What Do Women Want?

What Do Women Want?
Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

Substance, Shadow,and Spirit

“Substance, Shadow, and Spirit”
T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 BCE)

“Every one, noble or base, brilliant or dumb, clings tenaciously to
life, which is nothing but a delusion. Therefore, I have given voice to
Substance and Shadow to express their grief, and let the Soul or Spirit
resolve their problems by following the course of Nature. Those who
are concerned with this matter understand my intention.”

Substance to Shadow
Earth and heaven endure forever,
Streams and mountains never change.
Plants observe a constant rhythm,
Withered by frost, by dew restored.
But man, most sentient being of all,
In this is not their equal.
He is present here in the world today,
Then leaves abruptly, to return no more.
No one marks that there is one man less —
Not even friends and family think of him;
The things that he once used are all that’s left
To catch their eye and move them to grief.
I have no way to transcend change,
That it must be, I no longer doubt.
I hope you will take my advice:
When wine is offered, don’t refuse.

Shadow to Substance
No use discussing immortality
When just to keep alive is hard enough.
Of course I want to roam in paradise,
But it’s a long way there and the road is lost.
In all the time since I met up with you
We never differed in our grief and joy.
In shade we may have parted for a time,
But sunshine always brings us close again.

Still this union cannot last forever —
Together we will vanish into darkness.
The body goes; that fame should also end
Is a thought that makes me burn inside.
Do good, and your love will outlive you;
Surely this is worth your every effort.
While it is time, wine may dissolve care
That is not so good a way as this.

Spirit’s Solution
The Great Potter cannot intervene —
All creation thrives of itself.
That Man ranks with Earth and Heaven,
Is it not because of me?
Though we belong to different orders,
Being alive, I am joined to you.
Bound together for good or ill
I cannot refuse to tell you what I know:
The Three August Ones were great saints
But where are they living today?
Though P’eng-tsu lasted a long time.
He still had to go before he was ready.
Die old or die young, death is the same,
Wise or stupid, there is no difference.
Drunk every day you may forget,
But won’t it shorten your life span?
Doing good is always a joyous thing
But no one has to praise you for it.
Too much thinking harms my life;
Just surrender to the cycle of things,
Give yourself to the waves of the Great Change
Neither happy nor yet afraid.
And when it is time to go, then simply go
Without any unnecessary fuss.

Translation by Angela Jung Palandri, “The Taoist Vision: A Study of T’ao Yuan-ming’s Nature Poetry.” Journal of Chinese Philosophy. 15 (1988): 97-121.

From a Railway Carriage

Painted by the Littlest One complete with feathers and sequins.

From a Railway Carriage

Robert Lewis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain;

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And there is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart run away in the road

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

My little one loves this poem. It has a wonderful railway carriage rhythm.

My Magic Cottage

I have a Magic Cottage nestled in the bottom of my garden. It is a place of mystery and enchantment. Ideas float around in it just waiting to be tied down, inspected, and released again.

Once upon a time my Magic Cottage used to be a 12' by 16' dreary shed. Four walls with beautiful possibility. My dad brought them to life. Skylights, French doors, heat, a stereo, bookshelves, a comfy couch, and a workspace.

To disappear into my Magic Cottage is to emerge renewed.

A Little Bit of Chalk

A year or two ago, some girlfriends and I visited the Bill Reid Gallery of Northwest Coast Art in Vancouver.

Whenever I think of Bill Reid's art, I think of his sculpture The Raven and the First Men. I first saw this tremendous piece as a fourth grader at the Museum of Anthropology. It is carved from yellow cedar. The creation story it depicts has always stayed with me.

According to Haida legend, the Raven found himself alone one day on Rose Spit beach in Haida Gwaii. He saw an extraordinary clamshell and protruding from it were a number of small human beings. The Raven coaxed them to leave the shell to join him in his wonderful world. Some of the humans were hesitant at first, but they were overcome by curiosity, and eventually emerged from the partly open giant clamshell to become the first Haida.

- Bill Reid Foundation: http://www.billreidfoundation.org/banknote/raven.htm 

Clamshells are rather mysterious after all. If you pick one up from a sandy beach, you can never be certain what may be hidden inside.

Bill Reid's probably most other well-known sculpture, The Black Canoe, watches over the departures at Vancouver International Airport.

So what struck me at the gallery when I visited with my girlfriends those years ago was a teeny sculpture of a teaset. Small enough that I had to use a magnifying glass to view it clearly. The teapot, milk jug, and cup had been sculpted by the teenaged Bill Reid from a bit of classroom chalk and then carefully painted with his sister's nail polish. It must have been a tedious high school lecture.

Barbie and Me

Barbie and Me

She woke up and ran downstairs, jumped off the last three and came to a sliding stop outside her parents’ bedroom door.

Her ear to the door, she listened to hear whether they were awake. It was her birthday morning. She was seven today.

She stood there barely breathing, her heart flip-flopping just above her tummy. Soon her friends would be over. They’d play pass the parcel, hot potato, go- go stop. And there would be cake. And there would be presents. 

She thought about the last birthday party she was at. Her friend had been given two new Barbies. Maybe she would get her first Barbie today. She liked the little purple rubber shoes that her friend’s Barbie had and the matching purple handbag.

She heard a rustle from behind her parents’ door. One of them was definitely awake. She tapped on the door. No answer. She tapped again. “Snippy is that you?” It was her father’s voice. “Go back to bed it’s six a.m.”

She remained there for a moment, then, turned and scampered back up the stairs. At the top of the landing, she stopped and stood in front of the full length mirror. On tiptoe, she wondered what she would look like with purple heels. She picked up her mum’s handbag, put it over her shoulder, and returned to her tiptoes. She swiveled around and tried to wink at her self. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She smiled and tried to wink again. Then, thinking she heard her father moving downstairs, she de-tiptoed and snuck back into her room. There, she pulled a little mirror from her bedside table and continued to practice winking and smiling at herself.

Now, it was eleven o’clock and she was dressed in her favorite pink dress. Her mum had carefully tied her hair back so she looked extra pretty for her birthday.

Finally, there was a knock at the door. She flew down the stairs and flung the front door open. "Hi!" Three of her anxiously awaited friends had arrived. 

Together, they bounded up the stairs inspecting the presents with wild guesses about what they might be. Maybe the big one would be a Barbie? After they put the presents on the coffee table, they giddily ran around her house playing hide and seek and trying on dress up clothes until her mum called them to the table for hot dogs and cake.

At last, it was time for presents. They all sat in a circle and watched while she delicately peeled the cello-tape not wanting to rip the paper, wanting to prolong the moment. She opened a new T-shirt with butterflies on the front, new pencil crayons, and a new make your own necklace kit.

Pulling the paper from her last present she caught a glimpse of pink. Barbies always came in pink boxes. She pulled the rest of the paper and squealed. A Barbie! Her first Barbie. She looked it up and down. It even had little purple high heels. She hugged the box to her chest. ”Thank-you,” she whispered. Her friends were immediately reaching for it, but she didn’t let go of her new Barbie. She didn’t even take it out of the box. Not through all of the games and giggles. Not until at last they all went home clutching candy filled loot bags.

Now alone, Snippy returned to the mirror at the top of the stairs. Gently she pulled Barbie out of the box and untwisted the ties that held Barbie to the pink cardboard. She lifted her up and caressed her long blond hair. She pulled the little purple heels on and off and tried the handbag on each side of Barbie’s shoulders. She stood up and turned her self around in the mirror on her tip toes and smiled holding Barbie out in front of her so Barbie could see her own reflection. 

In the next room, her dad was sitting in the rocking chair. She brought Barbie in to visit him. She remained by his chair holding Barbie behind her back until he looked up from his paper. “What have you got there?” he asked lifting her onto his lap.

She brought Barbie out for him to see next to her face, “It’s Barbie,” she said.

“Hmm…” he took Barbie from her and wiggled her shoes.

“Careful dad! They’ll fall off!” She pulled Barbie back into the safety of her hands.

“Do you like her hand bag?” She asked.

“It’s very little,” he said. “What does she keep in it?”

“You know, keys and purses and pictures and sometimes her favorite book.”

“Barbie reads?” 

“Yup. She’s reading Treasure Island right now.”

“I didn’t know that blond girls liked to read.”

“They do. I like to read. I’m blond.”

“Well, I think Barbie might be blonder than you.”

 “Really?” she asked feeling slightly hurt, pulling at her hair to check.

“Yeah. She might be taller too. Look at her long legs.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause she’s an adult. I’m still little.” She said waveringly.

“Hmmm,” he said looking from her to Barbie and back again, “I think she might be prettier than you too.”

“Prettier?” the little girl’s eyes began to well up.

“Don’t you think so?”

“I… I don’t know.” Her voice was almost a whisper. Her body cringed inside. “I guess so,” she said. Her lip began to tremble. She climbed down from his lap, hid her face from him and disappeared toward her bedroom holding Barbie tentatively by the feet.

Later that night, after dinner, after the seven year old was in bed, her father went to take the garbage out. As he bent to tie the contents in, a pair of familiar little purple clad feet could be seen poking out from between the wrapping paper and sticky unfinished plates of cake. He pushed the mess deeper into the bag and tied it closed, walked outside, stuffed the bag into the metal can, turned off the lights and went to bed; unaware that his little girl was still awake upstairs peering into her little mirror with a flashlight wondering whether or not she was really pretty after all.

My Teapot

My youngest sister and I, many moons ago, visited a little teashop in Kerrisdale called The Secret Garden (I am drawn to all things so magically labelled, The Secret Garden is one of my all time favorite reads). After sipping a delightful afternoon tea, I happened to notice a marvellous teapot biding its time on a shelf not far from where we were sitting. Bright green with gold leaf and a whimsical tree growing on its bulges. Around the top was written 'Knowing Trees is a Lesson in Patience'. A perfect teapot. However, an expensive one. So we left the shop and I left the teapot to the realm of fantasy.

Only to have it find me. My sister had remembered the teapot and spotted it in a nearby teashop in White Rock. Imagine my delight when my wonderful sister, with the help of my brother, bought it for my birthday. We have enjoyed many cups of tea steeped in it since. It always warms me up.

If you are curious, my teapot is part of a collection called 'Now and Zen' and similar gorgeous teapots can be found at http://www.artables.ca/ .

Happy sipping!
Zinnia