Winging It

So, I am off (soon.)

There is something to be said for working right up until the day before one leaves for a Holiday. As a teacher, I often had weeks to get ready. Not used to the pinch in time. So everything will be ready because it has to be, and the older I get, the more I travel, the better I am at leaving even though everything isn't perfect. So maybe the bathroom doesn't get cleaned before I leave; maybe I don't get every last thing done; s'awright. The world will still spin on its axis and folk will carry on as usual without too much concern about the state of my full or empty dishwasher.

Man, I love traveling. Nothing makes me appreciate my life more. It reminds me that I live in the greatest country in the World. It's not often I come back from my travels and wish I was somewhere else. (Except Vegas, but that was different.)

And we are mercifully spared the hurricanes and the floods and sure there's some cold weather and some hail storms in July, but meh. We're rich and we're fat and our standard of poor would make some in other countries balk. And I am as guilty as the next guy for forgetting that sometime. I get too wrapped up in the small stuff. So travelling is my reminder, my beacon, of what's truly important in life and how bloody lucky I am.

I have no idea what I am going to be teaching on Monday, but I have some chart paper, some markers and a schwack of resource books. I am going to show up, sing some songs, make some jokes, clap my hands and do what I do best: Fly By the Seat of my Pants.

I am writing a book

My editor called me up out of the blue last week and says:

“Karen, would you like to write a book? It would be about Chocolate.”

Silence, pause. Incredulity.

This is the equivalent of him phoning up and asking if I’d like to win the lottery and move to Paris.

“Am I being Punk’d?

“No. I’m serious. Are you interested?”

“No, I would like to continue working my dead-end job in Oil and Gas delivering people’s mail and cleaning up after a bunch of ingrates.”

“You know Karen, sarcasm is a hidden form of anger.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so maybe the conversation didn’t go like that at all and has been embellished for entertainment and dramatic effect. But close enough. Basically, a publisher in Edmonton is looking for an author to write a book about chocolate.

No, I’m not making this up. No, *you* are not being Punk’d.

“You don’t sound very excited, Karen.”

I explain to him that I'm hungover and full of pancakes. But really, I am very excited. I mean, Food porn? Where do I sign up?

They offered me the job, with a decent enough paycheque to make it worth my while. It will be sold predominately at Wal-Mart, Costco and Superstore both in Canada and the US. You know the kind; we’ve all seen those books in the bins.

They are looking to have the book out by Valentine’s Day and therefore I have an extremely tight deadline. Basically, don’t expect to see me until October.

On the Nature of Love

From my new favourite author, Rabindranath Tagore, poet Laureate of India, who is soothing my panic, disillusionment, fear and loathing.

The night is black and the forest has no end;
a million people thread it in a million ways.
We have trysts to keep in the darkness,
but where or with whom- of that we are unaware.
But we have this faith- that a lifetime's bliss
will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips.
Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs
brush us, pass us, give us delightful shocks.
Then peradventure there's a flash of lightning:
whomever I see that instant I fall in love with.
I call that person and cry: `This life is blest!
For your sake such miles have I traversed!'
All those others who come close and moved off
in the darkness- I dont know if they exist or not.

-From Chaitali (1896)
Translated from Bengali by Ketaki Kushari Dyson.