I saw several movies. The Hobbit, with Del and Dave, was a fine old time early in my trip. Probably the best of the three Hobbit movies, but not measuring up to any Lord of the Rings films.
The Book Thief was watched at home with the folks. Quite good. The girl may become a star before it's all said and done. And Geoffery Rush and Emily Watson were very good too.
The Immitation Game was very good. Saw that in cinema with mom and dad. Dad seemed most impressed with both the movie and with Bennedict Cumberbatch.
Near the end of my trip I went to the Gambler with Del. Fairly good. I enjoyed it and found it worth watching. My only pause was at the end when I was left to wonder if there was a real good reason why he did everything up to that point. But the doing it was entertaining enough.
And, of course, two Christmas movie classics were watched with the parents at home. A Christmas Story is the best. Watched with a smile not far from the lips throughout. And then there was Scrooge. The 1951 version is the only real version. All others pale in comparison.
Food was as with most trips home. I was going good for the first seven to ten days. Not eating too much though still indulging on some things... such as Stoggers Pizza. But, by the end of the trip, it was going crazy. On New Years Eve, I stepped into three restaurants. Brunch with mom and dad at Mallard Cottage was great. Sat next to the fire and had a fine meal in a room big enough for only three tables. That's my thing now with restaurants. I love being in a place that doesn't feel like I'm being packed in... eating two feet from a stranger. Later, I had a light lunch at the Press and Bean with Craig. Then supper was with the parents again... this time at Bacalao, where they expected two of us, not three... but quickly added a chair and setting for the third.
Much family time was had. Most of it spent with mom and dad but several visits with uncles, aunts and cousins as well. I'm alone alot. So when I'm around people more often... my parents, for example, it takes getting used to. Add to that, mom is a morning person... and I am not. And there were times I'd have to check myself.
But sitting in the living room, chatting about things in the world... ideas, news items, beliefs... that is a highlight to any trip home. And I had that on a daily basis those eighteen days.
There was much more. Too much to tell. And each trip ends in much the same way for me. I always look forward to returning to my own space. My stuff. My house is my most comfortable place to be. But at the same time, I'm meloncholy for the leaving. Knowing I'll miss the ability to see my parents whenever I want. Being so close to hills I've known all my life. Having the sea as an ever consistent presence. And having several close friends a short drive away.
So I return to comfort but couple it with aloneness. Yes there are friends here in Ottawa as well. But the fact remains that my daily routine in Ottawa is largely a singular one. Often times I like it that way. I plan for a day or two of alone time on my first round of days off (Decompression time). But there are times that I miss the living room chats. The shared experience of watching a movie or show on TV. And the simple act of being around people you know so well... and who know you just as well.
And through all the delay, this is a milestone post for me. Six hundred blog entries. Times have changed with my blogging. I started it as a Sunday ritual in my downtown St. John's loft. It wasn't even a blog then but a group e-mail. Mostly it was a story of something I went through during the previous week. Likely 80% of those stories were written from a humorous point of view. And the ritual was strictly kept. If I had house guests, I would do it up before going to bed. If I was travelling, I'd set aside a few hours to do it, no matter where I was.
Today I find it a more relaxed process. E-mails have given way to the current blog which I link to Facebook. If I go on vacation, I generally decide to leave the blog alone. If I have visitors, I pack it in until after they've gone. Stories still happen but at a much reduced rate. Now I primarily do short bits of poetry. And what was mostly humour based before is more nature based now.
I've always said Ottawa doesn't inspire me to write like Newfoundland does. The most inspiration I get here is found on hikes or snowshoe jaunts into the woods across the street from me. That is where the nature based writing comes from. I could write about work I suppose. But that is a negative, cynical subject much of the time. Not that I hate my work. I don't wake up in the morning dreading what I must do that day. But four straight twelve hour shift wear you down. And the most interesting things that go on in my office are things I shouldn't write about anyway.
Put together the off limits nature of my work with the fact that my days off are usually subdued and a time for regaining the lost energy from the condensed four days in the office... and it's not hard to figure why nature has dominated my written thoughts over the last several years.
They're Never There
They're never there
One hundred wooded journeys
All trips ending with them unseen
Invisibly by the thousands
Like long eared hopping bigfoots
More legend than real.
But winter treks see proof
As Sasquatch tracks are left to cast
So are their prints left in snow
The telltale pattern
Of bounding paws
All four together
As if left by one bizarre foot.
The tracks glimpse their world
Show highways through the forests
Alongside our trails
In places crossing over our path
Showing they've always been here
Just as close the rest of the year
When snow doesn't tell us
And they sit invisibly watching
As we pass by.
A jumble of tracks surround overturned stump
Going in to the uprooted earth
Telling us where they go each night
To tuck into their beds
Dreaming nightmares of passing people
As they invisibly quake in their tracks
And sweeter dreams too
Of green meadows to lose oneself in
Nibbling until the long summer day ends
We walk around oblivious
Eventual knowledge
Granted by winters white blanket.
And through all the delay, this is a milestone post for me. Six hundred blog entries. Times have changed with my blogging. I started it as a Sunday ritual in my downtown St. John's loft. It wasn't even a blog then but a group e-mail. Mostly it was a story of something I went through during the previous week. Likely 80% of those stories were written from a humorous point of view. And the ritual was strictly kept. If I had house guests, I would do it up before going to bed. If I was travelling, I'd set aside a few hours to do it, no matter where I was.
Today I find it a more relaxed process. E-mails have given way to the current blog which I link to Facebook. If I go on vacation, I generally decide to leave the blog alone. If I have visitors, I pack it in until after they've gone. Stories still happen but at a much reduced rate. Now I primarily do short bits of poetry. And what was mostly humour based before is more nature based now.
I've always said Ottawa doesn't inspire me to write like Newfoundland does. The most inspiration I get here is found on hikes or snowshoe jaunts into the woods across the street from me. That is where the nature based writing comes from. I could write about work I suppose. But that is a negative, cynical subject much of the time. Not that I hate my work. I don't wake up in the morning dreading what I must do that day. But four straight twelve hour shift wear you down. And the most interesting things that go on in my office are things I shouldn't write about anyway.
Put together the off limits nature of my work with the fact that my days off are usually subdued and a time for regaining the lost energy from the condensed four days in the office... and it's not hard to figure why nature has dominated my written thoughts over the last several years.
They're Never There
They're never there
One hundred wooded journeys
All trips ending with them unseen
Invisibly by the thousands
Like long eared hopping bigfoots
More legend than real.
But winter treks see proof
As Sasquatch tracks are left to cast
So are their prints left in snow
The telltale pattern
Of bounding paws
All four together
As if left by one bizarre foot.
The tracks glimpse their world
Show highways through the forests
Alongside our trails
In places crossing over our path
Showing they've always been here
Just as close the rest of the year
When snow doesn't tell us
And they sit invisibly watching
As we pass by.
A jumble of tracks surround overturned stump
Going in to the uprooted earth
Telling us where they go each night
To tuck into their beds
Dreaming nightmares of passing people
As they invisibly quake in their tracks
And sweeter dreams too
Of green meadows to lose oneself in
Nibbling until the long summer day ends
We walk around oblivious
Eventual knowledge
Granted by winters white blanket.
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