Posts Tagged ‘experience’

No Mars trip for me, thank you…

January 14, 2014

Ah1 The lure of the exotic, the different.  Canadians want to travel to Mars, already. But why Mars?  Just because it is there? Why not the adventure down the nearby block, or alley, or path? There is enough strangeness, exoticism, difference close by. Why, the other day, as I was dragging my groceries home, my left elbow cramping, I stopped on the sidewalk and looked up, just because. The tree girdled by sidewalk concrete rose in its spiky wintery brushiness. Dark green-black speckled bark glistened with rain. A winter bleak sky as is only possible on the West coast of BC. A sleek crow busily fastened twigs into a rough area which on closer consideration appeared to be a rudimentary nest. It was joined by its mate, landing with economy and proffering another twig. The crows deliberated upon the placement of this fragment, seemed to be engaged in a telepathic discussion. The twig was added to the bristling mass, and they moved around in tandem inspecting. What a new and strange treat for me. A promise of spring continuity, of maybe a nestling soon to be observed.  Perhaps an occasion of observing flight lessons, of the cajoling that all parents implement in motivating their young. An opportunity to hear the sounds of crowish language, encouraging, prompting, cautioning.

Daily, I am reminded of the ubiquity of the uncanny, the novel, the never-before-experienced… and of joy in the present place.

The last occurrence…

December 30, 2013

Firsts are always to be celebrated.  Why is this so? The first time tasting an orange. Do you remember when this was for you? I do. It was in Genoa in 1956, at a dock market.  My anyu bought an orange which smelled of an improbable perfume. The skin was pebbly with pores, and smelled… unlike any other smell before encountered. Once opened, it tasted acid and sweet – a lovely taste to accompany a delicious scent. Fingers were sticky and tasty for a long time afterward. The scent lingered and I still remember it every time I open an orange.

This morning I selected an orange from my fruit bowl and looked it over carefully. It is a beautiful fruit, in season, perfect in its orangeness, its colour brightening an otherwise dreary winter morning. I scored it four times with my black paring knife, one which I obtained at little cost from a local hardware store, and which does daily yeoman service. I opened the skin in sections with my squared fingernails. The oil in the skin as it stretched spritzed onto my hands and made them both sticky and oily, releasing that smell of citrus which brings back old memories. After all, it was precisely on this day, fifty-seven years ago in Genoa I had experienced my first orange. How odd, how strange and fortuitous that the last occurrence mirrored the first. I sat on my couch and savoured each segment of today’s orange. Time collapsed, it ceased to have linear quality, as so often erroneously I consider it. This is very comforting.