DISCOVERING WINTER

The sun has finally made it to the glaring point in the morning horizon as we turn East onto the highway. Guelph is behind us now, coming up past the specks of villages and town whipping past the window as the tree’s form dripping ink impressions in my eyes. I grind my sneakers clean from the salt and sand in the car’s carpet as I keep my eyes steady on the trees growing, flaring, and inching bit by bit into wonderful stains across a clean pallet. “Look, dad,” I say turning my weak hand upwards towards the window. “You can tell if the trees are in pain by the yellow they admit from their branches.”
“What’s that?” my father asks back turning his eyes slightly from off the road for a moment.
I keep reaching out with my hand. “Healthy trees should be black against the sun, and dazzling grey and white in a winter morning,” I say. “Those few are sick, they are in pain.”
My father says nothing coming down the off ramp back to town.

OLEANDER, OH-LEANDER,
An hour and kilometers away my hands in mitts and mitts on steel bar rail making my way past freckled faces, cute long winter parkas and sneering emo punk kids. I agreed to meet Sarah in our usual spot in Union Station with the plans to hit the winter fest in the heart of the downtown city. The way down I made sure to dump Harmer’s new album into my mp3 player and I had the rush of the trails in my ears, perfect for the soundtrack of the great adventure in the Canadian winter. I hum the songs in my head as we break down the street to get our skates and to meet up with our friends.

NOW ON THE ICE, ITS ROCKET RICHARD!
“Come on, Kinetix,” I say inching slowly forwards with my arms wiggling a bit. It had to have been since I was in grade 7 the last time I got out on the ice. People were darting in all around us and Sarah had already taken off in a zip of ice-shards from her blades and was well out of view. Kinetix seemed to wobble around posed as a gingerbread man with his ankles bending outwards, yelling at me. “This was a bad idea,” He says. “Why did I listen to you? Wait- why do I KEEP listening into you, AnnK, You’re fired.”
I chuckle a bit and scoot slowly over to him. “Come on, its easy… just try to get your balance and just go with it.”
Kinetix reaches out with his hand and almost takes me down on the ice with him as he stumbled and slipped around. I backed up and promptly made up my mind. “Are you going to be alright if I just take off for a few rotations around the pond?”
“I’ll be fine, I can do this,” Kinetix replies, teetering a bit.
I turn around and skate off with a slight shock of fear in my belly as people zoom past me with amazing speed. I am alone in a sea of strangers flying all around me. I keep my eyes focused and think: “Now, now, it’s just like driving. No one is going to mess up unless you make them and no one is checking for your license.” I start to go a bit faster, one foot in front of other foot, eyes still at my feet. Before in my room I packed books in my backpack: The Old Man of the Sea by Hemingway was one of them. I pictured the sea in the back of my eyes and glided past and into a school of fish, moving faster then them, a current pushing against my face. I smile brightly in the sun and in the distance, I see Sarah up ahead. I move up closer, now were side by side and were both smiling at each other and we moving together, laughing through the people.
Sarah was at my right when a kid smacked right in front of her and she toppled over. She gets up and wipes frost off her hands. I put my arm out and she takes it- we move through people, going good- were like pro’s on the ice and no one would guess it was over 10 years since the last time.

YOU HAVE FOUND 1 ELIXIR
Back at Jory’s house were joking up, but the couches are killing us. Kinetix traded back his skates only one hour after making a few attempts around the rink where as Sarah and I kept racing around lost in a living merry-go round of ice and winter coats. I grow weary as the sun goes down, the black oil seeps in across the horizon, and my thoughts turn of my planted little orange house on the hill back in Milton. Who will feed the cat? Who will clean the dishes?
Jory piles on the old house records for me as we pow it in the living room. It’s all great, the clock is stopped and it feels just like every damn apartment Jory ever had in his life you squatted down in. It is all brimming with movement and planning, great ideas, good conversations. We joke around and I point out all the great things around Jory’s place to Sarah.
The amusing thing about friends is that as we get older, the visits and interactions are few and few, but the stories always grow more comical due to this absence. I have known Jory for over eight years now, Kinetix for over six, I just met Sean and Sarah, and Sarah J herself is all new and excited about this time in her life. I remember what it was like for me at her age, that age! Dear lord, it was that age itself when I was sitting in Jory’s living room for the first time, already down in the city, already on the big start to the huge adventure of life. The passion of coming out, being fresh, falling in love for the first time, the dangers, the comical wit and hilarity of those days. I had it heavy back then and I could say I still got it heavy now, but the beginnings of then, that time are wild echoes and point me into a stronger, more progressed adult.

THE BROKEN HEART ON THE ROAD
I sit in the front seat of the bus watching the rain bead down the windshield. I stare out at the blanket of black in the distance, orange brown lights die off behind us curling out of the city limits. Harmer sings in my ears, “He will be waiting for me, he will be, wont he?”I wonder myself if the bane of my adventures, the pain I suffer in my heart is only due because I choose my love of creation more then the comfort of a warm body. The drive of pushing myself to the ultimate limits in my production, creation and bleeding of my craft has proven to myself more reliable then people with confusion in their souls. Sure, I have confusion too, but I find joy in it. It pleases me like no other can. The art and drive for creation will always drive me down this lonely road back home to where I sit and wait.

Wanna be an artist the AnnK way? It is easy. You just need to get a few things sorted first before you even show your artwork to a gallery. I mean, yeah. Sure. You think you can go and check up on it and rec-o-nize, but it do not mean beans if you do not have the swagger in your stager. You dig? Part of being down is actually being down and if the last few sentences look like gibberish, you need to get your shadow boned and fast. Read on…

STEP ONE: Read dumb books on weird subjects. That is right! Throw out your romance novels, your collection of Readers Digest, even get rid of the porn. Fill your shelves with second hand, musty old books on crazy subjects. What is crazy? Anything about UFO’s, Zombies, Poetry, Sci-Fi, books from small independent presses and anything that any reviewer ever wrote down in history as being “filthy”, “Disgusting” or “Pornographic”. If needed be, steal history books from your parents that look old and musty. They have oodles of jokes in them and sometimes the pictures are amusing. Only collect books that are strange or look odd so when people see them they wretch in pain. Some of the books don’t even need to be bought to be read. Sometimes, it is necessary to make your own dust jackets (Mr. Spock or a burning house on the cover is always a great dust jacket).

STEP TWO: Start a collection of strange toys that no one over 30 would get. Obscure Nintendo characters or ugly monsterlike dolls are great. Throw them into your bag when you have an important function to go with. When someone asks, tell them “It’s a great pillow” and then make googly eyes at them.

STEP THREE: To be a wild artist, you need a strange hat collection. You need hats that look like either military or hats you steal off boyfriends, but never good hats. Bonnets and caps are alright, but remember that a hat collection is left up to ones creativity and ones alone. Hats are a great way to hide the fact that you have insomnia and those days your hair isn’t working it.

STEP FOUR: There is not an eccentric alive that does not own a cat. Cats are great, cheap, and snuggly. You must make your cat your art critic and talk to her as if she knows what art is. When people come to visit, tell them to not to touch the cat since the cat is very important to your work and she does not stand for fussy fingers.
With all of these things, you might be able to pull off the right attitude. Next time, we will learn how to pull all these elements together to out wit the art industry, bamboozle men, and make the grade.

May you either write with the right or scribble with the left, everyone had their chance to vote yesterday using whatever hand they had open at the moment (twee-heee!). I promptly woke up at 8:30 after dealing with strange house apartment business and got my newsie gear on and ran down to my voting station or also known as: J M D Public School. On arriving, I strolled up towards the two pleasant women behind the voting poll desk, slammed my hands down on the table and grinned straight at them. Speaking quickly, I greeted them by saying, “Ladies- good to see you again!”
The look back at me in wonder.
“What? Don’t you remember me?” I ask them. “It has only been what? 18 months??”
They had a good chuckle, I did my part, then left to get a cup of Gano at Express Yourself Café. It was a dazzling morning, the sun is high, the sky is clear, stars will be out tonight- call all your friends, let everybody know…

ON WITH THE MAYHEM!
… And we did know. This is one of the singular most important evenings in a young journalists life. It’s much like a working circa of people all flying in together to get the story, get the opinions, and soon there is so much information coming in your mind starts to go numb. It doesn’t help either when the work load piles on and you have to make healthy lifestyle choices, muddle around in relationships briefly now and then when people visit, keep your mind progressing with a skill or a talent, mentoring, choices… A horrible sinking pain drains you out by the end of the day, but you still get the work done. However if they forget it tomorrow, it does not matter. You got the job done and you move onto the next taking what you learned or experienced from the last story.
It is an itch; every group has one. Think unifying factor among the working for positive note.
Back at my desk, ashtray blooming, cups and pencils sprouting up, cat pulling the sweatercoat over the broken computer chair (old unresolved habit of breaking furniture through inappropriate use), I get back in the swing. My assistant editor assigns me to cover the Green Party Election and I am on the phone setting up my evening plans. Sure, your thinking, “Why not go cover Garth or Carr?” I didn’t get assigned those and my job is to do or don’t. You get it and you go with it and you got to give it your best shot no matter what. Helps if you are amused, stay positive with it. All in good time.
I must have rang Kyle’s doorbell twice before he answered it. Dr. Kyle Grice, leader for the Halton Green party, very well spoken man for his first year. He had a great team this year as well. The political teams I liked this year had visibly strong teamwork within them which is the true sign of success. The Green party of Halton had a great Team, some of which who I knew in the community already, a great little grassroots organization. Garth had a great team too- easy to relate with, cheerful and dedicated. For any that met them this year they made an impression on the community with such polarizing results that still felt successful.
One of my friends works for the Green party and in the evening, after chatting over the TV as the polls rolled in, he wanted to go to the Elections Canada office in Milton to get more accurate results (Or in my line of work, we sometimes refer to this “step-out” as a chance for a cigarette). I had a challenge of an idea in my head and I proposed it. “K.C,” I ask. “Can we stop by Garth’s party so we can say ‘congratulations’?”

THE ELECTIONS-CANADA WEDDING CRASHERS
“When we get back, remember to back out of this driveway,” KC told me.
There were a row of cars surrounding the building. It’s a hot night in Milton when the party is for the winning MP. We stroll up to the Hotel and Peter who is putting his camera away looks up and sees me. He smiles, starts laughing, “What are you doing here, kid?”
Peter always has a great personality. I smile back, “Were here to congratulate Garth, can you take our picture, Peter, Please?”
Not even stopping, Peter whips out the camera, having fun, he snaps off a million pictures (snapsnapsnapsnapsnap) like a firecracker, people look up and bend their necks, whats going on? “AW I totally blew you away,” Peter yells.
Photo’s not important, well liked, but we have a job to do- our mission. OH yes… must finish the job. I dart off into the kitchen, KC following right behind me. “I just had a sudden urge for a slice of pie…”
Manovering, slowly, have the heels on, good suit, hairs already fallen out, but you have one chance to do this cause he’s a busy man. We find Garth and his lovely wife in a circle of people, shaking hands thanking everyone. They look very well. I look somewhat breezed (curse the weather). I walk up to Garth and shake his hand, “Garth! Congradulations!”
Garth turns and shakes my hand as people push up together for a photo, I cletch the lid of the Styrofoam container and the lip pops open in that moment, cameras all going off, snack on full display, Garth smiling, AnnK making the best attempt at a very awkard moment in a sea of people as the flashing of lights fire off.
“Come on, you dance don’t you?” I say grabing KC’s arm and firing towards the dance floor.
“I don’t know- there are TV cameras all over this place,” He says. “I don’t know if that is a good idea.”
We look around the mess of people in the hall.
There is a full band, but no one dancing. What a conservative room it was… everyone was acting very conservative…
I throw my coat off and wait. KC turns back slightly, says, “Alright they have them off- start now!” and we hit the floor. I wonder how do you dance conservative. I do my best to keep it conservative.
Were smiling, the room is smiling, it’s going to be a party for the next 5 years….
We tear out, walking quickly towards the car, pie in hand. “Don’t forget to put the car in reverse when we get out of here,” I say.

AND THUS MY EVENING BEGINS
Were back at Kyle’s house. Everyone is a bit worn out, close to midnight. This is where I sit down and have my chat with Kyle in a very relaxed and humble way. I will post that after it has gone to print here since it is quite interesting in my opinion.

Roaring down the road back to my house, the sky is clear, brilliant. The perfect winter evening. Heh, told you to call all your friends…
When you get home from a day like that, you really show it. My hair out of place, my clothes used down, feet dragging- this is the state of earthbound zombie drag. Hard, heavy, but demanding, shaking off a tinge of adrenalin.
Away in the night I write. I go over my notes with highlighter, cat is pulling at socks, painting glaring at you in the face, chest hurting. You must get this done, that is the demand of the news. However, I pass out afterwards on the chair with a painting in my hands, brushes at the floor. Painting has become the all driving addicted need and never stratified fully unless progress is made in some manner of fashion.
I close my eyes and drift off for 4 hours of dull, bland sleep.

THE SIX O CLOCK BURN
Awake at the six o clock burn on press day is rough. I burned an entire meal passing out in my chair at my desk. JR banged on my door, informing me I was burning the house down. Time for beak, time to paint.
Progress is being made.

MISSING THE SIGNS
Stolen: One campaign sign
When: Between the wee hours of midnight and 11am Sunday Morning
How: Plucked from the wary cold bosom of grass by the new maple tree
Who: I do not know who you are, but when I find you, I am going to beat your butt cherry red with the replacement sign.
That is a promise.

I wake up this morning to go on assignment to discover my campaign sign of my own political choice (not going into details on who I am voting for since that is not at question here) was striped from off my front lawn. There I was, The Killer’s "All These Things That I've Done" playing in my ears (at the part where it is going ‘I got soul but I’m not a solder’) and I discover my campaign sign missing. Maybe it blew away in the wind we had the night before- but I remember I saw it when I came in the night before and it was not that windy last night. In addition, no other signs on my street were missing and I checked the ravine by my house for it with no luck.
Damn politically motivated theft!
That got me thinking that either someone in my building does not agree with my political viewpoints or some stoner took it as a joke. Whatev’s! Who takes campaign signs right off peoples front lawns? I feel slightly violated by whoever took it- not only was it my sign, but it was in respects to my beliefs. No one else’s beliefs were stolen off any of the other houses on my road, so why just mine? Is it because I live right on the corner or because I live right at the corner?

I keep another sign, but in my window that reads, “FARMERS FEED CITIES” which stands as my political voice for the need to be pro active on agriculture needs and issues. If anyone takes that sign I’ll be sure to really rip into them.

I guess I will have to get another dumb sign to stick out on the lawn. I could be humorous, write “VOTE FOR PIE”, stick that in my lawn, and wait to see who comes by to kick that over, but meh. Been there, did that, sooo 2004.

Anyway, here is my letter to the jerk who took my sign:
Hello whoever you are,
You took my sign and I am rather unimpressed. It seems you enjoyed taking my political sign, so I was thinking of coming over to YOUR lawn and post 50 of them all in your flower bed and duct tape a few to the hood of your car. Don’t mess with AnnK- I keeps it real and I get REAL messed when people take stuff from me.

TIME FOR A NEW LOOK
Check out my new look. I think the last time I had bangs was when I had my hair styled in a chelsey's cut (which to this day when I unearth photos from my album I promptly eat them so that no living eyes can trigger those few brain cells that can remeber my hair in that terrible style). The bangs look smart on me and I was geting many good comments from my friends on the new do. New do! EW! I SAID IT! I give you permission to slap me in the face for saying that... but would you slap this face? Maybe? Promise?

Starmen!!
Did I ever mention how much I enjoy the company of Starmen? Today's chosen conversation was on the topic of Hell and what does on in the hot place. Being Too Rude- too true, I understand the true meaning of Hell. YES! Hell's around my corner where I shelter! I kid you not! Every once and a while I have to go to the local BiWay to buy cheap Tuesday underpants and I have to walk right outside of the looming Hell office since there is no way to get to BiWay without crossing Hell's path. Once, my inquizitive mind got the better of me and I walked into the main doors and asked if they were hiring cause the Photo Job was getting on my nerves. I discovered that it wasnt really Hell, just one of their Eastern Canadian offices where the majority of their manuals and doctrines were written, translated, and filed. I asked how much the job paid- a little more then the minium but loaded with what they called "Hot" benifits, so I decided to take the tour.
In one room, a hundred writers were chained to their desks over overclocked PC's running Windows ME while red deamons laid into them with whips yelling, "THE MEETING IS IN 5 MINUTES! THE MEETING IS IN 5 MINUTES!"
I was not impressed. "Is this what I would be doing?" I asked.
"Oh no, we need a full time writer to work in the Heaven department."
Heaven, huh?? I imagine pristeen white tile, cakes and pie's piled up higher then me, "sad" tall boys carring boxes pass my desk...
We go into the room labled "Heaven Dept." and a hundred writers are chained to their desks over PC's beeping every two minutes from annoying pop up windows while red deamons lay into them with whips yelling, "THE MEETING IS IN 5 MINUTES! THE MEETING IS IN 5 MINUTES!"
"Woah, woah, hey!" I yell. "This room is just the same as all the other Hell writer's departments! Why is this the Heaven Department?"
"Cause the work actualy gets printed here...."

While your rolling your eyes in disgust- read my post from todays forum.

Kornflake: "Hello, and welcome to Hell- you have the information desk, how may I direct your call?"
Phone Guy: "Ah yes, I did't mean to call... I mean... I woke up this morning and looked into my fridge and saw some green furry stuff growing on top of some left overs..."
Kornflake: "Mumhhumm..."
Phone Guy: "Yeah... and so I yelled 'What the Hell is this' and suddenly this phone appeared in my hands and immediately dialed into what I think is you call desk..."
Kornflake: "Muhhumm..."
Phone Guy: "And, uh... ha ha, well... I don't know what’s... hey- maybe you could tell me what the hell that was."
Kornflake: "That's YOUR problem buddy."
Phone Guy: "For an information desk, your not very informative."
Korflake: "Hell yeah!"
Phone Guy: (eerie silence)
Kornflake: "Thank you for your call, and please, go to hell!"

WHERE IS MY COFFEE... and other morning nonsence
I get thrown out of bed this morning from my phone calling. Ever since I got this number I keep geting phone calls from deaf people thinking this place is a medical center. How, do you ask, do deaf people use a telephone? Easy- they have a little keyboad device that connects to another keyboad device which displays text. Its kind of like a little laptop with MSN on it, but ghetto phone technology. IF I had one of these devices, I could tell these people that the number they are trying to call is no longer the number for the medical center and I can sleep in on my days I have no pressing engaments in the morning. Instead- I have to get up when the phone rings in the morning and listen to the annoying keyboard device try to connect to its long lost brother... only it cant because I don't have one. Scream all you want- the beeping listens to no man (or kornflake) and after calling Bell I discovered there is little I can do to stop this.
Every morning is a horrible reminder of how much I hate Bell Canada.
IT GETS WORSE
Today, as I lurch out of bed to get the phone rigning off its hook- I am surpized that there is an actual human on the other line. Hello, Shane- or whatever you name is, have you any idea what time of the day it is?
Shane: "This Ann K from the Halton Compass?"
AnnK: "(trying to sound awake) Yes, this is her- how may I help you?"
Shane: "You wrote an article about a man who collects beer bottles and I really need to get his contact information..."
WTF? How on earth did you get my home phone number?? AND YOUR CALLING ME FOR WHAT? AT WHAT HOUR?? Where's my hired Ditto-muscle-Much?
First off, this is a private home residance, second- Who on earth gave you my home phone number? Third- I didnt write that story, and finnaly, Why would I jerk around the people who I did interviews with by handing out their number so they can get phone calls this freaking early in the morning?
Shane tells me he got my number from the office- how or why someone did that I dont know. After my family was attacked by resident right-wing wackos over something I wrote last spring, my office should know never to give out my personal information to anyone who is trying to contact me through work. I get off the phone and promptly call the office and remind them about our privacy policy and then lurch around my apartment swearing my head off I am now awake on a day I was planning on sleeping in.