Who knew poetry could be lucrative?

My ode to the bigleaf maple, entitled "Family Tree", placed second in the Earth Vision nature writing contest.

Follow the link to read!

This poem has now earned me a whopping $200.

Transcribing Truth

Please note: the full version, with photos, can be found here.

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In my hands I hold a treasure chest of words: my great-grandfather’s notebook. “Pow-wow,” reads the cover. Stoic Indians sit around a campfire next to a teepee, above the words subject and name. On the back, a multiplication table. This child’s notebook, fished from my mom’s filing cabinet last month, once felt my great-grandfather’s adult pencil. What golden prize waits within? I will transcribe every word.

I suppose it comes down to DNA. In the nucleus of each cell, coded in those entangled strands, lie threads of my ancestors—living and dead. My Norwegian great-great grandmother, who never accepted her son, Thomas, leaving the priesthood. After he married, she hounded Thomas and his wife, forcing them to immigrate to Canada. My kind and gentle grandma Bessie, who faced tragedy with great courage. And finally my mom, Dorothy: writer, social worker, feminist.

This thread of DNA has led to me.

Words shaped my mind earlier than most. The first book read to me—Richard Adam’s Watership Down—flowed from Dad’s tongue while Mom’s every heartbeat still gently jostled me within the amniotic fluid. Later, Mom cooed stories about animals and fairy tales with feminist maidens, while my dad told tales through flute and guitar. In kindergarten, too shy to fight for the train set, I abandoned toys for books.

What compels me to write? To lose myself in legend and share personal wisdom? Though I work in science—teaching students about microscopic cells and the vast biosphere—writing inspires me beyond any discipline. Yet my obsessive drive to create characters, narratives, even entire worlds is not enough. To archive and preserve ancestral stories is a commitment that springs from a well of curious habit. I have transcribed writings from three relatives—mother, aunt and great-grandfather.

As the third born of four sons, I feel the closest feminine ties with my mom, Dorothy, and her sisters—Betty and Chrissie. Only through transcribing their writings have I come to understand the three bookish goddesses nicknamed “sisti-uglers” by one of Chrissie’s boyfriends.

Mom raised me to love art. She put books—everything from The Iliad to Harriet the Spy to Aesop’s fables—on my shelves. She introduced me to foreign film—Fellini’s La Strada and Bergman’s Wild Strawberries. She nurtured every creative project I undertook: wall-to-wall mazes drawn across pin-feed computer paper, a filmed fantasy adventure in the backyard, and entering my first writing contest at age thirteen. While Dad held the role of ruthless editor (invaluable to me, if hard to bear), Mom was always the encourager. The one who says, “This is great! Send it out!”

I transcribed her manuscript first. Touching: A Family Love Story is filled with sex, cancer, death, tainted love, women-scorned—the six hundred yellowed pages contain everything my parents censored. In 2002 I found the manuscript languishing in the garage. Packing tape peeled from the flaccid box marked “Mom’s book.” As I picked up the hefty stack of papers, the clack of the typewriter instantly sounded from memory.

As a kid, that noise meant one thing: Do not disturb! My mom took refuge in the study—a room built by Dad, and later my bedroom—where she pounded at the keys. I remember the rhythm of the type bars hitting the paper, the grinding carriage return. Another finished line. She spat out dozens of pages each session, yet the silences meant even more. My budding eight-year-old intellect knew something about the artist’s mind. That sacred creative space. When I drew four-meter mazes, I tolerated no interruption. I can still hear Mom’s tone of voice, still see her piercing stare when I dared trespass. I possess the same fiery conviction. The only time I ever snapped at my girlfriend is when she peered over my shoulder while I wrote. To come between artist and art is to step between mother bear and cub.

Children do not witness their parents’ adolescence; they see them as mentors, life teachers that seem to shrink with time. Little did I know, as I set Touching on the desk next to my computer, the visceral journey that awaited. I discovered parts of my mother I had never met, parts almost too painful to bear.

On page one, Mom quotes Virginia Woolf: “The beauty of the world…has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish cutting the heart asunder.”

Next page Mom holds her sister Betty in her arms as she dies, and then sings to her mother in a Pincher Creek hospital. “For almost seven hours I sang her favourite songs and hymns and slowly willed her to die. It was a labour of love. I gave my mother death as she had given me birth.”

I soon realized that in digitizing her book, I would be swimming in the depths of my mother’s anguish and grief.

As I transcribed aged typeface to bits and bytes, I moved vicariously through 1983, a year where I played with Star Wars action figures. A woman I thought I knew—mother, protector, housewife—became daughter, sister, writer, pissed off feminist, frustrated wife. I was six when her world collapsed, her older sister and mother having died a week apart. One morning, ready for school, I remember Mom breaking into tears, clutching the walls for support. My maternal pillar crumbled before my eyes. Dad said we could stay home. But my brothers and I ran for the bus, eager to escape. Our home could no longer shelter us from the storms of reality.

One hundred-and-fifty-thousand words later, I gained a fuller understanding of Dorothy Anne Lee, all the layers of onion peeled back to reveal the hidden, fragile flower. Behind Mom was a woman with admissible faults and extraordinary resilience. A woman who kept breastfeeding even when her doctor said: ‘Beyond three months it’s pathological.’ A woman who faced her own breast cancer scare—then watched two of the closest women in her life succumb to cancer. Despite her heart being cut asunder, she found strength to carry on, to write her story and live her life.

At Aunt Betty’s 50th birthday party, my mom wrote a series of clues for the family treasure hunt. As she says in Touching:

Betty started this ritual over forty years ago. The rules had always been simple. The clues must be clever, brilliant and challenging. They must be difficult to decipher but not impossible. Betty had always been the most clever clue maker. Hers were rhyming couplets often with literary references.

Nelson [author’s note: Nelson is my dad] had the distinction after he joined the family of producing absolutely brilliant clues that defied all the previous rules as to rhyme and reason…once he just gave Betty a blank piece of paper. It took her an hour to figure out that it meant “empty space”, which referred to the empty space in the crawl space above her ceiling.

Twenty years later, for Mother’s Day, I wrote clues for Mom. I organized a treasure hunt, just as she had done for Betty on her last birthday. Mine were not as clever or erudite. “Frozen chest” led her to the freezer, “hot cube” to the dryer, and eventually “music-maker’s seat” to the piano bench. Inside lay the crisp white pages of Touching.

The journey through Mom’s book led fittingly to my indomitable aunt, Betty Lambert, English professor and author of seventy plays. “Brilliant, wise, larger-than life,” my dad, her ex-student, succinctly wrote of her. While on holiday in San Francisco, she fell in love with an African American law student. Within the month she realized she was pregnant, but he did not want to be a father. Betty decided to keep the baby and raise the child on her own.

When I was young and shy, her flamboyance intimidated me. During family visits to Aunt Betty’s house, I ran in the backyard and played with Golda, her golden lab. Only scattered images remain. Russian matryoshka nesting dolls. Black-and-white family photos on the mantelpiece. A huge painting of a potted cactus. How does one build a relationship from a six-year-old memory?

Years later, my mom introduced me to Betty’s plays. Jennie’s Story, inspired by true events, examines the ramifications of Alberta’s Sexual Sterilization Act enacted in 1928. This permitted sterilization without consent on those deemed unfit or mentally challenged. The young Jennie worked as a housekeeper for a Catholic priest. He seduced her. To ensure she would not become pregnant, he convinced authorities she was mentally challenged and took her to Ponoka to be sterilized. He told Jennie she was having an appendectomy.

I saw Under the Skin next. Based on a real kidnapping in Port Moody, the focus is Renee’s marriage to the cruel, ruthless John, and his terrible secret. John has confined the neighbour’s twelve-year-old to the bomb shelter beneath his workshop, where he sexually molests her. Renee’s subtle reaction to what her heart gradually knows to be true underlies the play’s stark theme.

These productions were my first exposure to Betty’s vision. Her humour, honesty, and moral fury surfaced from the intensely drawn characters. As a teenager I read her sole novel, Crossings, moulding my nascent life philosophy further. Largely autobiographical, it depicts her physical and sexually abusive relationship with Mik. I began to understand woman as victims of patriarchal society, but persevering nonetheless. I witnessed violence and oppression endured with tender strength and determination.

On my personal journey to discover Betty, this treasure hunt led me to the veritable dragon’s den: Simon Fraser University’s special collections library. In that temperature and humidity-controlled room lay forty boxes filled with Elizabeth Minnie Lambert. SFU had bought her literary estate. Scripts, drafts, journals, letters, lectures…I tore into the manuscripts voraciously, feeding off her words like a coyote in a chicken coop.

For months I returned, every week devouring another few boxes. I read her notes on making love, script drafts covered in red edits, stories of teenage heartbreak, letters to an on-again off-again ex-lover, and personal diaries that shied away from nothing. Betty was always a seeker of truth. And she shared her truth, no matter how shocking. In one entry, I found a reference to me as a baby—my colicky scream filled her with an overwhelming desire to strangle me with her bare hands.

The dialogue in Betty’s plays made evident her wit. The mountain of manuscripts and drafts revealed her unwavering drive. Her entertaining letters, lovelorn confusion, and desperation for truth all danced behind the words. The aunt who died while I learned to print and spell now became a fellow writer and teacher.

In tribute to her words, I designed an elaborate website referencing every single work she wrote, published or not. But my goal was accomplished. My Aunt Betty was no longer a stranger.

Betty was a writer to the bitter end. Even when blinded by brain tumours, struck mute by pneumonia, she printed letter by painstaking letter on her yellow pad: I want to write. Her last words were on that same yellow pad.

What is the final demand in life? she wrote to my mom.

“I don’t know, Betty. But I’m sure you do.”

She nodded and wrote, every letter a tremendous effort, More and more and more nostalgia. So my mom talked about their father and mother, their childhood struggles, their bonding as sisters, how much they had always loved each other. She talked until Betty took her last breath in my mother’s arms.

Only two of the sisti-uglers remain, and my path now leads me to the youngest. Like her mother and older sister, cancer would later claim Chrissie’s body. Letters offer her only literary legacy, but she was full of story. In early 2007, given months to live, she clung to photos and family stories. During my final visits, we dug through boxes of familial treasures. As she moved excitedly from one subject to the next, I scrawled names and dates on unlabelled pictures, often including a question mark. Like a sponge, I sucked in her wit-filled anecdotes told with her wicked sense of humour.

Chrissie knew life’s importance. Hardship, injustice, ailment, and grief all tried to sour her spirit. Yet at her core, Chrissie lived for and shared story. Like Betty, she craved nostalgia.

And now, in my hands, the notebook of my great-grandfather, Thomas Craven, filled with fictional stories. This past week I transcribed the first, untitled tale about a bully named Piggoh.

Why am I driven this way, to set in stone words of the dead? Respect for ghosts of generations past? Morbid curiosity? Or perhaps, by following those who came before, I hope to find my own path.

In the lumberjack camps, Piggoh preys on Jules, a French immigrant. Thomas himself fled England for Canada in 1896 aboard the SS Mongolian, to escape his domineering mother. She demanded he stay in the priesthood. Instead, he married Bridget McGrane, a sweet Irish colleen—poor, illiterate, half his age, and soon pregnant. Thomas’s mother got him fired from a university job and threatened to disinherit him. He would have come into Westwood, a stately mansion complete with tea house, vineyard, horse stables and dog kennels. But he cut the phantom umbilical by crossing the Atlantic and taking the surname Cooper.

Thomas bought land near Cowley, a remote town 150 miles south of Calgary. He thought the scrubland would be valuable when the railway went through. But the tracks were diverted. With a third child on the way, and their barren land worthless, he became desperate for work. This man, fluent in five languages and with degrees from Oxford and Cambridge, accepted the job of logging camp cook. Thomas delighted in working outdoors, concocting new recipes, soups, and—as it turns out—fiction.

The story of Piggoh and Jules is obviously inspired by his days in the logging camps. Thomas’s penciled, cursive writing makes every third or fourth word difficult to decipher. With patient diligence, I transcribed the thirteen-page story; Jules stands up to the bully with one resounding punch.

[Piggoh] lay silent and peaceful amid the wild flowers and fern like a fallen angel. Jules, uncertain as to what would now happen, stood ready. Would Piggoh rise and beat him up? If so, he would take it willingly for the pleasure of seeing his tormenter ‘hors de combat’. The fallen bully lay without movement, looking up into the face of the French youth with surprise and with fear plainly written on his face.

Then Jules returned to his work and his axe, feeling and looking like a conqueror! Piggoh’s companions left him to recover as he was able, for it is against the etiquette of the woods to interfere in a fight.

“What happened?” was a question put by the bully.

“You were knocked out in one blow,” he was informed. “Served you damn well right!”

The last story in the notebook is called “The Timekeeper.” Thomas played that role at the ill-fated Frank Mine, a job he took some years later. At 4:10 in the morning, April 29th, 1903, 90 million tons of rock fell from the summit of Turtle Mountain. The town of Frank was swept away in a thunderous wave. By chance, Thomas was absent from work that morning.

Christened Turtle Mountain by rancher Louis Garnett, the oral traditions of the Blackfoot and Kutenai aptly referred to the peak as “the mountain that moves.” Thomas wrote about the day stone fell like rain in his article “The Terror that Came in the Night.”

The mass of falling rocks poured down on the town below with unceasing and irresistible force from the summit of the mountain literally burying the dwellings beneath and their unfortunate inmates, who waking in terror were buried in their rocky tombs beneath the crushing weight of countless tons…we know nothing of the [cause]—all is conjecture. Only one thing we know for certain is that we were and are alive and thankful to be so.

My three ancestral writers possess such diverse telling of tales. I search for the common thread, the fitting motif. My great grandfather dealt with mines and lumberjack camps. Mom and Aunt Betty wrote feminist-driven memoirs. I write about rivers, Iceland, and life on other planets. Is there a link?

We all seek truth. The truth of the Frank Slide, the truth of my Aunt Betty’s abusive relationship, the truth of cancer’s devastating effects. My own personal seeds of truth germinate into reflections on Mother Nature’s spirituality, world travelogues, and insights from exploring an entirely alien perspective.

On a cellular level, my ancestors and I share the same threads of life. Yet Watson, Crick and Franklin determined DNA to be a double helix—I have only elucidated stories from my maternal strand. On Dad’s side, stories are hard to come by. One week ago, wishing to explore my other helical half, I visited my dad’s mother. My hidden agenda? Hearing tales from her eighty years of life. Her first response came as a joyful sound, “For Christmas of next year, I’m going to write out my life story.” I felt a warm shiver of anticipation. I coaxed her for a preview; she was eager to oblige. Pieces of my past fell into place.

“My father—your great grandfather—had golden locks.” Hence my bright blonde curls up to age five.

“In cross-country, my brother and I finished third in all the Saskatchewan schools.” Hence my love of long-distance running.

“I wanted so badly to be a teacher, but my parents could only send one of us to university. My brother got to go. I thought to myself, I’ll get married and start a family.” My grandmother married and a year later Dad was born. The other half of the puzzle began to fill in.

I was curious. “Grandma, are you going to use your old script typewriter?”

She shook her head. “I’ll do it longhand.”

I offered to transcribe her words. Said it would be my honour—and it grants me first reading rights.

With this future project of preservation on my mind, I left feeling more familiar with my paternal strand. DNA fulfills its vital functions—protein production, replication, growth—only after being copied and transcribed. Then its purpose is translated into physical meaning. At some point, I will stop transcribing to focus on my tale. Yet the remaining pockets of truth compel me to further unravel those familial strands. This cause is ultimately selfish. When my time comes, I will be well prepared. In those last few hours and days, when death’s shadow robs my senses one by one, I will have no shortage of precious family nostalgia to bring me comfort.

Lee Beavington
August 20, 2009

References

Beavington, Dorothy. Touching: A Family Love Story. (Unpublished manuscript).

Cooper, Thomas. “The Terror That Came in the Night.” Pincher Creek Echo, April 26, 1962 (reprinted).

Lambert, Betty. Jennie’s Story.

Lambert, Betty. Under the Skin.

www.bettylambert.com

www.leebeavington.com

Trekking in Evia

Dimosaris Gorge
Karystos, Greece

Tanya and I hiked the Dimosaris Gorge today near the souther tip of Evia, Greek's second largest island. The day started with a long, winding drive up a gravel road, which is sandwiched between Mount Ohi and the start of the gorge. This hike is hailed as the most beautiful on the island, with a trail bordered by luscious forest that winds, next to a dazzling stream, for a ten kilometer stretch to the ocean.

Bells guided us down the correct path. The cacophony of sound belonged to countless sheep, each with a large bell so owners can keep track of their movement on the camouflaging hillsides. As we moved through the herd the sheep scattered, wide-eyed, their fear of us greater than that of being apart.

Tanya and I moved on quickly, having little desire to disturb the fauna of the animated forest. But disturb we did. Basking lizards leapt off the path before us, by day's end I spotted hundreds. Two eagles feasting on a large, eviscerated toad took flight as we traversed a bend in the trail, shrieking their dismay at having to abandon their kill.

Dragonflies flittered off rocks next to the cascading river, looking for new perches. A snake--at least three or four feet long--writhed off the path and under a stump, trying to burrow its head into a darker and safer alcove. And finally, goats gave us a pitiful cry (while we rested next to the stream) stuck on a high mountain ledge with a light rain making their footing even more treacherous. Alas, two exhausted humans had little help to offer such lofty hooves.

This week I have been re-uniting with nature. After London, Paris, Rome and Athens, the untouristy and largely undeveloped island of Evia is a most welcome respite. I find being surrounded by living ecological systems is when I truly feel connected to both the earth and myself. I heard someone say the forest is their church; that I can admire. Thorny scratches, irritating bug bites, grimy sweat and aching leg muscles--they all are part of a most rewarding trek. In fact, without the trial and tribulation, experiencing the forest would not be the same. Getting scratched by prickly flora and bitten by tiny winged fauna is only natural. I admire my battle scars, as I call them, and deem the day more than well spent. Weary and worn with euphoric exhaustion, I look forward to the next trail.

Roaming in Rome...

A sampling of photos from Rome. Giant pizzas, fantastic fountains, Saint Peter's Basilica, and cafes next to colossal creations. As an aside, the entrance to the Vatican closed when we arrived, so we had to border-hop into the Pope's private country!

Enjoying Eclectic Europe!

Phew!

London, France, Italy and now Greece. I've often barely had time enough to breathe let alone write. Here are a few snippets from the adventures of the Mad Hatter and his three tea tarts:

London, England
Wandering along the River Thames. Jenn snaps photos of everything. I smile at her excitement and joy, despite the long flight that stirred more than butterflies in the belly. Mom and Tanya join us for part of the walk, then retreat for R&R at the hotel. Jenn and I trek onward, past Parliament, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square and Picadilly Circus. We get lost amidst the dazzle of lights, double deckers and winding ways of London streets. Buckingham Palace lingers royally somewhere to our left as we c0-navigate back to our hotel. It's nearly midnight, but, for the time being, jetlag has been deferred by the wonder and flavours of this foreign setting.

Corsica, France
Accomodation proves difficult, due to an--unbeknowest to us--Italian long weekend. We arrive on Friday night, can't find our car rental place (which we later find out closed earlier than usual, an hour before our ferry from Nice arrived). An expensive taxi ride takes us to Maloni Hotel, although we only have a single night reserved. At my request to stay five nights the owner, Alex, scolds me. "I'm booked until September!" He phones his friends in the morning and finds us a place just a few kilometers from the small town of Saint Florent. Picked up by our new host (who speaks next to no English) we go up a windy, pot-holed road with some trepidation. The place looks very green, while the stone building we are guided to looks small and weathered. Inside, complete with stove, fridge and washing machine, we realize we have stumbled across the best kind of sanctuary--the hidden and unexpected. This is why I don't like to book in advance, as such a discovery can't be found in Lonely Planet or Eurocheapo. Jenn, our talented translater, converses with the owners in French. They take us to a "sa-preeze" on the property: a swimming pool! Not bad for 80 euros a night.

Venice, Italy
After sixteen and a half hours of travel--bus, ferry, bus, train, train, train--Jenn and I stagger onto the Grande Canal. The waterway is a sight from another world, a mythical place where streets flow with water and gondoliers sing under the stars. Reflected orange in the current is the almost blazing full moon, hanging in the sky like a plump lamp, a beacon guiding us through the maze that is Venice to our hotel. We get lost. In fact, that is one of our goals on our four-day sojourn. Often, Jenn and I simply choose a direction and walk. Sometimes we end up where we started. Other times the map is our saviour. Yet always we stumble upon little treasures: a cat lounging on a bridge, a gelato shop for my daily fix, a choir singing in San Marco square, delectable vegetarian Indian food, and voluptuous Venetian masks. Our last night involves a gondola ride at night, along quiet canals, during which I spot a shooting star. La Dolce Vita!

...and now for something completely different

Europe musings...

Ran up the Eiffel Tower yesterday, then took a boat ride down La Seine. London was a quiet start compared to the hustle and bustle of Paris. Everyone seems to have a cigarette or cell phone in hand (sometimes both). No matter where you look, it seems you need to have a camera at the ready. I was in Paris eight years before, hence the deja vu while walking down streets at once exotic and familiar. Jetlag still lingers, leaving me in a surreal state while exploring one city of Europe after another. I have my three favourite women with me: my Mom, Tanya, and the lovely Jenn (aka Sola). We all took a sleeper train last night, and are sitting here in Nice amidst the sunshine, palm trees and baguettes. A ferry will soon scurry us over to Corsica, and the much needed quiet respite it will offer. Then onward to Italy!

Photos from Europe!

Here's a few photos to get things started...

bioflash: "Sacred"

Buddha beneath the bodhi tree.

Bare feet brushing against monastery stone.

The first piercing cry of a newborn babe.

A snow leopard atop the Himalayas.

Sunrays streaming through cloud.

Perfectly parallel vapour trails behind a jet.

A raccoon prying open the garbage can.

The last, raspy breath of a centenarian.

A cell phone ringing at a funeral.

Jesus bleeding on the cross.

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More bioflash can be found here.

bioflash: "Dreams (Reality)"

Harold always wanted to be a vet (greenhouse worker).

He dreamed of a log house with an evergreen forest as his backyard (suburban condo, supermall parking lot).

Start a family with a slim, talented woman, and have one son and one daughter (obese K-Mart cashier, five girls).

Someday, he would write that fantasy novel where gnomes rode winged camels (cathartic journaling regarding divorce).

Finally, well past his prime, Harold decided to think less and do more about what he thought (and, after a few years, his imagination converged with his waking path).

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More bioflash here!

bioflash: "Aroma Acupuncture"

The night Gerald the groundskeeper got fired from the zoo—“you’re overstressed,” his boss claimed—he decided to have some fun. Laughing with glee, he put hedgehogs with hippos, pit vipers with snow leopards, and naked mall rats in the leech pond. Peacocks got plucked by squirrel monkeys. Cheetahs and sloths changed their perception of time. The black panther knocked Emperor penguins around like bowling pins.

Gerald’s comeuppance finally arrived—never was there a more reluctant convert to Chinese medicine—when he got caught in the porcupine and hog-nosed skunk crossfire.

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More bioflash here!

One more pat on the back...

bioflash: "Bartleby's Return"

“You could flip burgers at McDonalds.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“My stag, this weekend, in Vegas!”

“I would prefer not to.”

“We can smoke in this strip club.”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Bottled water—half price at Walmart!”

“Britney’s singing on Broadway!”

“Our special today: no fat, ginger, grande chai latte with whipped soy milk.”

“Having an iphone makes everything easier.”

“The season finale of Survivor: Timbuktu is starting!”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Want to lead a simple life where your actions inspire community and growth?”

“That, I would prefer.”

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Bioflash found here!

Farewell, Paddy

Paddy (aka Paddykins or Padwon),

You were an old girl when I met you. Yet unforgettably cute and feisty with an indomitable spirit--and appetite. Your teeth were few but your experiences were many. I remember the time when our daily ritual involved me writing 2,000 words and taking you for an afternoon walk in Mokpo, South Korea. We managed 76,000 words worth of walks. I still recall the Koreans who were curious about you. You diverted attention from my long hair and beard to your white curls and adorable snout. The locals who tried to pet you didn't realize you weren't one to mess with. I can hardly blame you for snapping at them--I'd probably do the same if a stranger thrust their fingers in my face. You knew how to keep your boundaries, a lesson I'm still learning. Despite your size, you were the alpha-dog, keeping Xuxa (and Luna) in line.

Our adventures were many. That time we snuck you onto a bus, and didn't get caught until we arrived at the airport. Hiking around Alexander Falls on my birthday, carrying you in a bag over my shoulder. The low tide walk just outside White Rock. You made it all the way out to the marker (although you refused to go on another walk for days afterward).

Even though you could be a curmudgeon, you made your way into my heart. I miss you, Paddy.

Bioflash: "Water"

One oxygen atom and a pair of hydrogen.

Sparkling dew on a garden leaf.

Gentle rain casting circles on a lily pond.

The floating prism twisting colours into a rainbow.

Lenticular clouds capping a mountain range.

A billion individual crystal snowflakes.

Glaciers glowing blue as the ocean deep.

A river carving boulder into pebble.

A waterfall shedding mist as clouds of heaven.

A lake swimming with fins and fish.

An icicle dripping its liquid body into a driveway puddle.

White breath on a cold morning.

The well from which life sprang.

One oxygen atom and a pair of hydrogen.

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Bioflash found here!

Penticton: a poem

You can read, comment and vote for my poem, "Penticton", at the following location:

http://www.everydaypoets.com/penticton-by-lee-beavington

Cheers,
Lee

Wow!

Wednesday night, the Kwantlen Writers' Guild held their annual reading event, and also announced the winners of the creative writing contest. I entered two poems, and one piece for nonfiction and fiction, in hopes of placing in one of the three categories.

Beforehand, I was a little nervous about getting up to read in front of the 40 or 50 people present. So when my friend Tanya arrived, she promptly suggested that we dance in the corner where the music was coming from. Not a bad way to shake the nerves (despite being stared at by everyone in the room!)

My parents were also there. Reading three of my bioflash went fine, and after several other readings Sheila Hancock, the outgoing chair of the Creative Writing department, announced the winners of the contest.

"The judging was blind," she assured everyone. "For poetry, first place goes to Lee Beavington."

Needless to say, I was quite surprised. Poetry isn't my strongest suit, and I had just heard some very strong poets, such as Karen Ezra, give stellar readings of their work. Up I went to shake Sheila's hand and get a copy of the Kwantlen Writers' Guild journal, in which my poem appears.

Second and third place for poetry were announced, and then on to nonfiction. "In second place we have...Lee Beavington!"

Up I went again. Then fiction came, in which I held little hope, as I had submitted a fantasy-flavoured piece, and I assumed the journal catered to what some consider to be "literary". Sheila called out the winners.

"First place goes to Lee Beavington!"

Flabbergasted by this point, I went up and proceeded to apologize to the crowd. My current creative writing instructor (Aislinn Hunter--big thanks to her for organizing the event) called out: "Lee slept with all the judges!"

The annual creative writing scholarship went to my talented classmate Angela Kenyon (who also placed second in the poetry category). Congrats to her! Before they announced the winner of the scholarship, a short piece was read about each applicant, including me. My teacher, Zoe Landale, wrote the following, which was read by the incoming chair (and inspirational teacher galore) Ross Laird:

Lee Beavington is a writer with courage. Getting to the places which resonate with readers requires going deep into the places where we ourselves are uncertain, and shadows leap high on the cave walls. Lee is a person who cares about stories. He also has a great work ethic and goes back over and over his writing until it fairly gleams.

I've been beaming since last night.

Bioflash: "Meeting in the Aisle"

Twenty-three years—that’s the last time he had seen Vera, her face flushed and skin glowing. Now, she pushed a cart with fruit loops and spaghettiOs. A girl of ten or eleven, platinum blonde just like her mom, trailed after Vera.

He noticed her face, hardened somehow, the skin tighter. Softness is what he remembered; smooth cheek, supple breast. This gaunt mother gave him—her past life—a brief glance, an old building long-since torn down and built anew.

He watched her move away, rubbed clammy hands on a pant leg, and emptied his basket at the self-service checkout.

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Bioflash archives

Bioflash: "The Life of Blood"

Arteries and veins—our fluid freeways—provide a direct line from the lungs to every living cell. One red blood cell shuttles a billion oxygen in its donut-shaped disc, stacking capillaries with the breath of life. No DNA guides this cell. Born in the bone marrow, he is slave to a merciless heart. One hundred days later, broken and beaten, the red blood cell disassembles. A new car is made from his old parts, this vital transport racing along dilated vessels. And so blood flows with every beat, carrying life from lung to tissue, artery to vein, heart to cell.

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Bioflash archives

Bioflash: "Broken"

The bus from Williams Lake was late.

Stu sat in the idling car, waiting for his son. They hadn’t spoken in over ten years. What could he say? What possible comfort could this old curmudgeon offer?

The bus finally pulled in. Tim was one of the last to get off. Stu saw it in his eyes, and held back tears last shed twenty-nine years ago. Tears for his son’s birth. But this time, birth had taken two lives.

Stu said nothing and hugged his son hard. He held him for a long time, but he did not cry.

Bioflash: "Microscope"

This crystal ball waits in the biology lab, ever-patient in her mounting curiosity. Through her glasses the world is clear: a beaming, unblemished full moon. Lenses and light make the invisible visible, the tiny titanic. One dot resolves into two, one cell a bustling city of constant construction, movement and repair. To an observer, looking through a window at the building blocks of life, the small appears infinite, like God staring down at his divine elements, mesmerized by the miracle of his makeup. Thus, this optical opus blesses the naked eye with the power to gaze into creation itself.

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Bioflash: "Destiny's Fate"

“Don’t worry, be happy,” said Fate. “What will be will be.”

Destiny shook his head. “How can you say that? Luck is something you make.”

“Excuse me,” said Luck. “I was made by the divine.”

“I guess that makes me a heathen,” said Chance.

“Fortune favours the bold,” said Fortune boldly.

“You would say that,” Freewill said to Fortune. “It is the choices in life that are important.”

“Only the ones I make,” said Fate.

Destiny smiled. “And you make those choices because of me.”

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Bioflash: "Gravitational Waltz"

In her fullness the moon shines, touching water without touching, the gentle caress of a distant lover. Sunlight ripples on the ocean, solar rays reflecting off Luna—a mirror for a star.

Eternal waves slide over a shifting shoreline, tides drawn to the glowing sphere above. One circles the other in a coy dance, always reaching for what is out of reach.

The sea waits for Luna’s nightly visits. Sometimes she wears a crescent smile, or shows her wide, beaming teeth, and once a month she disappears completely. But the sea always waits. Luna gives her life.

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My writing companion this morning...

Bioflash: "Centrifuge"

The Great Beings lived above space and time. They saw universes the way a whale considers a grain of sand. One of these Beings became curious, much like a human scientist.

“Let’s spin a universe in a centrifuge!”

So he ground down a universe with a giant mortar and pestle and spun it at a trillion G’s. Stars settled near the top, comets further down. A dark pellet of iron and nickel—planetary cores—clumped at the bottom of the centrifuge tube.

Picking up his mortar, he cleaned out the crushed remains of the Milky Way and started again.

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Bioflash: "When Trees Fight Back"

When the trees decided to reclaim the planet, the great firs dropped cones onto human heads. Moss released spores full of bacteria. Sword ferns claimed their namesake.

But humans proved surprisingly resilient. Even falling coconuts didn’t deter them.

Flowers released hyperallergenic pollen, but could not defeat Benadryl. Angiosperms stopped producing fruit, but apples and oranges were replicated in laboratories. Finally, plants slowed photosynthesis. Carbon dioxide started suffocating the air.

Humans had only one choice. Give up their cars, factories and air conditioners.

Thus began, amidst a long and quiet verdancy, the Great Age of Green.

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More of Gaia's creations...

Bioflash: "Probability"

Thao’s teacher rolled the dice.

“Six!” Mr. Abaddon announced. “What’s the probability I’ll roll two more?”

Thao raised his hand. “One hundred percent!”

No one got the joke. Thao had always suspected his math teacher was the devil, hiding his horns behind that tweed hat.

Mr. Abaddon rolled twice more. Both sixes. “You’re right, Thao. I’ll see you after class.”

When everyone else had left, Thao walked up to the teacher’s desk. Mr. Abaddon looked at him curiously.

“How did you know?”

Thao shrugged

“Just a lucky guess? I want to show you something.”

Mr. Abaddon took off his hat.

A few photos from Saturday

What a Saturday!

First, I got to see my "Fading Firs" photo on display in the Surrey Art gallery "Earth Matters" exhibit. Then it was off to the Every Day Fiction anthology book launch, which features my story, "A Fungal Friend". Unfortunately, an hour-plus wait for the Port Mann bridge meant I missed the reading. But I did get to meet the other authors, and chat with Jordan Lapp for a good while. Besides being a founding editor of Every Day fiction, he is also a fellow Writers of the Future winner, and is an in-law of one of my co-workers! Small world. This might be the start of a beautiful friendship...




You can find out more about the Every Day Fiction anthology right here.

Two events this weekend!

This Saturday, January 24, I have two back-to-back artistic events. The first is "Earth Matters", an exhibition of photography at the Surrey Art Gallery. My photo, "fading firs", is one of those featured in the exhibit. The opening reception is from 2-4 pm.

Secondly, a story of mine appears in the Best of Every Day Fiction 2008 anthology. They are having a book launch at Spartacus books in Vancouver from 4-7 pm. There will be readings and book signings. (I won't get there until about 5 or so, due to the aforementioned above commitment!)

Here are the details:

Earth Matters exhibit
Opening Reception
Saturday, January 24
2-4 pm
Surrey Art Gallery
13750 - 88 Avenue

Best of Every Day Fiction book launch
Saturday, January 24
4-7 pm
Spartacus Books
684 East Hastings Street
Vancouver, BC

Both events are free. I hope to see some family and friends there!

Bioflash: "Sea Urchin"

Like a lotus the purple urchin perceives every direction as one. Spiny petals oscillate, omniscient antenna waving through salt water. His world moves over and through him, this keeper of the kelp forests. Seaweeds sing of Aristotle’s lantern, circular fangs that chew their lifeline. From prey to predator, otters portend doom, crunching echinoderm shells like eggs.

These shallow water Buddhists remain content. From stillness comes enlightenment. Their existence is a deep meditation—radial perception offers perfect symmetry. The urchin sits on the sea floor in prayer to Luna, pale God of the night sky, ruler of Mother Ocean’s tide.

Mother Nature: the ultimate artist

Last weekend I went up to the Sunshine Coast with my friend Tanya. Even in the dead of winter, Gaia's creativity isn't subdued. If anything, her artistry shines even brighter. Here are a selection of photos from her infinite and ever-changing portfolio:









You'll see two faces below, one by human hand, the other carved by time and rain.

Softshell on Every Day Poets

My poem, "Softshell," appears in today's edition of Every Day Poets. The interested can visit the above link, where you can read, comment and vote on my poem. Cheers!

Bioflash: "Presidential Moult"

The giant, eight-legged snakes descended on Earth in turtle-shaped ships.

“Take us to your leader.”

The humans did as they were told. They had no choice. Would these reptilian overlords eat the President?

The meeting took place at the White House. Naked alien scales brushed against the ceiling of the Oval Office.

“We have but one demand,” rasped the chief reptile. “Shed your skin so we can feast on the protein-rich moults!”

They noticed President Obama’s hesitation.

“Shed or your species dies!”

“All right,” Obama said, taking off his jacket and shoes. “I hope you like leather and wool.”

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