Stoners In A Dangerous Slime

These days, I would rather stab at the daylight until it bleeds darkness. With all due respect to Bruce Coburn, of course.

There is a season for everything here.  Right now, it is the beginning of both 24-hour daylight season and mud season. And something else is always just around the corner... 

When I first came to this place, in late-May of 2007, there were no stop signs in town. Soon, the company I was working for at the time decided put some up.   The people in town didn’t seem to need or want them, so what was the point?  To give the miners, so far away from home, a bit of familiarity?  In hindsight, it was all a bit silly. The signs themselves seemed out of place, unwilling to stay put.  While you can drill a hole into permafrost, it’s not like putting a fencepost into dirt.  The hole doesn’t close up around the inserted object.  It stays steadfastly wide open. The stop signs wobbled insolently.  They flipped defiantly like weathervanes in the wind.  They practically begged to be plucked from their holes.  And so, naturally, they were.  Yanked in the night, taken home as trophies, beginning a cycle of theft and replacement that went on for some time.  Every day, I got up, took an inventory of signs gone missing, and sheepishly reported the disappearances back to head office in Toronto.  Eventually, the locals gave up the fight against the invasive species, like our own particular cane toads (of Safety. everything in the name of Safety. always.).  The children of the town quickly decided to make vastly better use of them: target practice.  

And so, as the slimy mud leaves the road for every surface BUT the ground, revealing pebbles and then larger stones, Rock Season will begin.  The never-ending chorus of howling sled dogs that ring the town will be soon be accompanied by a hamlet-wide percussion section: children throwing rocks at stop signs (and occasional tin roof).  All night long.  And by night, I mean day.  And by day, I mean night.  You know what I mean, goddammit.

Sigh.

To everything, Turn, Turn, Turn. 

(Actually, speaking of that song: one of the first “big girl” auditions I went to (i.e. alone, without my mother in the room), I busted out the Byrds tune.  It was the first time I’d ever heard my voice alone, unaccompanied, in a big, empty room of adults.  It was thin and small, and I lost my nerve by the second verse (it’s okay, nobody knows the second verse, anyway).  I learned to hate the sound of my voice that day, to dread vocal auditions.  And as a result, I choked on every single one that followed.  Well, except for that one time that I ripped off an audition panel member’s toupee while belting out ‘Turn Back O Man’ from Godspell.  That one, I blew for other, very obvious reasons.  But that is yet another digression. I will embrace this turn of seasons, even though the very thought of the rock choir makes me grit my teeth.  I will go headlong into it, if only because it is a season closer to the finish line.  Maybe I’ll even throw a few rocks for good measure. While singing at the top of my lungs.)

Prodigal Sun

This goes on and on.  It never ends. The sun just never sets.  I can’t tell if I’ve been here one day, or one hundred.

(actually, I’m at day sixteen of sixteen weeks.  not that I’m counting. ohgodohgodohgod.)

Everybody likes the idea of coming to visit during the period of 24 hour daylight, but once you’ve been up for 72 hours with ATVs on a constant parade loop outside your window and children throwing rocks on your tin roof from midnight to 5 am, the novelty kind of wears off.  Like a 4 year old mangling a joke.

Knock Knock.

Who’s there?

The sun!

The sun, who?

The sun blazing through your windows at 3am!

(Har har.)

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

SUN!

Sun, who?

SUUUUN!!

Knock knock….

(Nooooooo!)

The Inuit articulate chronology in a way that makes particular sense this time of year.  Everything is counted backwards or forwards from the moment you’re in.  When talking about an event three days in the past, they say ‘today, yesterday, the day before, the day before that.’ Seamless, and somehow separate.  It probably explains why I just listen to the same albums over and over again, and am perpetually déjà-vuing my way through the days. I can’t begin to count the days until my break: five weeks and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that…

Every fall, the roads are sprayed with Calcium Chloride for dust suppression purposes.  The by-product of this process is that every spring, every inch of this town (and every soul in it) ends up covered with silky red mud. Keeping clean is impossible, so everyone just wears an outfit until it smells, itches, or becomes sentient.  I suspect that with a few more days' wear, my fur hat will fuse itself to my skull and start giving unsolicited relationship advice.  "He was a BASTARD to you! More coffee, more coffee!*" Or something.  And as helpful as my hat might be, I still look like crap.  Ugh.

And yet...I feel better than I have felt in a very, very long time.   Look at me, with the optimism and smiling and crap.  

I’ll find you in Hell after the Rapture, at the combo Tim Horton’s/Wendy’s/Esso.  I’ll grab the Double Doubles and the Dutchies. You get the napkins.  We’ll need a lot.  It’ll get sweaty in Hell, I reckon.


*kids in the hall reference.  there will be a test.

Bingo

Barney's wife: I'm going to bingo.  I need money. I can either sell your rifle, or the tv.

Barney (in slow, Baker Lake drawl): Well, I'm watching the teeeeveeee....

Sigh.

Thursday, May 12.

yesterday's highlight: overheard plane mechanic refer to me as 'that broad'. i think i can die now. and given that we have a town necrophiliac, i might even get some sex out of the whole thing.


today started off well, with me having to explain to a coworker why it wasn't appropriate for him to "joke" (incessantly) about how he has been sexually assaulting me in my sleep.


yeah, i'm back in nunavut.  

You Do It To Yourself, You Do.

Perhaps I should back up.  Seventeen months after I left, I am back in Nunavut.  I am back because I need money.  I need money because I took seventeen months off work.  I took seventeen months off work because I used to have a very intense job.  I signed up for a very intense job because I felt like I was stuck in a rut that I needed to get out of.  And sometimes it’s like when you’re stuck in a muddy ditch; you unnecessarily put the pedal to the floor and the next thing you know, you’ve smashed through the nice neighbor kid’s lemonade stand?  That’s me, in a nutshell.  When life gives me lemons, I wind up driving right through the lemonade stand.  In a very expensive, uninsured imported vehicle.  Or something.

So I’m back.  After being up for 48 straight hours, weepy and a little delirious, I made my way to the airport with 2 large bags.  These bags conformed to the weight restrictions laid out by the airline I was booked with—I’d been sure to research that.  What I’d failed to consider was the first leg of the flight, which was booked on a “partner airline”.  THEIR luggage allowance was exactly HALF of what I’d brought with me to the airport.  Here’s what you need to know: I’m beyond broke right now.  Like, hobo broke, and I couldn't cover the excess baggage charge.  So I had no choice; I hastily transferred fistfuls of socks and underwear from one bag to the other, obsessively weighed the thing down to the pound, and then left the rest.  Just left it there, in the airport.  I can’t think about what I’ve left behind.  It’s just stuff.  It is really just stuff.

The attendant on the flight north was warm and lovely, but had such a peculiar personal aesthetic that I found it difficult to look at her.  Her skin was the colour of caramel, which makes her sound exotic and sensual, but she wasn’t.  She had tanned herself to the colour of Wurther’s Originals, and chosen to make the tan ‘pop’ with a highly metallic silver eyeshadow.  To further contrast with her tan, she’d bleached her hair to the point where it was no longer hair, technically.  It was hay, so coarse from chemicals that it wouldn’t lay flat against her head.  Her ponytail stood out straight behind her, as though it were blowing in the wind.  All the time.

I recognized people on the plane, in the little airports along the way.  Their conversations sounded familiar.  It was like I’d never left.  In a good way.

I nearly tripped on a rabbit on my way to breakfast my first morning back.  I work in an airplane hangar, behind a plane, two loaders and a helicopter, in a heated box.  I wear my sunglasses when I walk home at 10 pm.  I’m homesick and more than a little heartsick.  It is a means to an end.  You should really come and visit.  And bring me some cheese.  And truffle honey.  And a custard tart.  

And Again

When I first came up to Nunavut, exactly 4 years ago, there were ptarmigan everywhere.  Early on, someone told me something about the ptarmigan that stuck with me, that I thought of at the time as divine advice: “Never let the birds see your face. You can catch a ptarmigan if you don’t look them in the eye.”  After a series of failures and disappointments, I felt like this was the romantic and personal advice I’d been seeking for some time.  Never show your true self, sneak up on the thing you want or fear most, and then you’ll be able to trap it before it knows what’s coming.  

I walked home tonight.  It was 10pm.  I was wearing sunglasses. The ground constantly shifts shape and texture this time of year, softening and melting and moving and freezing again.  While walking, I kept my eyes to the ground to ensure my footing, because I tend to daydream and trip with some frequency.  About halfway down the long road from the airport, I looked up.  15 teenagers were coming my way, all holding hands.  Stretched across the road like a chain of paper dolls, they ambled toward me.  Even from a great distance, I could see wide-open faces, huge smiles, wordless conversations. 

Whoever gave me the ptarmigan advice was wrong.  Always show your face.  Always be open.  Live in full daylight.  Love like the sun will never set.