i'm writing about my home today, and why it's going to be hard to leave one day. i'm sorry. i'm sorry that i only post once a month. that's a bad interval. very bad. i'm sorry. it might change; hopefully it will change. but it probably won't. i don't know, it might change. this is a list about the northern wilds of canada.
FROM FATHER TO SON, THE BLOOD RUNS THIN // SEE FACES FROZEN STILL AGAINST THE WIND // THE SEAM IS SPLIT, THE COLD FACE CRACKED // THE LINES ARE LONG, THERE'S NO GOING BACK // THROUGH HANDS OF STEEL AND HEART OF STONE // WE WAIT ALL DAY FOR NIGHT TO COME
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
WHY I AM OF THE NORTH.
I. THE COLD. it invigorates me and it makes me feel alive. everyone else complains about it; everyone talks about moving down south. they constantly complain about winter; it starts too early and it ends too late. when someone says that we have winter for six months of the year, they are not exaggerating. winter edges into the beginning of october and stretches across into the end of march. our average temperature in the winter is -20C and we have literally had snow in july, and i love it. i love it so much: i love the way my hands crack at the seams and i love the grey and formless skies. i love watching myself exhale white and silver clouds. the snow glitters like crystal on sunny days.
II. THE WILD. canada is home to 10% of the world's forests. that is a lot of trees, and a lot of wild. you could walk for weeks and weeks and be entirely alone out there, in the trees. it is harsh and wonderful. i lust for wilderness.
II. THE WILD. canada is home to 10% of the world's forests. that is a lot of trees, and a lot of wild. you could walk for weeks and weeks and be entirely alone out there, in the trees. it is harsh and wonderful. i lust for wilderness.
III. CATHOLIC CHURCHES. i'm not a catholic, but half my country is, and they build beautiful cathedrals all over the north, and the south and the east and the west. i like the spires that reach up into heaven and the stone and the stained glass windows. it makes me remember: "God is there. he's there and in my church and in the wind and walking with that boy down the sidewalk and in the tavern down the street and up in the stars." there are so many catholic churches, everywhere, and they're beautiful. God is there.
IV. COFFEE. there are seven tim hortons establishments and multiple other coffee houses in my city. hello, my name is abby, and i am a coffee addict. my father began to let me drink out of his mugs of black coffee when i was chilling on his knee at fours years old [good times]. i've been drinking coffee regularly since i was eight. i am five feet and one inch and i have stopped growing [no, it's not stunting my growth...]. coffee is the lifeblood of the north: it flows through our veins.
V. CULTURE. [or the beautiful lack thereof.] i live in a mining city. everyone walks down the street and in and out of coffee shops with a grim determination, steeled to the frigid air and worrying about the price of gold. there's a small town a little south of mine that is stuck in the 1970s. it is made out of dirty red brick, neon signs, peeling paint and linoleum, but its radio station plays very good classic rock. there is a men's clothing store that sells ancient bowler hats and vinyl jackets and soft, thick, heavy suits. everyone is either friendly and quiet, or angry and on drugs, or angry and quiet, or friendly and on drugs. that's what the north is like.
VI. FREEDOM. the lust for wilderness is a lust for freedom as well: freedom to advance into the uncharted forests and kayak across dark, deep lakes of silver glass. there's freedom here. it's a freedom from civilization, if you get far enough. but it's also a small mental freedom in the knowledge that you are surrounded by pine and snow and lakes.
it makes me tick, i guess.
VII. THE NIGHT SKY. in midwinter, the north star rises above my house. orion is to the west, just in the corner of my eye. i cannot fathom the stars... the skies are so black and so clear and cold in the north; the blackness stretches over the top of your sight like a thick blanket, pierced only by flecks of fierce silver stars. they're innumerable and terrible and beautiful. on a clear night out in the wilds, you can see the stream of the milky way coursing over the dark.
the stars are a gift.
IV. COFFEE. there are seven tim hortons establishments and multiple other coffee houses in my city. hello, my name is abby, and i am a coffee addict. my father began to let me drink out of his mugs of black coffee when i was chilling on his knee at fours years old [good times]. i've been drinking coffee regularly since i was eight. i am five feet and one inch and i have stopped growing [no, it's not stunting my growth...]. coffee is the lifeblood of the north: it flows through our veins.
V. CULTURE. [or the beautiful lack thereof.] i live in a mining city. everyone walks down the street and in and out of coffee shops with a grim determination, steeled to the frigid air and worrying about the price of gold. there's a small town a little south of mine that is stuck in the 1970s. it is made out of dirty red brick, neon signs, peeling paint and linoleum, but its radio station plays very good classic rock. there is a men's clothing store that sells ancient bowler hats and vinyl jackets and soft, thick, heavy suits. everyone is either friendly and quiet, or angry and on drugs, or angry and quiet, or friendly and on drugs. that's what the north is like.
VI. FREEDOM. the lust for wilderness is a lust for freedom as well: freedom to advance into the uncharted forests and kayak across dark, deep lakes of silver glass. there's freedom here. it's a freedom from civilization, if you get far enough. but it's also a small mental freedom in the knowledge that you are surrounded by pine and snow and lakes.
it makes me tick, i guess.
VII. THE NIGHT SKY. in midwinter, the north star rises above my house. orion is to the west, just in the corner of my eye. i cannot fathom the stars... the skies are so black and so clear and cold in the north; the blackness stretches over the top of your sight like a thick blanket, pierced only by flecks of fierce silver stars. they're innumerable and terrible and beautiful. on a clear night out in the wilds, you can see the stream of the milky way coursing over the dark.
the stars are a gift.
