November 18, 2010

it's sunny in conneticut

ah, conneticut. home of a good brewhouse, a good weekly and this boring starbucks with free internet.

actually, i was more fond of maine. who wouldn't be fond of maine? all the cheerful-looking conifers interspersed with the kinds of rocks that feature in cartoons (good size, nice rocky colour, round; good for dropping on wile E coyote) and slate grey streams. we didn't see the moose or the lumberjack, but i know they were out there, whistling. we found a total gem of a truckstop, dysart's. i wish there was a picture on the website of betty, our waitress who called me honey, or the front of the semi they had dismantled, shined and put up on the wall. i have found that truckstops are our friend; overnight parking, showers and laundry, a store full of things thoughtfully provided for long-distance travellers... it's lovely. i never thought i would use that adjective for a truckstop, but really, it is. home away from home. of course, i got 'truckin' by the grateful dead in my head immediately, and kept telling the queen i would meet him at the truck.

yesterday we drove through maine, new hampshire for ten minutes and massachusetts. we were both a bit cranky at the end of the day, but a good night's sleep in a parking lot and this bright sunny day has restored our lovers' moods.

i read the alice walker novel, 'now is the time to open your heart'. have i raved about this woman recently? when i was younger, i poured through her novels 'the colour purple', 'possessing the secret of joy' and 'the temple of my familiar'. walker reminds one that we are the same as the earth, the creatures, the water and sky. really, these aren't things we should protect, but reconnect with and rejoice in. this particular novel remembers me to the Grand Mother. which is nice timing, i must say. seriously, treat yourself to one of the flowers in her garden.

and on that note, i have found myself drawn more and more to women writers as my pregnancy progresses. as i wrote in a letter to a friend recently, male authors are starting to feel like a war in a foreign country; i know i should care more, i should relate more, but it just seems so far away. other than the queen, i don't feel connected to any man. my male friends seem to be waving from the sidelines, while my female friends are running out into the filed and high-fiving me (with hot-water bottles in their sympathetic hands, and tales of pregnancy). it's not that i feel these men-friends are pulling back. nor do i feel that i am. it's more like a gulf of experience is widening between us. the queen can always bridge the gulf; he just puts his hand on my belly and immediately, we're in this boat together. but he's the only one. i wonder how my relationship with my dad would feel if he were still alive.


  1. So... when's that trip to Los Angeles, then?

    One of my favorite authors, as silly as this may sound, is Anne Bishop. Her characters, the stories, they just do it for me. Especially her first series.

  2. That was all very touching, but I'd like to know more about the Whistling Moose of Maine.

  3. P: i'll check out bishop! oh, the west coast trip... before the kid is two, hopefully.

    A: yeah, in newfoundland, they're rumoured to honk like geese, but we missed that too. what the h.