Alleyway and Cape Cod

Snowdon Alleyway - Stillman & Birn Zeta, Winsor & Newton halfpans.

Snowdon Alleyway – Stillman & Birn Zeta, Winsor & Newton halfpans.

Cape Cod - Stillman & Birn Zeta, Winsor & Newton halfpans.

Cape Cod – Strathmore Windpower Cold Press, Winsor & Newton halfpans.

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The view from here

You cannot see the mountain from the top.

Not an earth shattering observation, but one which is easy to lose track of. I haven’t seen the mountain in a long time. It sometimes takes someone who isn’t standing right with you to see the mountain for you and describe it to you. Even then you might not believe that you are on a mountain. Why should you? You can’t see it.

Donna described my mountain to me a few months ago. I didn’t see it. Didn’t want to see it. Still don’t really want to see it, but I got a better understanding of it over the last few weeks.

Our daughter’s health problems are in remission and things seem to be going well. Parent’s sometimes get the feeling that their children work a tag team to keep the pressure on and such is the case in our family. Just as our daughter got out of hospital our son was on his way there. The past few months, most especially the past two weeks, have been a lot of effort and worry to see things going in the right direction. He is moving back home tomorrow which will be good for him. There is the mountain that Donna observed and I tried to ignore: I’m a parent, first, foremost, forever.

One of the things that I think Donna likes about me is my steadfastness. It’s also one of the things which can be most annoying about me and inevitably most disruptive to any relationship which involves children. It’s not that our children are young, they aren’t, but they aren’t independent adults yet either, and need more than the average amount of care. I do my best for them, but in doing so often neglect Donna who does her best for me. It’s not hard to imagine that no one likes to come second, and no one deserves to be an afterthought on any day of their life.

My mountain, Donna observed, is something off of which I will not come because I cannot and she won’t join me because she cannot. She understands that I have to be there, that’s what parents do. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier on either of us but it is much harder on her. Being aware that you are standing on a mountain doesn’t change the view, only what you think of it and an awareness of how unfair things can be for those who care for you.

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A little painting

The painting I’ve been doing this week has been all about repainting the bedroom. It can be hot work during a heat wave but it’s done now.

Last week I finished a watercolour that I am going to use as the reference for my first effort in casein. Of course I’ll do a colour chart first but after that I’m going to try plunging in with casein and see how it handles. Here’s the painting in its watercolour form.

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Forced Sale

Since we bought the house the valuation on it has increased almost two hundred percent to roughly three times the value of when we bought it. On the one hand that looks great on paper because how many investments have paid off at that rate over the last 18 years? Not many, especially if you’re with Investors Group.

The flip side of that is that when we bought the house we were a two income family with two children. Fast forward two decades and we are a one income family with two adult children. Our son is out of the house which means that he is wholly independent and never taps me for cash…exactly the same way I was at his age…whoops, had to replace my computer monitor – my nose grew so fast it broke the screen.

Our daughter still lives at home and goes to school but, according to all levels of government, she is full independent and self-sustaining and paying her own way in the world. What that means is that all those little benefits of being a parent have dried up, all the little tax breaks, all the little payouts that help offset costs over the year are all gone.

Single, one income (well two if you count the second part-time job), house at triple the value of when it was purchased, untenable.

This works out well for the City of Dorval. I cannot possibly afford the taxes on my house any more so they get to get rid of a long time resident and bring in someone who will likely build more value into the house and increase the valuation even more. No one at the city cares that the valuations are outstripping the ability of some home owners to pay the property tax. What the city cares about is the increase in city coffers which are fairly bursting at the seams. To put it in perspective there are about 20k people living in Dorval and the city budget is about 122 million dollars. Right next door with a population of 35k is Pointe Claire which has a city budget of 130 million dollars. Almost twice the population but only 8.5% larger budget. Hmmm.

The long and the short of it is I have to sell. The mortgage is up for renewal in February so I plan to renegotiate it at a monthly rate and put the house on the market.

In my own defense I can say I hung on as long as I could. Other than the mortgage I have no debt. After Lynn died I made certain to get rid of every last dime of debt we were carrying because I knew there would be little to no wiggle room in the future. It turns out I was wrong. There is less than no wiggle room. I thought that if I managed to keep the mortgage to 12 pays out of 26 I’d be able to manage. For a little while there I was right.

I haven’t lived in an apartment for a long time and our daughter never has. So it’s going to be an adventure of paring down what we have and living in a different environment and, like as not, a different city – Ville Emard appeals to me and so does Verdun. We’ll see. In the meantime here are my most recent efforts at escaping from reality into paint.

Musings of a non-smoking man

Musings of a non-smoking man

Night Bridge

Night Bridge

Kodak Moment

Kodak Moment

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Most recent

Just proof that art is still being produced. 🙂

watercolour painting by d. bernicky

Papaya King – NYC

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Who still reads this!?!

It was a little bit of a surprise the on Wednesday when a message showed up in my Facebook messages under the Message Request tab (the one that doesn’t go red but stays pale grey even when a message comes in). Laura and her husband Mitch, friends of Lynn’s from theatre days, had messaged that they had a bike they were not using that our son could have. At first I said no because I thought it was a loan and our son can be very hard on his bikes because he rides in a very urban environment – lots of curbs, pot holes etcetera – but the offer was for a gift of said bike. Wow! So it was off to their house with our daughter in tow to pick up the bike. Laura and Mitch have three kids two whip smart girls, one who just finished her first year at one of Quebec’s best high schools with an 86% average, another who will be heading to the same school soon and a little titian haired boy who redefines enthusiasm and persistence. It was nice to see them all again and the bike, even if it had been “gathering dust” as they put it, is wonderful. Our son was very happy to hear about it.

Our son's new bike courtesy of Laura and Mitch

Our son’s new bike courtesy of Laura and Mitch

While this was happening Morrie emailed me to tell me that he too had a bike that he was willing to pass along to our son. It was raining bikes.

Very cool, very generous, and very eye opening. I really do forget sometimes that there are people who read this page, for that I am thankful and for their generosity I am equally thankful.

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Jack Russell

Once upon a time, and for all I know it still goes on, there was a “sport” called Ratting.

The premise was simple. A walled pit would be filled with rats. Punters would be encouraged to place bets as to the the number of rats that would be killed by a particular dog during a particular time period. Once the bets were closed a Jack Russell Terrier was dropped into the pit and the blood bath began. Rats would climb over each other, attack each other, all in the effort to evade the Jack Russell. The bookies never offered odds on the rats killing the dog. Rats do their best to look out for themselves and the dogs always had someone even bigger and more powerful to protect them.

Our son’s new bicycle was stolen. It’s a hard hit he uses the bike to get to and from work. It was locked up properly to a bike rack outside a metro station with security cameras and it was stolen. No doubt the person who stole it was poor and this is how they support themselves. There is always a need and a motive. I get that. What never fails to surprise me though is how we, the poor, behave like rats every time. We’re so predictable that it must be an unending source of entertainment for the rest of the universe.

The trouble of course is that he still needs to get to and from work. By foot that’s eight kilometers each way while we save up for a replacement bike. I’m looking for a second hand bike on Kijiji and Craigslist but have my concerns about buying bicycles from people who, like as not, are selling stolen goods. I messaged someone this morning about a bike asking two simple questions when and where was it purchased. Still no reply.

One day maybe we’ll all wise up and realize there are more rats than there are Jack Russells or handlers for that matter. At the very least we should stop attacking each other.

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A new poem

Wisdom

In dreams
She arrives
In need’s precise moment.
In day’s light
She is ever
Life’s beloved straggler.

– denis bernicky

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Choosing a journal – long form fiction

My first choice for getting Concrete Memories out into the world was The Fiction Desk. I thought, and still think, it would have been a good fit. A story about a war bride in an English literary journal. They didn’t think so. Which is okay – that’s their job, to know their audience. Mine is to find one.

To that end I’ve decided on the next submission. The Alaska Quarterly Review is one of the few giants left standing. Adirondack, Blackbird and of course Tin House. There aren’t many left and there are even fewer that will accept a short story of almost eighteen thousand words. The Alaska Quarterly Review will consider fiction that length. They aren’t alone there are exactly 33 journals of which I am aware which will accept fiction of novella length. One has already rejected the story. I’m not put off by that because the feedback from almost forty readers total has been uniformly positive. Even with my own inner critic nattering away at me the weight of the positive feedback is enough to convince me that I’ve done something good with this story. The trick will be to find an editor who agrees with me enough to give it the pages it needs.

The Alaska Quarterly Review. There were 32 possible places to submit: why them? It probably sounds odd, but the method of submission. Snail mail. Old school. Print up your story. Put the story in an envelope with a cover letter and SASE for the rejection slip, address it, put postage on it and drop it in the post. Wait for the SASE to come back.

Back in the day when I was going to set the literary world on fire with my genius and turn of phrase that was how it was done. Things change of course. I don’t use an Underwood manual typewriter with Elite script keys, or sneak into the secretary’s office at Lonergan College to use her IBM Selectric at lunch time. The paper has changed too. Fifty pound bond used to be a big expense for me, now it’s something I can pick up on the way home and while not cheap 500 sheets will keep me in paper for a while. Postage has gone up but not nearly proportionally with income over the years. The whole idea of mailing off a story has a nostalgia attached to it that made a submission to The Alaska Quarterly Review an inevitability. It would be nice to get a letter back saying that they accept the submission for publication but odds being what they are I will be happy enough to receive the inevitable, impersonal, form rejection. The writing life being what it is you have to take your pleasures in whatever form they come.

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Daddy needs a new pair of shoes

My income tax returns were filed the first week of March. Revenue Quebec received it, processed it and issues the refund owed me in less than a month. Revenue Canada on the other hand has been taking their time. First up was a “preassessment notice” which called into question educational expenses. That’ll teach me to go back to school at my age. They disallowed a bunch of education expenses that our daughter had because they were independent study and they were not included on some slip or another that the college has to issue. Okay, fair enough, the expenses didn’t qualify. It wasn’t a big difference but it was a difference. I’m good with that – I only want back what is mine. That was almost five weeks ago now and still no refund.

Revenue Canada has it both ways. When they owe you money they can take as long as they want to pay you back and you are not entitled to interest except from the end of the filing period regardless of how long they’ve had your money. If you owe them money it is due on the day the taxes were filed and interest starts to accrue immediately. In my limited view of finance it seems like the government gets to collect and hold on to money that is mine and gain the benefit and interest of using it for as long as they want before generously refunding it to me. The Canada Revenue Agency has a reputation for ruthlessness which has played out in the press a few times so it is only the very rich and powerful who ever take issue with the way they do things. That leaves me waiting on my own money and loath to ask what’s going on because, well, they’re the CRA and asking them questions is akin to being a nail sticking up from the floor.

I’m looking forward to receiving my refund. There are exotic plans afoot. Quite literally afoot. I need new shoes. I have a pair but they are at the end of their life cycle having spent a little over a year wearing them to work,as winter boots, hiking boots, running shoes and Sunday go to meeting best. Other exotic expenditures include paying the oil bill, paying the electric bill, buying groceries and splurging on a couple of new paint brushes. I plan to live large once I get off the curb.

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