A Pleasant Dream of Mine

I was walking down a road that was turning from prairie town into the country. If I looked ahead all I could see was scrub brush, canola fields and the occasional tree. If I looked back I saw thirty year old houses, a fifty year old school and one three story building. I was trying to find a place I had been only once before, but I wasn't sure how to get there.

A young girl appeared beside me, or at least younger than me. We talked and rested comfortably in our chatter. At one point I slipped in my age, 25, and she slipped in hers, 21. We realized we had walked too far. The road we were on had made a large arc to the right while it looked like a more major street would have gotten us to our destination.

There was a house and a tent, a boy stood between them, perhaps her brother. A strong wind picked up and turned into a storm. Pants with shoes sewn on to the bottom fell from the sky and we ran for cover. I was in the tent and she in the house with her brother. The wind grew stronger and picked up the tent with me inside, sending us into the sky. A rope kept it tethered to the earth and it sailed like a kite.

I closed my eyes then opened them and I was in the house, with the girl, searching for something. There was no trace of the other boy. I found a stash of small, dried Swedish Berries. I ate some and brought a handful to her. She was in a corner, flipping through some papers. I placed a berry on her tongue, then kissed that place. We embraced and remained that way as I woke.

Watering Hole Sideshow

I remember the night being hot, but I can't be sure. Outside the bar a sign red “Deli,” but few were there looking for a link of German sausage. For what seemed like hours seven of us had crowded around a table made for four. We talked of nothing in particular, to the point that I can't now recall what was said. Though perhaps I was distracted by what was to happen.

At one point those inclined to smoke went outside to do so, leaving three of us to our clean lungs. Soon after an old man in an electric wheel chair rolled through the door. He kept on his path steadily, knocking over several chairs and almost upturning a table full of bottles as he went. He muttered apologies but made no move to alter his course. A few tos a fros and he settle himself at a large, empty table. I had risen to move a few chairs out of his path, and soon sat myself back in my place, returning to my companions.

After a time my eye was caught by another person entering the bar. This was a woman, skinnier than most, which was highlighted by the fact she was wearing only her underwear. This was not a particularly nice pair of underwear, and in fact did not match. I thought that if someone was going to wear only their underthings to a bar they might pick out their nicest pair. Later I mentioned this to a friend, who was quick to mention that most women wore only the basics most days. Perhaps her choice of undress was a quick one on her part. Perhaps this was the nicest pair she owned.

She acted as normally as a woman wearing only underwear can, and the rest of us tried to catch glimpses of this fashion rebel without trying to seem too interested. She sat at the same table as the man in the wheel chair. They seemed to know each other and talked quite seriously, creating a bond of those with no heed to the expectations of society. At some point I believe I saw the owner of the establishment talk to the unclothed lady, who soon left the premises as unceremoniously as she entered it.

Our smoking comrades soon returned with a few others. Our bloated numbers forced us to a new table, deeper into the bar, and if it was warm in there, likely hotter. A half our or so passed and a number of unremarkable people sat with the wheel chair man. Then entered an older, bearded man caring a large, stuffed bear. He sat his stitched companion at its own chair and went to get a drink. One of my friends started yelling out the get that bear a drink. The man paid no notice to the bear when he came back, and having to work the next morning I soon left.

A Change of Place

You may have noticed that I haven't written anything here for quite a while. The main reason for this is I have been asked to contribute to the Canadian Mennonite Magazine's blog initiative Young Voices. The majority of my blogging efforts will not be pointed there, so this space will likely go largely untouched. Though there are some ideas and experiences I would like to write about that do not fit in that place, so there will be new content here on occasion. If you are interested in following me at Young Voices here's the link: http://youngvoices.canadianmennonite.org/blog/adamklassen

The idea is to have a group of young Anabaptist's write their thoughts and ideas about faith. There isn't too much more focus than that, which leads to a great variety of content. I would encourage you to check out the other blogs there, which are wonderful.

Haiku Mondays (Slightly Late Version)

A crow coloured field

brought to its full potential

by the farmer's match

Haiku Mondays

Long legs dance on by

Content to remain apart

in that red spotlight

Kubrick Filmography

Stanley Kubrick is one of my favourite filmmakers. He is one of those artists who I find almost unimaginably good. I know some people who find him too controlled, too cold in his gaze. What I see is a complete clarity of vision. Every aspect of the filmmaking process, the script, the scene composition, the music, the acting, all work together to a specific end. And they are ends I find fascinating. There may rarely be warmth in his films, but there is an incredible intellect exploring what it means to be human. Here's a great animated short by the french graphic artist Martin Woutisseth that animates posters for the entirety of Kubrick's filmography. It's a great reminder of how many truly great movies this man created, and also how I need to get off my but and see the rest of them.

Breath

What is the quality of ones breath?

And how much can be devised from it?

Slow and deep can denote a peace and calm, or a barely controlled anger.

Quick and shallow can result from fear, or that most pleasurable of bodily enterprises.

There is the last breath of a loved one dying.

The breath of God.

The whip of a bus passing too close by or the wind on the prairie raging forth unchallenged or the lover blowing a lost strand of hair from your face or the cooling of you first cup of coffee for the day

long short, shallow deep

It is the great repetition. A never ending cycle, that is until its complete end. The end above all ends.

Until then we will continue, whistling through our noses, drinking in cool mountain breezes, gasping at the finish line, brushing our teeth furiously and sucking on mints, so as not to offend anyone.

Haiku Monday's

Dedicated to the 2011 Canadian Election results:

I try to listen

but it all sounds far too much

like a strangled cat

Haiku Mondays

I am starting up a new series here at DC: Haiku Mondays. Return here every Monday to see a new Haiku written by your truly.

Do not hesitate

To touch that mole on her neck

With your soft fingers

Grandma Klassen

It is almost a week now since my Grandmother passed away.

Monday, April 18 at 11:44 am Helen Klassen died peacefully at Boundry Trails Health centre. The two nights before I had sat vigil with her. Saturday night did not prove too difficult. She spent most of the time sleeping, with only the occasional sound. She did not open her eyes much, but she did not seem to be in any pain, which was as much as we could ask for. I spent that time reading, listening to music, and just waiting really. Sunday night was not so peaceful. I was there from 9:30-3:00am and there was hardly a quiet moment. Unable to take a breadth without tremendous effort she would writhe in pain every ten minute or so. The nursing staff was incredible, trying out different methods and medication to allow her to sleep comfortably, but nothing seemed to be working. I spent that time sitting with her, holding her hand and trying to comfort her as best I could. I had no idea what to do, I just hoped my presence could be of some comfort to her. By 3 she had calmed down a bit, which was when my father came to relieve me. I went home and fell asleep, exhausted.

The next day we had not made a plan as to when people would sit vigil, and I did not really love the idea of sitting at home doing nothing, so I went back to the hospital. I arrived at 10am to find my dad, aunt and cousin there. Grandma's breathing sounded terrible, but I was quickly told that was the sound of her breath going over her relaxed vocal chords. As much as it might sound otherwise, she was in no pain. Her breath did not change for and hour and a half, then suddenly it did. I'm not sure what was different, but we all heard it. Each of our heads came up and we moved around her. From that point each breath was smaller, shorter, shallower that then one before it. It was impossible to tell which was the last one. There was not one huge, final breath. Rather a slow fade. It was quiet beyond anything I had known, and her face showed joy and peace.

I love you Grandma.

To Grandma

My Grandmother is in the hospital. Over the last few years her health has been steadily declining. We were not sure exactly what was wrong, though there were a number of things it could have been. Six weeks ago she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Not one of the ones people survive. The last week or so has been especially quick in her dwindling health, and yesterday our family decided to begin a vigil. We are taking turns sitting with her, including throughout the night. My ability to rearrange my working hours allows me to take on this role. We are not sure how long she will be with us yet, but we are trying to be as prepared as possible. She has had a full life and now faces death with a courage I cannot fathom. In the past, when I have been confronted with the death of a loved one, I have turned to a poem by Christina Rossetti. I first read it back in my second year of university, and it has stayed with me since then.

Uphill

by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wing up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide if from my face?

You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

New Music

Absolutely one of my favourite bands, TV On The Radio is prepping to release their latest record Nine Types of Light. Along with the music is a film, to which they just released a trailer. Check this out.

Yet another beginning

I'm not quite sure what to do with this space. There's a part of me that wants to have some sort of plan. A specific idea about what should go on this thing. Upon my returning to Canada I realized that I saw a lot of the people who were reading this on a semi-regular bases, so there is no need for me to relate my day to day activities (which frankly are pretty boring anyway). I also do not have enough of my writing material ready to be shared for this to become a space for that. So I think I'm going to just wing it, write when I feel like writing and about what I feel like writing about and likely come back every few months to apologize about not keeping up with it. I make no promises in either quality or frequency.

Today I began swimming again, or at least attempted to. I am currently working until 2, and on my way home stopped off at Cindy Klassen pool. After 16 laps or so I notice the lifeguards walking around saying something. I pulled my head out and heard, "everyone out, someone pooped in the pool."

Also today I was reading some Ginsberg poetry and this dedication to the poem Laughing Gas made me smile,

"To Gary Snyder

The red tin begging cup you gave me,

I lost it but its contents are undisturbed."