes to earning a living. I
have learned some smarts along the years. If I don't get the
job, Bertrand said there would always be full-time work for me at
the Alliance. He also told me I was the best teacher, better
even than Monique whom I thought was very good with her some 18
years of experience. She told me she even has a language school
in Nova Scotia with a partner.

I am silly enough to think of Steve too and I realize that one of
the reasons I would like to stay at the Alliance is just for the
chance to see him again, to teach him again. Not a good enough
reason to keep a job. No, I do very much enjoy that work. I
like the military, I like the Alliance courses, but if I so enjoy
teaching, I should also enjoy teaching at College too.

As for Steve, only the future will tell. I am learning more and
more about the world of the Armed Forces and I see that their
traditions, structure, ideals might not accept a person of my
background. I see too that with that background, I would not
necessarily be an asset to a military man, especially not an
officer. So, may as well drop my dreams and day dreaming before
it gets too serious.


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May 8, 1995.

I've just had a scotch and I feel like crying. I have a
translation to do. I've been called for an interview at Saint
Boniface College on Thursday for a job I'm not sure I want and
yet, and yet... I'm afraid I'm about to do something rash.
There's no reason. I'm just impatient, I'm just in love and
don't know where it's headed and it's making me nervous. Love is
the strangest thing. It's really a sickness, something
incontrollable. I know I shouldn't let myself lose control like
this and I think I know now why I sabotage all my relationships.
It makes me so nervous. I don't think I have the proper
antecedents to be in relationships. Yesterday, I was going to
start my screenplay with "I've been blessed" and now today, I
feel a curse coming on me again. I feel desperation, panick
coming on and I'm not quite sure how to cope so I cope by
starting to smoke again, having a drink every once in a while.
It's true, I've just realized that every time I've fallen in
love, I've started to smoke again. Conclusion: love is bad for
my health. Isn't that just like me. I revert to my old black
and white ways. Two months without seeing Steve is too much for
me. Two months with no more than a hug and "Bye Hon" , it breaks
my heart.

What a day. Maybe I'm too sensitive. I am too sensitive and I
know it. Today, Reginald would have been 74 years old. When I
got to work this morning, I knew something had happened to
Martine. She wasn't wearing any make-up and she looked tired and
old. Her son had been stopped at the airport for going to pick
up LSD and he faces up to two months to two years prison. On top
of that, he was driving his girlfriend's car without a license
and they had stopped Paula on the job at Air Canada, in public,
when she wasn't in the least aware of what was going on. Poor
Martine was crying and just didn't know where to turn. I think
I'm going to give her a call to see how she is coping. It will
get things off my mind. Then, I'll have to get to work on my
translation for Jean.

No answer at Martine's. It's raining; a small sturdy rain that
will clean the streets, clear my mind and make the buds spring
out. I'm listening to Sade and I wonder what Steve's Josette
looks like. She is from the Seychelles so I imagine she is
Black. How uncanny that the man I love should be married to a
woman whose name is so uncommon, and which just happens to be the
same as one of my ex best friends whom I just cannot tolerate
today. It's silly to be going on this way. I have work to do
and I do not feel like getting sown to it, but I will, now.

There's nothing to do but wait and see what the future holds. Ac


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Honey Love

Honey, I don't know if I can give myself to you. Honey, I love
you but only on a certain level. In my heart I love you, but in
my head, I say no. Honey, I am sabotaging this relationship
before we've even gotten it started. We were meant to be for
each other. That I know. You came to me in my dreams. I even
took my mouth guard off. You came for me, across the ocean. You
flew across the sea, across the skies, for me. I wasn't ready
for you. I was myself, without any artifice and you loved me for
just what I was. Honey, I have a hard time believing you could
love me for who I really am. I'm not really sure sometimes who I
really am. Honey, I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to
abandon you but the stars said it was a marriage made in heaven.
Perhaps the time is not quite ripe. We are both at a crossroads
in our lives. Will we meet again if I don't let you know my
feelings? In any case, what are my feelings? Honey, I wish I
knew what love was. I wish I could say this is lust and not
love. I certainly don't want to admit this is love. It's easy
to say that I don't know what love is. That way, I can protect
myself and refuse it when it does show up. But why would it be
you? I can't for the life of me imagine that something so good
could happen to me. Maybe that's why I won't even think about
it. Perhaps I am frightened that you are too good to be true.
Honey, if I never take a chance with you, I certainly can't lose
you, can I? Why would you fall in love with me?

Honey, people like me live in fantasy worlds where love only
exists in our dreams. I love you, I make love to you, I make you
laugh, make you happy in my daydreaming. And in these dreams,
you reciprocate. Dreams are simple aren't they? In these
dreams, you love me too. In real life, how can you love me
though? Didn't my mother tell you who I really am? Didn't my
father tell you I was unavailable? Somehow, you are more
strong-minded than I imagined. You really do not care what anyone has
to say. You see through me like no one I have ever known. You
are gentle with me in a no-nonsense way. I can only wish you the
best Honey. I would like to hope that the best includes me.
Maybe one day in our lives, you will once again fly by my side
and we won't be parted. I hope that day is not too far away. I
sense that we can both make each other grow.

Think about me Honey. Wish upon a star for me as you fly across
the world.

I love you.


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Love Poem

My body like a sunflower, reaches out for you.

Warm, intense, yearning, I reach out, but like the sun in the
horizon, you are unattainable.

I am lovely, but I am not. I am passion but with a touch of
pragmatism.

Do I love you? Can I love? Tenderness, patience. The darkness
of the earth. The clinging of roots in soil.

Passion overcomes me, crowds my mind, my soul. Resentment on my
part. These feelings welling up inside me. Fight them, suppress
them! Or let them flow?

There is something not quite right. Blight. But each individual
sunflower lives, dies, regardless of its flaws. Acceptance.

Why to me am I so ugly? It is why I hide. It is why my passion
leads nowhere.

It is every lover the same.
I am frightened. The unattainable horizon suits me. The flutter
of a thin curtain. Through the mist, I see your naked torso. My
mind and body struggle. I wonder if my hands should touch.

Pain because I cannot be beautiful when you think I am. An
insult to your esthetic taste.

My body grows old. One day, I will be an old woman and my
crooked mind will think no one wants an old woman and that will
suit me fine because my body cannot give.

The passion, the yearning, the flowing juices are emprisoned. I
do not know if I will ever let them out.

Passion calculated perhaps? Indifference returns. I am
sensible. A sensible fool.


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May 5, 1995.

I am in love. It's so unexpected. It makes me shake. Makes me
so nervous. I am allowing it to happen. It's not unlike a tidal
wave. I don't know what to do with it but I've decided to ride
with it. It's odd, strange, something like this happening to me.
It happened so gradually. I suppose I wasn't on my guard and
that's exactly what happened. I was caught off guard. A man
appears. I think, try and recall where it all started and I'm
not quite sure. I don't want to think about it yet I do, I do.
I don't even want to hope it's reciprocal. Yet I do. I don't
think I can admit it to myself, but I think he's in love with me
too. I think that's what makes me so nervous. That's never
happened to me before and I'm not sure I can cope. I am going to
have to do like in my dream and remove my mouth guard. I have to
get a hold of myself. It hardly makes any sense to me. It
doesn't make any sense to me. I can always understand it about
me but never about someone else. How can anyone fall in love
with me? I suppose there lies the difficulty. Huguette told me
yesterday, maybe you don't feel yourself worthy of love and I've
come to the conclusion she is right. It's frightening to me.
Why is it so frightening? How can something so common place,
something that happens every day to millions of people be so
frightening? I've been exposed to all kinds of frightening
situations and I thought I had conquered most of my fears or that
I would come to terms with conquering the ones to come but
nothing has ever frightened me as much.

After a nap, I feel better. Yes, I think that Steve might be in
love with me. I realize that I find all kinds of excuses that
allow me to reject love. Love is fine for me as long as it's a
one-way street. I've always wondered why I've nver found anyone
compatible and now it's clear as day to me. I never allowed it.
I'm not even sure I will allow it with Steve. I think however,
that on his return from Texas, if he does contact me, I will make
a conscious effort to be open to opportunities. When I awoke
from my nap, the first thing I thought was that I was too old,
too withered to enter a relationship; but there have always been
excuses. All my life. All of a sudden, Mr. and Mrs. Bernard came
to mind, Raymond and Pat came to mind, Raymond, blind and in his
wheelchair and madly in love. I realized it wasn't up to me to
reject myself for the other person. If Steve so chooses to
reject me, then so be it. But it is not up to me to do it for
him. I find it incredible that on the eve of my fortieth year, I
am discovering a number of revelations. Things that seem so
simple, that, it seems to me, should have been obvious to me much
sooner but I really was an emotionally retarded, deprieved
person. I am thankful that I am able to discover these things in
this life.

There's a rainbow on my wall. It makes me smile at life's
sweetness. It comes from my prism. I'm in love! I'm in love!
Hon, you're in love!

A.C.


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