My bed mate sleeps with two pillows. One under his head and one over his face. His reasoning? To block out the light (I read in bed. I cover the lamp with a T-shirt for consideration) and to dampen the sound (That’d be my voice. I like to talk in bed).
Since it seems to be our only time alone (we have two nosy children) I forge ahead with my chatter, no matter. He must hear me. Since when did feathers create a sound barrier?
I’m considerate enough to jab him from time to time, at the very least to avert snoring. It’s no good on a storyteller’s self-esteem.
Last night I was going over the bit about quiting my whole life again. Won’t launch into all of that here, suffice to say, I happened to not be enjoying The Life. I’d be going on for maybe 20 minutes about all the asshole bosses and the terrible state of The Business and the sell-out advertorial world, the chemical additives in food, the offence of the children’s menu, the poverty conditions Out There, the miserable lives of women around the globe, the Secret Suicide Rate and how old and fat I am and how he has developed a halitosis problem and his Ear Hair is getting out of control and how the children are ruined for life, what is going on with that limp my dad has and how this neighbourhood is all wrong for us, nobody likes us, The Planet is doomed and our parents will Die soon, when I figured I’d better check in on him. He hadn’t stirred in some time.
Poke. I had woken him.
“I’m listening. Yeah, yeah.”
“Repeat everything I said then.”
“He got away. That guy in the oxygen mask. The first one on the scene.”
He was listening afterall.
This email showed up in my inbox on Feb. 16.
From: Ajay Heble
Date: Wed, Feb 16, 2011 at 8:28 PM Subject: job with ICASP?
To: Dawn Matheson
ICASP | MUSAGETES IMPROVISER-IN-RESIDENCE PROJECT
I hope this note finds you well. I’m writing to see whether you might be interested in considering taking on some short term work with ICASP. We’re looking to hire some- one to do some creative (video and other) documentation of our Improviser in Residence initiative (this year, as you may know, our Improviser in Residence is Jane Bunnett). you’re interested and available, perhaps we can arrange a time to meet to discuss.
All the best, Ajay
But I did it anyhow– and I’m sure glad I did.
Read this PDF to see what happened!
WHAT WAS NOW following around Jane Bunnett
and watch one or more of the videos that resulted! The one with Kids Ability is a tear-jerker…
>Katy’s Song (Jane Bunnett and Katy from Kids Ability)
This is an article I wrote some time ago about the amazing Guelphite, Rita Porter (Coady), who died last year at 104. She was one of the heroes at the front lines during The Depression: a homemaker. This was a time when life literally spun on a dime, when the battle cry was “use it up, wear it out, make do,” and the strategy for war, the handwritten recipe book.
Rita ran a houseful of orphans (her siblings) on Toronto Street in the Ward. Living in the self-help generation of today, this no-complaints piece stands out for me.
Recipes and photos included (thanks to the Guelph Mercury)
Continue reading “Making Do: A Depression Woman’s Cookbook”
My boy and I are lying in bed talking about life. This is such a treasured time for me. He’s growing up so fast, which, right now, feels like growing away. He needs me less, which, yeah, yeah, is a good thing, I know, but not easy for a mom.
Roots and wings, baby, roots and wings: the two essentials in parenting for all species. The wing time is quickly upon us. Teaching the wings part can be hard going for flightless species.
My boy is nine tonight, ten in a few weeks. Some parts of me are becoming gross to him, like my tangled hair. Don’t I brush it? Why am I not wearing my bra? No kisses, mom! And my breath smells. “It never did when I was little.”
I find this stuff cute. It’s not what really bothers me. Though I did gargle before I crawled in for cuddles. (I’ll admit that it is not endearing when I pick at his face and clean out his ears while he’s reading.)
Continue reading “Bedtime for Bozo (me)”
Below is an old blog post from a site for a larger project called One Mile Square. It tells the story of my contributions to a a community art project run by the Musagetes Foundation. I was an artist commissioned to create a local project. I chose to work with Cheryl Turner, a great Guelph woman whom I met at Action Read Literacy where she was learning reading skills.
Cheryl lives with a health condition that affects her day-to-day life in the community and in her own body. Her mom has the same condition.
Together, we decided to explore what makes Cheryl’s day-to-day livable. What does she depend upon for happiness?
Turned out squirrels were a big factor.
We created a video together. Then we created an event to share the video.
Since many of Cheryl’s contacts were through Action Read, we included the gang there in a live ‘bedtime slumber party’ where her colleagues read bedtime stories to children in the community in a public place (we picked the Via Train Station so we could have lots of traffic coming through and new people to engage). We decided to have everyone bring sleeping bags and lie on the floor so they could watch projections of the book pages above on the ceiling as the stories were read to them by adult learners.
Then we screened our video!
See below for the long version of this story originally shared in a blog post on Musagetes home page!
SLUMBER PARTY at the TRAIN STATION / September 1, 2011
Continue reading “So Much Depends Upon”
Dawn Matheson blogs for The Bookshelf
The Bookshelf Open Writing Room (Mondays 9 a.m. – 12 p.m.)
It’s been a year since I’ve written anything, save a sloppy email, a saucy Facebook update. Nothing worth nothing. I’d had a writing practice once. I’ve romanticized it now, I know. I’m aching for it. Truly aching to write about something I care about. Maybe something you care about. But I never find the time to compose a thing. No matter the desire, it’s too easy for me to let myself down
A few months back, I dropped hours at my job to make space for writing. It was time I needed. A cut in pay to drive up the stakes. Not high enough. It was summer. There were fires to build, children to hose, lawn to lay on.
It’s come to the point where thinking about writing feels like the chest pangs, the stomach flutters you get in the presence of a crush. Something so desirable and so unattainable. Crushed hope.
The stakes need to be higher. That’s where you come in. I need your peer pressure.
Starting this writing room at the Bookshelf is strictly selfish. If I host three hours on a Monday morning where I make you sit and write and shush you if you start chatting, I better be writing, too.
Maybe you need the Writing Room?
Continue reading “My Blog from Guelph’s Bookshelf”
While other kids are at goalie camp, karate camp, and saultos gymnastics camp, our kids are engaged in factory labour.
Production takes place in the gravel section of our backyard where worker Auguste digs down deep with her fingers for dirt to be dunked into a glass vase full of water. She squeezes and forms the balls of mud to be inspected by Trygve, factory boss.
Trygve’s job is to sit in the red chair atop the fantastic new grassy knoll (a pile of dirt that sprouted which we now so love– best feature in the yard by accident). From his throne he orders the production of mud balls. Once approved (Auguste’s handprint squeezed into each one) worker Auguste marches them one by one to the secret laboratory (behind a bare bush in plain view) where they dry out for 22 hours, according to orders. Many hours of production has formed quite a pile.
Graham, (who we call Gray Ham) our gentle, sophisticated 50-something always-single business friend who occasionally drops off bread to our home, popped over to deliver some of his garden share. He is the first mud ball customer. Worker Auguste ‘disappeared’ into the secret laboratory to select his perfect dry mud ball while boss Trygve counted the ‘looney’. “Yup, its a dollar all right.”
Gray Ham was instructed to whip it at the side of our house with all his force. Shazam! The mud ball shattered, exploded!, And left a black circle on the stucco which is still there. Gray Ham said it was very satisfying and well worth the money. One of the more invigorating activities he has engaged in.
In all this, I neglected to mention that worker Auguste wears a uniform: a shiny silver space suit, homemade from tinfoil.
(below: break time; boss giving orders)
Auguste and I take baths together. Kind of our thing. She likes them hot; my other can only take luke warm which I find unpleasant: sitting in murky wetness.
Auguste’s latest greatest excitement is the hair growing on her legs. She explains it, I’m growing up so the hair is coming in. At three, this is a great source of pride. One leg is bumpy, maybe a rash. I’m concerned. No mommy, (silly mommy doesn’t know a thing.) that’s the hair coming in.
Auguste’s other pleasure is washing my back with the sponge. Getting it really really clean. This is my bath pleasure, to be taken care of by a three-year-old. To be nurtured by my child.
When I’m out in the world looking for work, watching the men repair the train track, seeing the young women heading into the meth lab in the morning with their coffees, I can feel my clean back.