Larry Gibbons
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Bite Me!

13/8/2016

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A few weeks ago, on a hazy Sunday afternoon, I was at a friend’s house getting pricked and poked by a mob of downed crab apple branches. Have you ever seen the size of those thorns? Two inches at least. I’m glad I’m not scared of needles.

Anyway, while I was doing this, Sue was at home, sitting on the deck, swatting at black flies and feeling Buster’s love, as he was sharing some quality time with Sue.
Suddenly, a moose appeared out of somewhere and Buster was off like a shot and then, so was the moose.

We’ve been told that our acreage—who really owns acreage?—-is a moose highway. This route meanders between the mountain range to the south of us and the mountain range to the west of us. Lucky us. I mean it. Really.

You may not know this, but a moose can outrun a dog the likes of Buster Boy. But, well, let me tell you another story.
Years ago, I used to have a wee rust-bucket 1962 VW Beetle. By the time I’d junked it, it had had almost every one of its organs replaced, including the motor and transmission.

(Note the two ‘its’ and the two ‘hads’ following each other in the previous sentence. This is what makes a writer’s life so gol-darned exhilarating. Sometimes I can hardly contain myself.)

Anyway, there was this big blustery fella who liked to have everything big. Big cars, big noises, big these and big thats. We used to park our vehicles near each other on a gravel parking lot.

One day, when I met him in the parking lot, he challenged me and my wee little handicapped, under-powered car to a drag. His vehicle was a 1961 V-8 Buick powerhouse. The drag would start at the back of the parking lot and end at the street entrance. It was a pretty casual affair.

So we started our engines, gentlemen, and lined up. He revved his engine. I burped my engine. A surrogate flag of some sort was dropped and we were off. Or at least I was, because this fella’s powerhouse car just sat in one spot and spun and spun and spun. My little beetle hiccuped forward and was at the street before the monster even got mobile.

I think this race happened because I’d mentioned that on a short race track, a race horse could probably beat this fella’s car. This guy was very competitive and he wanted to show me that I was wrong. As if I’m not competitive!

Anyway, I guess he thought he could prove I was wrong by having this race. His car being the car and my car being the race horse that looked like a ladybug.

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Moose
So, in the animal world, Buster was my 1962 Beetle and the moose was this fella’s 1960 V-8 Buick. And Sue gawked at Buster’s speedy acceleration and at the gigantic moose spinning his hoofs. And as she saw them racing across our lot toward the quiet forest and into the beyond, all this drama was quickly ended by a law of physics.

The law that says: A two-hundred-foot rope tied to the neck of a hell-bent canine will stop this fuzzy streaker’s inertia faster than the sudden acceleration when the overly excited canine began.

However, it took Sue’s heart longer to decelerate than Buster’s and likely that of the ghost of the forest as well. Which, I think, is one of the phrases they use to describe a moose, along with sayings like, “Your mother wears army boots”.   

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Our Busy Bird Feeders
***
Before I begin this Maritime Mac story I would like to make a little disclaimer or confession. Most of my M.M. stories are close to true, but not totally non-fictional. There’s usually a teeny, weeny bit of artistic license buried in the MM tales. So, you’ve been forewarned.

Here’s the next Maritime Mac adventure. Mostly true.

Maritime Mac likes to cycle, just like me. And, like me, he sometimes finds it repetitious and boring if he rides the same route over and over again. So, of course, he does other routes, like me. Seems sensible.

You see, his get-in-shape route is a 13.6 K ride to the Middle River Hall and back again. This is the route he cycles the most often and from time to time it can be a tiny bit tedious. Not a lot tedious though, because there is always something to see, smell, hear or feel.

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Perfect example of seeing and smelling!
On this training route there are four dogs for Maritime to worry about. There is, however, another route which is 19.6 K and which goes to a now extinct baseball diamond. On that route there are six canines to worry about. Some of these dogs are huge. Two look like part bull-dog and part rottweiler.
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Curious deer along the way...
Because, as I said, the training route can get a bit overly familiar at times, Maritime Mac has made up a game. This game, which he calls a road game, in contrast to a board game, contains only a few parts. They are: Maritime Mac, his bike, a dog and a stop sign. Maritime calls the game, ‘Sneak By the Dog.”

Now, it should be noted that the opposition, which is a medium-sized, yappy, canine mixture of dog and woof, is a fella who, once he gets his barking motor going, has difficulty shutting it off. He’ll start barking when he sees Maritime and, even after Maritime has biked the last K and a half to his house, has stripped down, taken a shower, dried off and is back outside to feed and water his bike, (which he calls ‘Hornet’), he can sometimes still hear the dog bow-wowing into the highland sky.

This dog is tied up along the side of his owners’ house. He’s hitched to his own little dog house. Maritime doesn’t know his name so he calls him Spot. See Spot bark. Woof, woof.

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Spot

Anyway, here’s the goal of the game. If Maritime, on the way back, (The 'Way Back' Rule), can bike past the dog and make it to the stop sign, which is about a hundred yards down the road, without Spot barking at Maritime, then Maritime gives himself a point by sticking one of his right hand’s fingers out and saying, “One point for me.”

 If Spot barks before Maritime makes it to the stop sign then Spot gets a point. Maritime will stick one of his left hand’s fingers out and say, “One point for Spot.”

Saying these phrases out loud helps Maritime avoid the Senior’s Brain Fart Syndrome.

Another rule I should mention, is Maritime is not to look at Spot when he passes Spot’s house. This is the ‘Innocence is Bliss’ rule.  It must be noted, at this point, that the game can never be considered totally fair because Spot has no idea that he is in this competition.

By the way, the game only goes to five. I’m sure you can guess why. Therefore, the winner is the first competitor to get to five fingers. It’s called the ‘Five Fingers’ Rule.

***
“Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man had hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand, instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb-nail.”
                                                        D.H. Thoreau, “Thoreau On Man & Nature ”

***
Anyway, one sunny, but cool day, with the wind a pleasant and gentle breeze and only a day after ‘Thumper’ had snowed Cleveland under a foot of sad bullshit, Maritime was breezing by Spot’s house. Not looking at his highly skilled competitor. His eyes focused on the stop sign. Pedaling as quietly as he could, avoiding gravel and noisy road surface stuff. Riding, riding, riding by the house. Not looking. The stop sign up ahead. Maritime’s fingers on alert, on both hands. Totally neutral. Left or right? Left or right?

“Woof, woof!”

“Oh nuts,” Maritime whispered. “Five to three for the dog. Looks like I’ve lost.” And he’d left the trophy at home.


Suddenly, “OMG!!” Maritime whispered, in the way only somebody on social media, such as a blogger, can curse and show genuine concern and fear. “OMG!!”

Spot wasn’t tied up, but wasn't he always tied up? It was part of the game. It was an unwritten rule. Spot had broken the rule and was barreling for old Maritime.

Maritime stopped his bike while Spot circled around the bike like a hunting wolf.
Maritime pulled out his water bottle. Tried to look cool. Took a swig of the warm water. Began to talk to the dog like he was Spot’s friend. Talked about the weather and about climate warming, those kinds of things. Tried to impress him with the human power of proper, grammatically correct speech.

It should be noted that Maritime sometimes, from time to time, has the tendency to put his foot into his mouth.

Anyway, “Woof, woof, woof and grrrrrrrr,” Spot replied, using only verbs. Bad dog.
Then he began to lunge forward and lunge backward. Parry and thrust. Snap, snap and so close to Maritime’s bare leg that Maritime could feel Spot’s hot breath on his leg.

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Maritime tried offering Spot a drink. “Would you like a drink?”

Spot’s growl got to sounding more vicious.

“Holy crap,” Maritime whispered. He had to get the hell out of there. This dog, this competitor in this made-up game, was becoming frenzied in his attention to detail. In a game where he’d suddenly changed the rules.

  So, Maritime sprayed water square into Spot’s mug. However, his ammunition was low, because he had drunk most of it. The water strategy seemed to work, however, because Spot backed off. Watched Maritime intently while his lips curled and folded above his shiny white teeth. It looked like Spot didn’t like water in his snozzle. So, Maritime took a trial pedal forward.

Spot watched him. Still on hair-trigger alert.

Maritime might have been let off the hook, at this point, if he hadn’t had his macho streak. The element that makes him want to win. So much. Made him want to get in the last word, as mentioned previously.

Because, as he began some serious pedaling, with Spot only watching him and growling, but not making a move to charge, Maritime fell back into his old pattern.
So, as he was cycling his escape and as he was feeling the power and seeing the distance pile up between him and the slightly catatonic dog, he twisted his head around, looked at Spot’s confused, dripping face, and shouted, with the wind clearly carrying Maritime’s aggressive and competitive words to the dog, “BITE ME!”

OMG!!!.

Final score:   Dog five.   Maritime Ten stitches.   Game over.   For good.

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Organic Writing

16/12/2015

1 Comment

 
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View from our neighbour's deck this morning
When I’m working on something I consider serious, I usually go into my tiny office and shut the door. This isolates me from Sue and Buster. Which makes me feel a little guilty and a tad lonely. Stephen King suggested doing this in his book, 'On Writing'.

I have music playing when I’m writing in my office. It adds a little pleasure to the sometimes hard grind that writing can be. It also dampens some of the sounds coming from the rest of the house. But not totally. I can still hear the vacuum cleaner or Buster sniffing under the door, sighing, or making other doggie noises. Which lets me know he’s oh, so lonely and misses me oh, so much.

I usually work on my book or on revisions of other work in my office. However, if I’m beginning a blog or a short story, I often do it in the living room where I can be with the rest of the family.

You see, one of the tricks for keeping my writing fresh and spontaneous is to make the writing feel like play. This is hard for me to do if I get caught up in worrying about such things as being published, the rules of the craft, why I can’t write as well or as much as some other writer, whether I will be able to finish or start a story - those sorts of things. The office seems to be a place for doing serious writing.

However, writing in the living room, where other activities are going on, makes the writing seem less serious to me. For example, I’m forced, from time to time, to pull an old hockey glove or the bottom of one of Sue’s rubber crocs out of Buster’s well-armed yapper, which I then toss a few times until he gets tired of fetching it. Or Sue asks a question or needs help with something - those sorts of things. The hubbub makes my writing activity feel like an organic part of the whole domestic scene and not as if I’m doing micro surgery on words.

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Sue and Buster being domestic
However, as I said, once I get into the serious revision stuff, it’s best I go into my vault.

But even while I'm in there I try to keep it somewhat light. I say I try, not that I always succeed. In my case, the harder I try, the less I get done.

There’s a story about James Joyce. He was struggling with getting his daily quota of words down on the page. Later on he met with his friend, who asked him how his writing was going. I’m not sure of the exact number of words he mentioned, so forgive me if I’m not accurate, but he said something like, “I was only able to write ten words this morning.”

“Well there you go,” says his friend. “That’s ten more than you had before you started.”

James Joyce replied, “Yes, but I don’t know what order to put them in.”

Now that’s getting right down totally serious.
***
If you have read my collection of short stories, which are lurking between the covers of a book called ‘WHITE EYES’, you’ve probably noticed there are a fair number of profanities in the stories.  The thing about writing is there are so many ways to do it and there are so many folks who have ideas about what should or shouldn’t be in a novel, a story, a paragraph - you name it.

One fella I met in a gas station and who is from a fairly conservative church, told me my book would be more popular if I took the profanities out of it. Like maybe they could use the book as a Sunday School text.

However, I mentioned to another reader, who enjoyed my book, that some folks I knew were saying I had too many profanities in it.

"Oh $%^&*", she said, "that’s the way people talk.”

Anyway, I have tried to milksop my profanity down. Now, when I sit in my cloister writing my stories and one of my characters starts to swear too much, I stop writing and slam down the computer screen so as to give the offending character a time out. While he or she is cooling off, I go into the washroom, dig out some soap, go back to my tiny office, sign in again and then wash the heck out of the character’s tongue.

But seriously, there are just so many ways of approaching writing that it can be scarily daunting if you think about all the techniques and time and plot problems and what-nots that you’re going to have to deal with before you are finally finished.

However, if you stick to it, keep the playful feeling and have some talent then you are likely to find some degree of success.

***
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Oh yeah, and while I’m on this writing thing, there is the part about selling your book or stories. Many writers are loners so that can be difficult.

A little over a week ago I was taking part in the launch of a new anthology of short stories, of which one was mine. The launch was being broadcast by CBC, so I was a little extra nervous when I read my story.

There was a microphone and a lectern and the host of the show told us to avoid dead space in our readings because it was being broadcast live.

I was the fifth reader. I thought I did a good job. I often don’t. I thought the folks there, about fifty of them, were enjoying the story and I thought that the general Cape Breton populace were out in their workshops, on their fishing boats, in their living rooms, their cars and trucks, all over the place listening to my story.

I don’t think they were. I think I was talking into a dead Mike. Mike did not exist. Mike was tits up, dead as a door knob, full of rigour mortis, gone, mort; Mike was shit out of luck.

However, if you'd like to know more about the book, check it out here:
http://capebretonbooks.com/products/local-hero

Will life ever cease to be amazingly confusing and unpredictable?


***
Something I just thought of. If Jesus were a carpenter, as I think he was, and if he built a house, would it be absolutely perfectly measured, straight and true? Just wondering.

               “You have seen the house built, you have seen it adorned
               By one who came in the night, it is now dedicated to God.
               It is now a visible church, one more light set on a hill
               In a world confused and dark and disturbed by portents of fear.
                                                                      T.S.Eliot, The Rock


***
Stress can throw my brain into the dumpster. It can confuse me and make me come up with solutions that are dog-eared with fallacies.

An example, maestro. A few weeks ago, just before we went back to Ontario to deal with the hard business that followed the passing of my mother, I was asked to participate in a story-telling event at the Sydney Library.

I entered the library with a fresh, right-out-of-the-oven story. Written in two days and was I proud of that!

Before we left for Sydney I had pulled out an old canvas book bag that a friend had rescued from the dump and given to me. I put my still hot story into the bag and off we drove to Sydney.

At the event, I found out I had to sit on a chair at the front, with two other story-tellers. That meant that the forty or so members of the audience would have a good look at us all. Could check out if my beard was evenly trimmed, my laces were tied asymmetrically, my hair was top notch... and on and on did my wee mind race.

However, I eventually got to read my story and it went over well. I can even say that I was pleased.

In the next days we rushed down to Ontario and then we rushed back. Once back home, I received an email from a friend. He wanted to read the story that I had written. Which got me thinking about the hard copy version.

So, still in my rushed state of mind, I went to my office and pulled out the book bag. It was then I remembered that this bag had a trick compartment. I’d found this out earlier. You see, the side pocket had no derriere. It was bottomless altogether.

I searched through the bag from bow to stern and finally had to assume that the story had escaped through the bottom and was now blowing around Sydney for all to see. So, I wrote the fella and told him my sad lost story story.

Well, after having a few days to settle my mind down, I was walking the dog. I got thinking about the story and the pieces of my stressed facts all began to re-organize themselves into the correct places.

I had taken my story in my canvas book bag. I had looked for my story in my computer bag. I went back to the house, looked in my canvas dump bag and there the story sat. Almost as fresh as the day it was born.

Stress can kill and it can also turn you into an idiot, in less time than it took for me to write this blog.
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Ferns still green in the snowy woods
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