trying to see how well the Sony H50 performs on a tripod doing portrait. I darkened this a bit much perhaps, a touch of sharpening for the eyes.
67, then 89, then 112, and 72, 75,
The oscilloscope shows the light green
Scratch of his heart beat.
The monitor is above his head,
On a special shelf, turned around
So he can’t see it from his bed.
I sit here Inside
The two curtained glass wall
And the open doorway of his room,
Which isn’t really a room at all,
The nursing station a few feet
Behind me in the centre of this unit,
The glass walls wrapped
In a ring around the station.
“I was reading about Canadians in The Star,” he says.
I nod my head.
“They’re in a bad slump, Dad.
It hasn’t been the same since Dryden.”
“Maybe it was him,” he says.
He says his words
In a strange slack way.
His chest didn’t explode.
There was a little pop,
A warning bell,
And he came in here to find out
What his body was muttering about.
But he’s piled on twenty years over the nights.
He looks like someone I never saw. before.
He’s scared and a little confused
And hating the place, and his body
That’s betrayed him.
And he never thought about death before,
Not like he’s thinking about it now.
He isn’t saying any of this In words.
I’m watching his hands
And the corners of his mouth,
And his eyes.
His pulse rate per minute,
The green number, winks, changing every second or so.
98, 110, then 73, and I keep the corner of my eye there
And watch the strange wiggle
Of his heart arrhythmia on the oscilloscope.
He told me that nurses
Have come running in
To ask him how he feels
When the rhythm scatters,
Green lines scratching
In a mad tangle on the glass circle
And the paper strips of the monitor in their station,
And he looked up from his magazine
And said, “Fine…. Why?” And they went back.
79, 84, 112, 78, 97, 93, 56, 57,
Winking green numbers
Plucking at my eyes.
“I think they’ll take the Cup this year.
But I don’t know how long It will last.”
“… with Pollock gone,” I finish.
We nod together two sages of sports,
Ready to hammer out the column
When Dunnell packs It In.
No trouble at all.
Talking normal words in this fish bowl.
Stepping around in this conversational minuet.
Twenty feet down the open hail,
The monitor alarm triggered,
The long wail of the machine,
And I slide my eyes
To the doctor, the nurses,
And the crash cart, moving fast.
“Lafleur isn’t right. Four games without a point.”
I hear the sound of the electric paddles.
Just like on TV.
“He’ll turn it around.
The defense are losing the games
For them,” I say.
97, then 59, 112,
Then 105, 99, 130, 94, 64, 68,
The green scratch is settled and regular. The half frame reading glasses
On the tip of his nose.
His eyes push toward my face.
My feet are on the ends of my legs, And I am sitting In the chair,
The way chairs are sat In,
Andy my hands are relaxed
Stuck In the pockets of my jeans.
98, then 92, I am behaving super-normally
Leaving the crying to him
When Mom visits, and to my sister most of the time.
93, 112, 68, they’ve gone back to the station.
They’ve got the guy’s heart restarted.
“That’s the third time today,” he says.
94 winks down to me.
Pushes at my face.
It feels like there’s a hot needle
Scratching his heart beat Into my face.
had one of those epiphanies last night late, very very late ….
It became clear that there were two things that I could let go and it would be best for me and for the things, if let go was what I was willing to go, so I cut them loose.
I feel lighter already.
there are lots of things that make life difficult, but a misplaced sense of responsibility lives near the top of things we could all do without.
I put together a book of photos in pdf format last night
called it A Third Glance
my only problem today was the funky earphone input for the TV on an arm that hangs over my chair. It sometimes gave two channels, sometimes mono one ear and most of the time, silence. Watched Da Vinci’s Inquest, which I think is a brilliant series and am still wondering how I missed it when it came out. Dumb guy, me, for missing it then.
shots from this summer in Victoria Harbour (new beach park with gazebo) Penetang harbour, and yellow field near Midland
I have been reading about former Alaska Governor Palin and bumped into this article where her emails were evaluated. She scored at the Grade 8 level using the Flesch-Kincaid readabilty test.
Readability level is something I used to consider in my technical writing work. Grade 8 is a good level. The experts concluded she writes at the level of a corporate executive. Clear, concise writing. Good for her.
I am working my way through an account of her terms as mayor of Wasilla, governor of Alaska, and as the Vice Presidential Candidate with John McCain. When I finish this first book on the topic I will find another and then after digesting all of that, I will lay out my take on this unusual politician.