It was a lovely dinner. When we arrived, everything was in the final preparation stages. The plan was to fondue, and our gracious hosts were finishing off the cheese fondue, adding some cheese with a name I can’t pronounce, and discussing the list of obscure ingredients that they had to hunt around to find before the big day. Anyway, the dinner was wonderful and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.

In part, the enjoyment came from how well the dinner party went over. It had all the necessary elements: a stylish apartment, good music, and good conversation. And Leon and I were, of course, the best guests, but not because we brought any obscure desserts — we were actually the only guests. However, the dinner party was especially fantastic because of our hosts: the very lovely Amanda, and none other than number one of my top five liminal people. I know people have been waiting anxiously for almost eight months for the unveiling of the fifth and final of the top five liminal people. Well, probably people waited for a month or so and then gave up on me and forgot about my blog altogether. Either way, here it is:

Johnny Kroeker.

Since I moved to Wolseley last summer and until I moved again last month, Johnny and I walked to work and back together almost everyday. In addition to witnessing some interesting events (e.g., a hit and “got up and ran”), those 15 minute walks included some of the best and most intense conversations I have ever had. Johnny is a fantastic listener, an animated speaker, and a good person. He asks the right questions all the time and does not rest until he’s gotten satisfactory answers. My friends will attest to the fact that while John and I were doing what we termed “the walk,” most of my stories/discussions with them would start with, “Well, I was walking home with John yesterday, and…” Now that I’ve moved, and our walks to work no longer coincide, I see John (and the other liminal people) a lot less. But he’s still one of my favourite people, hence the ode, and also my last post.

Yes, this is the end of the liminal spaces project. I just don’t have time for it anymore. I have to spend more time training for marathons (#27) and watching Arrested Development (#38 ) — but don’t worry white people, I don’t even own a TV (#28), I’ll just be watching it on my roommate’s mac (#40).

1. ‘The guy with the bowler hat’ – Although I haven’t seen him for several weeks, there is a man, probably about my age, who walks down Broadway in a trench coat and a bowler hat, and never, ever, smiles. He’s kind of a legend at my office, as I assume he is at every office on Broadway, although I don’t think anyone from my office has ever spoken to him.

2. ‘Blue helmet bicycle man’ – Blue helmet bicycle man is one of my favourites. When I pass him, he is usually riding an old bicycle and wearing (you guessed it) a bright blue helmet. In the last couple of months, our interactions have progressed from little smiles, to big smiles, to full-on “good morning” greetings. It’s a strange but happy interaction; I have a real soft spot for this guy, maybe just because he rides a bicycle.

3. ‘Creepy jogger’ – Apart from the jogging attire, Creepy jogger looks like a pretty normal old guy; his actions, however, suggest otherwise. Usually he’s sitting on a bench or leaning against some building on Broadway when I pass him. Perhaps a retired football coach or wannabe, Creepy jogger likes to take the opportunity as I pass by to encourage me with a thumbs-up. This might make sense if I was jogging by, training for a marathon or something, but the encouragement seems to be for something else: “Good work. Lookin’ good, baby. Lookin’ real good….” Thanks, I try (!?).

4. ‘Mr. Profanity’ – The first few times I saw this man, he made me a little nervous. Always riding a bicycle and wearing a beige jacket with a bright orange anarchy symbol spray-painted on the back, Mr. Profanity is a regular on my walk to work. His classic move includes biking slowly (even peacefully) down the sidewalk for about half a block, then getting off his bicycle, and swearing profusely for about 30 seconds while shaking his fist violently at what can only be described as thin air. Then, as if nothing happened, Mr. Profanity will climb back onto his bike and repeat the process. I am convinced, after witnessing this action for a few weeks, that even when it appears that Mr. Profanity is swearing at someone (or following them) it is actually pure coincidence, that one of his swearing outbreaks has just happened in close proximity to a human being. I can only assume that he is actually completely oblivious to everyone around him. But I must admit that now that I’m no longer afraid of him, I do laugh a little bit to myself when one of his dismounts takes place near some unsuspecting person who can’t help but scurry down the sidewalk in terror when his string of vulgarities begins.

Honourable Mention: ‘Dwight Schrute’ – With only one sighting, this guy can’t legitimately be on my cast of regular characters, but I wish he was. In my one sighting, I was not able to determine whether this man was actually Dwight or just his doppelganger, but either way, I thought all my wildest dreams were coming true. I have been nothing short of heartbroken everyday, since then, that I haven’t seen him.

it was then that she realized
‘my death lies in this paper,
in these careless inky scribbles which
regardless of their content
have become my life and breath – my soul’s bread and butter
how could i live
now that anger has become a quick slash of red ink
and love its equally unintelligible – illegible – opposite’

could the answer be so simple
yet so horrifyingly solemn?

resolve lies not in faith as it did when her careless ink journey began
but in something else
something new
metallic
efficient
Terrifying.
so she writes with as little resistance as possible
because it is no longer a concern
but a circumstance she finds her life controlled by

or maybe her death

’47 is a crazy age to die’
she thought
and began to write.

but i knew that if i started there,
you would not have believed me when i told you
that the thing
i fell in love with
was history

how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history

perhaps if i explained this:
those walks
had become a daily ritual, a rite
performed faithfully in the slow
awakening of each morning.
and this:
at first i did not know the way.
the path was unfamiliar
(though not entirely unknown)
and i was weak and young.
but i stayed with that soil –
i had been told that it was
the only way.

Stay with this mud,
this granite. Every other step you take
will be a revelation.

can you imagine what it felt like
when the ground itself
began to teach me?
when the earth, as guide and course,
would show me how to tread it
if i studied it
if i took care enough?

indeed it was the strange pedagogy
of that prairie path
which taught me (a longer lesson) the meaning of
give and take.
it took the testimony of my steps
whether or not i was willing to give it
and eventually taught me to trace
in the grooves of its earthy floor,
the stories of others who had walked there,
who had also loved its worn-out soil.
everyday those stories caressed my fresh soles,
shaped them, taught them, hardened them,
until they began to respond, in kind,
with tales of their own. i learned
to tread carefully – always listening –
but also writing as i walked,
inscribing my story into the dusty path
until finally, one day, my own soles (aged by then)
could no longer recognize which marks were mine
and my story no longer belonged to me.
then, like every good teacher,
the earth (and i – which are one)
spoke less and less

Birds, singing, move
among leaves, in leaf shadow.
After many years you have come

to no thought of these,
but they are themselves
your thoughts. There seems to be

little to say, less and less.
Here they are. Here you are.
Here as though gone.

perhaps now, my friends, you would believe me
if i told you that i did fall in love with history
but you must also know that it is not unbelief
which keeps me quiet

(excerpts are Dionne Brand, Luci Shaw, and Wendell Berry)

The bicycle is the most civilized conveyance known to man. Other forms of transport grow daily more nightmarish. Only the bicycle remains pure in heart.

- Iris Murdoch, The Red and the Green, 1965

Au printemps
(pour pierre)

Je suis assise ici à ne rien faire,
en flânant un peu
jusqu’à temps que tu reviens de l’aventure
dans l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

J’aurais été inquiète
si tu ne faisais pas ça tous les printemps
(lorsque les fleurs fleurissent, et les oiseaux chantent)
dans l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

Il y a trois semaines
quand tu commençais à t’asseoir sur le bord de la fenêtre
et désirais avoir une aventure
dans l’arrière-cour avec quelques amis nouveaux.

Mais, maintenant, je m’assieds
à côté de la fenêtre et
j’attends pour ton retour chez nous, à la maison
de l’arrière-cour avec tes amis récemment.

i.
intent and focused,
i feel a gentle hand surprise my body and everything
falls into place with this
welcome interruption;

an inexpressible, inexplicable relief.

that same hand reaches out for mine before i request it,
and not a moment too soon
the fear rushes out of me;

and i know now that this is love:
the vital union of necessity when everything
suddenly
resolves into perfection

ii.
driving through the sunlight nothing matters
not our destination or even our words,
because we’re finally together;
poised,
trembling,
satisfied,
sincere.

and our hands,
knowing themselves all too well in one another
ask of us a grace:
all that we desire,
all that we suffer -
what we add to this gentle touch
with words never spoken.

a couple of weeks ago, dionne brand was in winnipeg, reading from her latest work inventory. if only i could explain how this woman, her poetry and her voice, move me…

…until, it must be said, the moment when all women realize
the war they’re in, that the only possibility is falling
that the fragments of winter and music are only solemn
kisses to their half-life and only mercy and surrender move
their hand.

and jars of clay were in winnipeg today.
speaking with them and hearing them sing has reminded me of how the poetry of their song has woven its way into my life and my consciousness in a very powerful way. if i look through any of my journals i can find so many of their lines juxtaposed to mine, inspiring, upholding, and sustaining. i have listened to no one as much as i have listened to them and i have listened to them enough that their music could be the timeline of the last 10 years of my life.

Oh my God look around this place
fingers reach around the bone
You set the break and set the tone
flights of grace and future falls
in present pain
All fools say ‘Oh my God’

i wonder: do we interpret our lives in fragments?
as we write in our journals,
hearing songs, not symphonies,
and determining everything in a single moment
so unlike our creator
who knows everything without a single moment at all,
but all at once

“quebec”

who knew ‘but’s could be so sharp?
or the past tense?
the way you spoke me into history made me wonder if i was still breathing.

then my own poems
laughed at me.

i think fragmentation produces liminality.
and liminality demands patience.
yes, patience is the attribute that the liminal requires.

“How to be a Poet (to remind myself)”
Wendell Berry

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill – more of each
than you have – inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgement…

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

in the weeks that followed, my mother started the process of applying to university. after her official acceptance letter arrived, i bought a one-way plane ticket to get me back to winnipeg after christmas. it was official. i was leaving my car in saskatchewan. while i was home for christmas holidays i helped her pick out and register for an english course. finally, after abolishing any second thoughts, i boarded the plane and came back to winnie to start my new car-free life.

and i love it. biking is so invigorating! getting from point a to point b is no longer a chore, it is an adventure. and winter can’t touch me (thanks to a very cool facemask from MEC – which will also come in handy should i ever need to pull a heist). so i’m just basking in liminal space of transportation instead of feeling guilty about it like i used to when i would drive somewhere within biking distance (although i must admit i haven’t been entirely car-free since i came back, thanks to some generous non-car-free roomies).

but what’s more, my mother loves her class. we’ve already had some wonderful conversations about her readings. she often calls me with questions about this or that and i love being able to use some of my knowledge for the good of someone else. she’s enjoying herself and at the same time is learning more about me and what’s been occupying the majority of my time for the last six years of my life.

when i made the deal with my mother i did it, at least in part, because i thought that winter biking would be a serious challenge. i thought i needed to have a good cause (i.e. my mother’s education)to keep me from getting bitter about not having a car on those -50 winterpeg days. but i’ll let you in on a little secret: biking in the winter is actually pretty wimpy. once i put on all my gear, i don’t feel a bit of cold. no, not even in -50. (insert evil laughter here) it’s actually so easy it almost makes me feel guilty. well… (more villainous laughter) …almost.

Dear Friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad:
And in my faintings I presume your love
Will more comply then help. A Lord I had,
And have, of whom some grounds, which may improve,
I hold for two lives, and both lives in me.
To him I brought a dish of fruit one day,
And in the middle plac’d my heart, But he
(I sigh to say)
Lookt on a servant, who did know his eye
Better then you know me, or (which is one)
Then I my self. The servant instantly
Quitting the fruit, seiz’d on my heart alone,
And threw it in a font, wherein did fall
A stream of blood, which issu’d from the side
Of a great rock: I well remember all,
And have good cause: there it was dipt and dy’d,
And washt, and wrung: the very wringing yet
Enforceth tears. Your heart was foul, I fear.
Indeed ‘tis true. I did and do commit
Many a fault more then my lease will bear;
Yet still askt pardon, and was not deni’d.
But you shall hear. After my heart was well,
And clean and fair, as I one even-tide
(I sigh to tell)
Walkt by my self abroad, I saw a large
And spacious fornace flaming, and thereon
A boyling caldron, round about those verge
Was in great letters set A F F L I C T I O N.
The greatnesse shew’d the owner. So I went
To fetch a sacrifice out of my fold,
Thinking with that, which I did thus present,
To warm his love, which I did fear grew cold.
But as my heart did tender it, the man,
Who was to take it from me, slipt his hand,
And threw my heart into the scalding pan;
My heart, that brought it (do you understand?)
The offerer’s heart. Your heart was hard, I fear.
Indeed ’tis true. I found a callous matter
Began to spread and to expatiate there:
But with a richer drug then scalding water
I bath’d it often, ev’n with holy blood,
Which at a board, while many drunk bare wine,
A friend did steal into my cup for good,
Ev’n taken inwardly, and most divine
To supple hardnesses. But at the length
Out of the caldron getting, soon I fled
Unto my house, where to repair the strength
Which I had lost, I hasted to my bed.
But when I thought to sleep out all these faults
(I sigh to speak)
I found that some had stuff’d the bed with thoughts,
I would say thorns. Dear, could my heart not break,
When with my pleasures ev’n my rest was gone?
Full well I understood, who had been there:
For I had giv’n the key to none, but one:
It must be he. Your heart was dull, I fear.
Indeed a slack and sleepy state of mind
Did oft possess me, so that when I pray’d,
Though my lips went, my heart did stay behind.
But all my scores were by another paid,
Who took the debt upon him. Truly, Friend,
For ought I hear, our Master shows to you
More favour then you wot of. Mark the end.
The Font did only, what was old, renew:
The Caldron suppled, what was grown too hard:
The Thorns did quicken, what was grown too dull:
All did but strive to mend, what you had marr’d.
Wherefore be cheer’d, and praise him to the full
Each day, each hour, each moment of the week,
Who fain would have you be new, tender, quick.