eudaimônia

Get out of My Head!

2010-01-28T08:54:00.000-08:00

OK. This poem came out of nowhere on the way home. Sometimes I wish I had a digital recorder so I could talk into it and save the real essence. This is all that was left when I got home.

Get out of my head!
We make about as much sense
as a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich.
I'm tangy and full of zip
You on the other hand are so very smooth
(And you don't even know it)

Mind you, peanut butter on a spoon
can be enjoyed for hours
(Tempting - yes)
But would Aristotle approve?
I don't think so

Get out of my head
Who said you could go in there anyway?
Not me. Not me at all.
This head only has room for books and papers
and my family and friends.

Anything else and i'm likely to
burst.
Have you ever seen a jar of mayo smash on the ground?
That'd be me.

Step around please,
you don't want to cut your feet.

Tragic heroes among us: Clay Aiken? Please tell me it isn’t so.

2009-12-15T11:32:00.000-08:00

What is a tragic hero?

I did a very informal (and limited) poll among friends, family, colleagues, and random people on campus. I asked them to name the first person to come to mind when they thought of a tragic hero. Some of the replies were "Buddy Holly, a hero in the music world, taken from us too early," "Terry Fox, cancer took him before he could find a cure," "Clay Aiken losing to Reuben Studdard on American Idol," “Adam Welsh being rejected in the first season of Average Joe,” and more of the same. What is the common thread in these names? It is a list of people whose fate is determined by others. What would Aristotle think of this list in relation to the term, tragic hero?

According to Aristotle, in Poetics, a tragic hero is one whose downfall is caused by his or her own actions, or inactions, resulting in terrifying or pitiable events. This type of action is best seen in someone who “act[s] in ignorance, but recognize[s] it afterwards” (19). A true tragic hero should be one of noble birth, good character, life-like and consistent. In order to create a sense of catharsis, that through thought and reflection, we can learn something about ourselves, a tragic hero must be one who is not an evil or immoral person. Ancient Greek playwright Sophocles presents such characters as Oedipus or Creon who are generally good people that make a bad decision, and in each case, the bad decision results in death and destruction around him. Aristotle suggests that someone who hears a tragedy of this sort will “shudder and feel pity at the outcome” (17) even if he or she did not see it happen directly.

Do the above named people from my limited poll satisfy Aristotle's idea of a tragic hero? Do we learn something from them? While I can admit that someone like Terry Fox was a hero, he was not a tragic hero according to Aristotle.

Take, for example, the recent tragic events experienced by Clare Bekkers. One snowy evening last December, she got into the car with her four children and ended up causing a 7 car pile-up, resulting in the death of two of her children. Perhaps she wasn't of noble birth, but Aristotle suggests that a tragic hero is someone who is like us, and who we can look up to. I am sure her children looked up to her, as well as her friends and family, who still defend her actions. Further, Aristotle states that “such a person is one who neither is superior [to us] in virtue and justice, nor undergoes a change to misfortune because of vice and wickedness, but because of some error, and who is one of those people with a great reputation and good fortune” (16). Bekkers was blessed with four beautiful children. She made a wrong decision (an error) to drive with her four children in the car on a winter evening with terrible driving conditions. Forget that she was allegedly drinking. (I suggest we not include it because it has not a proven fact). She had many other choices even without considering that. Should she drive in these conditions? Should she put her children in the car? Should she pull into the fast lane at that particular moment? Clearly, when she was crossing into the oncoming lane, she must have had an epiphany that there were other choices she could make. Did her tragedy happen by her own actions? She lost two children that day. Who would wish that upon anyone? Did we learn something from it?

Aristotle also states that a true tragic hero’s story is not about “things that have happened, but things that may happen” (12). This may be true; however, he later admits that a tragic hero can be evident in history “for there is nothing to prevent some of the things that have happened from being the sort of things that may happen” (13). Let us hope in the case of Clare Bekkers, that the next mother, who faces similar decisions, chooses differently. That is exactly the sort of thing that the experiences of tragic heroes should teach us. What, then, have we learned in the case of Clare Bekkers?

There is a blog online called "Education For The Driving Masses"[i] where we can see some of the evolution of thought around the Bekkers case. This blog was created to provide driver education, news, and prevention of traffic incidents. Of interest are the user comments posted below the Bekkers story. Whether the comments were judgemental (“I certainly hope the driver was not trying to pass cars under these conditions” or “the sensible can rule out the weather conditions but speed and alcohol…with your children in the car??” or even “How sickening that a mother could do this with children in the car”) or supportive (“bless those little babies” or “what does anyone expect to gain from putting this mother through a criminal trial? She paid the ultimate price when she killed her two children through her own negligent actions”), the major theme throughout the comments is one of pity and terror on behalf of the mother. One comment that sticks out for me was posted by Paul, “What parent doesn’t want to grab their kids, hug them, and promise to do their best. I know I do.” If a tragedy has to happen, this is the type of learning that should come from it.

If we believe the real tragic heroes to be Clay Aiken and Adam Walsh, what is it that we think we are learning from them? That it doesn’t matter what we do, our fate is already decided for us? I hope this is not the case. Let us learn from the real tragic heroes among us, so that ultimately, we can reduce the number of tragic heroes among us.

[i] http://www.educationforthedrivingmasses.com/2008/12/breaking-news-two-children-dead-after.html

An Ask for Asks

2009-12-06T12:40:00.000-08:00

I'm looking for some help in compiling a "portfolio" of written ask and answer advice. I'd like to propose the idea for an "ask kim" type of column in viu's newspaper. It might even be an ask Kim and ?? and we can offer a male and female perspective on the answers. I've asked someone to join me possibly, and he's thinking about it.

Or, at the very least, I can have some fun and offer some advice during this compilation period. If you prefer to submit your question "anonymously" you can send to my email and I will remove your name when I post here.

Don't hold back. It seems many of my friends are drawn to me for advice. Perhaps because I am just so amazing with that sort of thing (hahahaha) or, because I am so darn funny (and modest, obviously)! If you cant think of something you need advice with, you can post a memory of previous advice that I've offered and has worked?

Dating/relationships, money, credit, family, friends, ethical dilemma? what do you need advice on?

An Argument by Analogy - as proposed by my 13 year old son

2009-09-30T13:49:00.000-07:00

An argument by analogy - as proposed by my 13 year old son.

Background information: I have two sons. Brandon is 13, and can be referred to as "brilliant, but lazy." (I use this term respectively: it is one of my favourite quotes from Spiderman 2, spoken by Doc Oc.). He has been fluent on the computer since before he turned 2 years old. At 3 he could read, and count a pile of money (which I was told was a difficult concept for anyone under 6). Regardless, he is very smart. Jordan, who is 10, is the creative one. He has written numerous short stories, painted some elaborate pictures, and has recently penned some amazing poems.

Math comes very easy to Brandon, and not so easy to Jordan. Last night Brandon was complaining about the amount of repetitive homework for his math class. He said he felt it was needless to do so many exercises on the same concept. I explained that many students, like his brother, need practise to understand math concepts. He still felt that he should be excused from his homework, and this was his argument:

To Jordan, learning math is like looking at a picture that is behind glass. The glass is full of smudges, and Jordan needs to slowly wipe away all of the smudges. Sometimes he needs help to wipe it away, but he does need to take it slowly so that he doesn't create new smudges. Once the entire glass area has been cleaned, Jordan can understand the picture beneath (the math concept).

To me, (Brandon), learning math is also like looking at a picture that is behind glass. However, the glass on my picture only has a small smudge up near the corner. Why do I have to clean the rest of the glass, when I can already clearly see the picture underneath it?

Dreams/nightmares…the ones that make you go "huh?"

2009-09-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

I can remember as a child having numerous nightmares. Like most kids I knew, in most of my nightmares, I was getting chased by some monster (imagined, or real – like my sister –haha) while unable to get away. I couldn’t scream because no voice came out; I couldn’t run because the atmosphere appeared to be made up of a consistency similar to molasses.

As I got a little older (say 10 years old) I realized I could fly in my dreams. If/when I was ever really scared, I would say to myself: “if I am dreaming, I should be able to fly my way out of this.” And it worked! I upped the ante when I would have dreams of drowning by asking myself a similar question, but taking the risk of ‘breathing” under water. And that worked, too.

Of course I also had the nightmares of showing up for school with no clothes on. In high school I dreamt of showing up without my books, not knowing where my classes were, and then on top of all that, realizing I was naked as well.

Add another few years until I was about 20, and my nightmares changed. In my waking life, I was working with a man that I really did not like (let’s call him John). I do not like the word “hate” because it is so harsh, but let’s say I was not particularly fond of this guy in a very big way. Regardless, I would dream about him. Sorry to disappoint some of my readers, but these were not sexual dreams, although they were very intimate. In these dreams I was VERY fond of John. Intensely. But they were nightmares because in my waking life, I really couldn’t stand him. He was very mean to people, needlessly, and couldn’t even be considered a “bad boy” that could attract women looking for that. When I would awake from these dreams, the fondness would still linger. In its own way, this was similar to still feeling frightened upon waking from a nightmare. I worked with him for many years, and it took another 8 months or so after leaving that job for the dreams to disappear. (Funnily enough, I ran into him at the movie store one time about two years ago. I walked up and said hi. He grunted a quick hello and walked away. Still a winner after all of these years – haha).

Life went on. I had a baby, and dreamt that I would forget my newborn at the grocery store in the shopping cart. (Ironically, years later, I did almost leave my second son at the grocery store. I walked out with the cart, talking to a friend, and realized when I stepped outside that my four year old wasn’t with me. I ran back inside and he gave me a dirty look and said in a very mad –and very cute- voice “don’t ever leave me again, mommy”). These dreams slowly faded, too.

In 2005, my ex left me. Long story, I won’t get into here. Although it took a while to get from “why did he leave” to “thank you for leaving” I did eventually get there. Around the time of that “change of perception” I had a dream that he tried to return home. He showed up with a big truck and started moving everything into the house. I can remember slumping onto my couch in my dream and yelling, “Noooooooooooooooooooo” like they do on movies when someone dies. **Dan, I cannot imagine you’ll read this, but if you do, please take no offence!!** Anyway, even though it was a nightmare, I woke up laughing from this one. And realizing that my change of perception was genuine. It was at this point that I was able to establish a relationship with the "other woman", whom I now love as part of our family :)

Flash forward to today. I’m dreaming about someone again (let’s call him Jack). This time it’s not really a nightmare, because he’s not a bad guy (like in the passage about “John”), but it’s distressing because I know in my waking life that I have no intention of being with him. Again, these dreams are intimate (but still not sexual), I am very fond of Jack, and when I wake, that fondness lingers a while. The hard part about this is that when I see him, I almost get nervous around him. (What am I, 16 years old again??). I am not fond of this uncomfortable feeling, and I have to strive to hide it. I hardly know this person in real life, but he is consuming my dreams. How do I get him out?

Do you have strange dreams about people or places that surprise you, and make you say, “Huh?”

Don't drink & type

2009-08-24T22:55:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you have heard of a few of the following:

1. Drink & Drive: SO not good. Don't do it folks.

2. Drink & Dial: a friend of mine does this a lot. Goes out for a few too many drinks, then calls up her ex and tells him she wants him back. Don't do it. If you are inclined to do it, have a friend unplug your phone before you go out.

3. Drink & Dance: Mmmmmmm. with the right person, this can be very nice. Especially if he is wearing sweatpants (*wink*)

4. Drink & Type: This can be similar to #2, but can be fun as well. For instance, I know a few friends who are WAY funnier when they drink, plus they let loose a little more. They can send d*mn funny emails under the influence. But keep in mind, sometimes if you drink and type, a simple sentence like "you are hot" can look like this: "yoadsf dsafa hoert". Remember, SLOW DOWN and use the backspace button. It will help cover your steps. But be careful, because the enter key is awful close to the backspace key. ;)

Have you done the drink & type before? Or received a "drink & type" email that made you laugh out loud (or cringe)?

and that's The Ugly Truth...

2009-07-30T12:45:00.000-07:00

And that’s the ugly truth…

I went to see the movie, “The Ugly Truth” the other night, and although I laughed myself almost out of my seat, I was also a little saddened. Don’t get me wrong. This is a hilarious movie. Some parts are over the top in their crudeness, but I don’t think the movie could have been the same without it. The dynamics between the two main characters reminded me somewhat of the two main characters in “He’s just not that into you.” Here was Gerard Butler, offering dating advice to the beautiful news producer, on how to land a doctor, not unlike the advice handed down by the bartender to the desperate girl in “He’s just not that into you.” Shortly into this movie, everyone knows that the movie producer and Butler’s character will end up together, but we aren’t really sure if it will due to the taming of him, or the raunchifying of her. The sad part is that there was nothing wrong with the doctor. He was a nice guy, but everyone cheered for her to end up with the crude, unkempt Butler. Why is that?

Why do women feel the need to be with the bad boys? Is it because Holywood makes them attractive, and has them “change” before our eyes in a matter of one hour and thirty five minutes? Bad boys don’t normally change, and if they do, its not because you wanted them to.

The reason this saddens me is that I have more than one friend who, one way or another, always end up chasing the bad guy and thinking he is going to change some day. Real life is not Holywood, girls. There is a place in this world for those bad boys, but it doesn’t include falling for them, or wearing your heart on your sleeve so that they can wring it out with the wash. If you must, have a few good times with them, and when you’re ready to make a commitment, find a nice guy. There are many flavours of nice guys out there. I know this because I’ve dated some of them. By nice guy, I mean someone who will treat you like you are a real person. They listen to you; offer *both* give and take; try to understand you, no matter how many idiosyncrasies plague you; and genuinely care if you get hit by a bus or not. And just because they are nice guys, does not automatically mean they are stereotypically boring. I knew a nice guy who climbed mountains, was willing to go to a Hedley concert with me, and always knew how to make me laugh.

Of course, then there are people like me who want neither the good nor the bad guy. People think I’m crazy, but there is something to be said about finding out who you are, before putting yourself “out there.” Maybe this makes me a commitment phobe, but I think it makes for a much happier future in the long run. Not only for me, but for others around me.

So my suggestion girls is this:

1) Know yourself

2) Stop searching for the guy you think you can change

3) If you cannot avoid the bad boys, enjoy them only in recreationally ways ;)

4) Continue getting to know yourself and as soon as you stop looking for "him", you will either

a. Find the one

b. Or realize that its possible to grow even without ‘the one’

And that's the ugly truth....

Perhaps writing runs in the family?

2009-06-23T06:54:00.001-07:00

My youngest son, Jordan, loves to write. He has two aspirations in life right now. While all of his friends want to be firemen, policemen, or presidents of the united states, Jordan wants to be a writer and a pizza delivery man. He says he'll deliver pizzas to pay his rent until he can get into the market of writers.

This past year, he has written 3 stories/books, complete with illustrations. His teacher has helped him bind them so he can keep them together. Last year he wrote a few stories as well, stapled them, and illlustrated them. I am always impressed with the ideas he comes up with.

Yesterday, he brought home a poem he wrote. I didn't know he was also a poet! I asked if I could share it and he agreed :) Here it is:

If I Were in Charge of the World ~ by Jordan. June 2009

I'd cancel school forever, pollution, bugs and also

Non-healthy food.

If I were in charge of the world

There would be pizza, money, and blueberries

Falling from the sky.

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have shoes

You wouldn't have shovels

You wouldn't have skunks for pets

You wouldn't even have math.

If I were in charge of the world

A skunk would be perfume

All people would be affluent

And a person who's invisible

Could still be miserable

But would still be allowed to be in charge of the world.

it's not you, it's me

2009-06-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

Might seem like the most cliche thing out there, but sometimes its genuine. I wrote the following poem back in October last year. It still rings true.

Yard Sale Paradox

We fit like

Jigsaw puzzle pieces

Cut from the same machine

But with oh so different pictures.

Yours is of a magnificent ice sculpture, beautifully transparent.

Snow falls around you like stars waiting to be wished upon.

Mine is of a crackling fire in vibrant hues with its

Sparks rising, to meet the snow, to taste the sky.

In any embrace, one of us must surrender.

For us, there can be no compromise.

Melt or be extinguished, which shall it be?

We cannot survive in harmony.

So even though we fit so snugly

So perfectly, as if we were

Made for each other:

We simply cannot be.

Has anyone seen my Eudaimonia?

2009-04-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

So, the question I get asked about twenty times a day (ok, maybe I am exagerating a little) is "what do you plan to do with your bachelor degree?" This may be a question asked of all students, but, having returned to school later in life (I'm 38), I did not really know why. I had a great career, good pay, good benefits, working for an amazing company that looked after me very nicely. Yet, I knew something was missing in my life.

Sometimes my answer would be "I'm here to find inspiration" but most people did not really understand that. I enjoy writing, so originally I planned to take a major in creative writing and a minor in business. Turns out I can't really write "in a box" (although, ironically I guess that is what I am doing inside this blogspot). But I like the fact that taking creative writing courses forces me to find the time to write. So I will continue to take one or two courses creative writing courses per semester.

I dropped the idea of the above major/minor and have decided to take Liberal Studies all the way through. That is my major. These classes really hurt my brain, but its a good hurt. Just like going to the gym: your muscles ache, but you also feel more alive than just sitting on a couch watching tv and eating popcorn.

So, I still haven't really answered the question. A few of my close friends tried to help me come up with a suitable answer. One suggested that I am here to be 'open' for 'serendipity', but again, that wasn't quite right. Hmmmm.

Then, the other day, in Philosophy class, I heard the word: eudaimonia. THIS, my friends and family, is why I am back at school :)

Main Entry:	eudaimonia
Part of Speech:	n
Definition:	a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous
Example:	Eudaimonia was first used by Aristotle and is important in ethics.
Etymology:	Greek eu + daimon 'happiness' or 'flourishing'

Triple Word Score - by Kim Moes

2009-03-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

Triple Word Score

The uninviting exterior of the house was the talk (or the silence) of the neighbours. If the three “beware of dog” signs did not keep people away, the “If you’re a peddler, I’ll have you for dinner” sign did the trick. The porch light had lasted for years, only coming on to allow the delivery drivers the opportunity to count their money once the door was closed. The porch swing sat perfectly still, like it was overdosed in spray starch, or like a child in the game of “freeze.” Even the wind could not convince the swing to move.

The house at 5310 Barmecide Avenue was just like any other in the neighbourhood. It had a dark basement, an unventilated attic, one and a half bathrooms, and two bedrooms plus a den. The den had become a storage room over the years, reducing the need to enter the basement at all. It wasn’t the darkness of the basement that made it disturbing to enter, even though the bulb hanging from the ceiling gave off less light than a candle at a campsite. No, it wasn’t the dark. Mack, earning his nickname from his resemblance to Mack Trucks, was not afraid of the basement – he was just uncomfortable with its contents. The attic, however, was empty. The last human presence the attic had seen was a year ago when that young female roofer came to fix the leak. She’d fixed it, but joked that she needed a chainsaw to get through the cobwebs.

The living room had the usual furniture: a “seen better days” floral couch, two paisley rockers and an old television sitting atop a battered blue trunk. Mack’s laptop usually sat faithfully on his lap, only retiring to the ottoman when sleep overtook both of them. On the north side of the living room sat a computer desk, but over the past few years it had become a dumping ground of sorts. The last time Mack cleared it off, looking for the phonebook when his favourite pizza place had gone out of business, he had found a Calvin and Hobbes desk calendar from 2006. It still sat there now, freezing time at the 29th of August. Pizza boxes were stacked like CD cases, a few here, more over there. It was just so much easier to pick up the phone than pick up a frying pan.

Mack started up the computer and left it on the ottoman. Needing a coffee, he headed into the kitchen, ducking his head beneath the hanging pots and pans to pour his java. People always asked questions when they caught glimpses of his cooking paraphernalia. He almost smiled as he remembered that time the roofer had come in, her sight catching the dangling pots and the two wall ovens, and asked where Mack had studied the cultivating arts. “Culinary,” Mack had corrected her, “and I didn’t study.”

Wanting some cream for his coffee, he reached into his fridge, which happened to be large enough to hold an entire cow carcass and still efficient enough to bring pizza to the perfect breakfast temperature. He shut the fridge door and averted his gaze so as not to come face to face with the peeling butterfly stickers on his fridge. The stickers were almost as stubborn as the woman who stuck them there. Jenny had loved butterflies, and she had admired how just when a caterpillar gives up on life, a butterfly is born. Mack absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, flattening the little hairs that were standing up.

Coffee in hand, he returned to see that his computer had finished booting up. He immediately signed into his Facebook account and headed straight for the Wordscraper page. He still called it Scrabulous, but the being forced to change the name was better than Hasbro making the developers of Scrabulous remove the application and thereby taking the entire game away from him. What a scandal that whole fiasco was. But a new name along with a few simple rule changes, and the developers were off the hook! Two hundred and sixty two games were waiting for him to play. This was going to be a great morning. Mack lived and breathed Scrabulous, playing online with hundreds of anonymous friends. Today would be no different.

Three coffees, sixty three Wordscraper moves, and one bathroom trip later, he sat back to review his progress so far. He still had many moves left to take, but was momentarily stunned. “Mack wins” flashed on the screen, but that was not what had swallowed his heartbeat. Scanning the board, he noted something he thought he would never see: nowhere in the entire game had either of the players used the word “QI.” Mack took a deep breath and clicked onto his Facebook homepage to update his status: “Mack is, as promised, going to turn himself in today.” His mouse pointer hovered over the submit button as Mack remembered making that promise many months ago. “QI” is played in every game of any variation of online scrabble. Who would have thought this day would come? He clicked submit and signed out.

Lifting his arm for a quick smell check, he decided he could get away without a shower. He tossed his mug into the sink, turned off his computer, and headed out the front door, careful to avoid a glance toward the basement entrance.

A makeshift canvas and duct-tape carport housed Mack’s little Hyundai. She may have appeared small on the outside, but the television ads spoke the truth about the headroom in this car. Mack’s large frame had no problem squeezing into the Hyundai’s limited interior: the pleather seats hugging him as he slid in. Hugs were in short supply at 5310 Barmecide Avenue, and Mack would take them as he could get them.

* * *

Ever since the internet became a household staple, she’d known many women who had lost their husband to porn sites. Not Susan Argent. Her husband did spend countless hours in cyberspace when he was home, but he wasn’t on porn sites. His addiction was fuelled by his obsession with the Mack Webster case. Steven had already wasted two years of their lives on this case. At least if Steven were addicted to porn, he might eventually come to bed to work off his pent up research.

Susan dragged the vacuum into Steven’s office. As usual, the newspaper clippings on the wall seemed alive, shouting their headlines at her:

“LOCAL MAN SUSPECTED OF KILLING HIS WIFE”

“WEBSTER HOUSE SCOURED – A SALIVA SOAKED PILLOW CASE FOUND”

“NO CONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE IN WEBSTER INVESTIGATION – MACK GOES FREE”

Turning on the vacuum to drown out the throbbing voices, she methodically cleaned the room. The white noise of the Hoover calmed her nerves and she was done in no time. Before closing the door behind her she muttered to the empty room, “I hope you get your man soon, cowboy. We’re drowning here.”

* * *

“I need to see Detective Argent.”

“Mack! He’s been waiting for you.”

It had been at least twenty seven months since he’d been here, and under other circumstances, he may have felt comfort in being recognized by the receptionist.

Argent may have been waiting for Mack, but he didn’t let Mack wait for him. Still huffing a little, probably from running all the way from his office to the reception, the detective invited Mack to enter the secure area. Cracking a smile for the first time in a long while, Mack fought the urge to ask Argent to stop salivating, after all, these floors are deathly slippery when wet. Looking around as they walked, Mack was surprised to see that so much had changed even in the short while since he had last been there. The walls were painted a new shade of beige, and all of the hallway doors had gone from trailer park brown to a squint provoking white. Both men moved quietly to the interview room.

Breaking the silence, the detective cleared his throat and coughed. “I’ll need to tape this.”

Mack just nodded.

“Detective Steven Argent. February 10, 2009. 11:42 am. Interview with Marion Craig Webster, AKA Mack Webster. Ok, Mack. You have come in voluntarily. What is it you want to get off your chest today?”

“I’m ready to talk. But I need to start at the beginning.” Mack took a deep breath in, and then out. “I met her back in ‘70 at the Riverview Hospital out in New West. We had each been admitted for botched suicide attempts. When I first met Jenny, on a bench in the courtyard, she told me she’d run into the ocean at a party and since she was drunk, her friends had called the cops. She confessed to me two days later that she did try to drown herself, but the tide was out and she kept coming to the surface since the water was only knee high. That’s when I knew she was the one. I owned up to my own failed attempt, telling her I tried to jump off a building, but I was afraid of heights and couldn’t get close enough to the edge. So I came down the elevator, deflated. Then, I looked both ways across the street, since I had no intention of getting hit by a car, put my head down and ran as fast as I could to ram my head into the building across the street. I thought it could be like a horizontal jump. All I got was a big bump on my head, and a free ride to Riverview.

“We met often on that bench in the courtyard of Riverview, and tried to brainstorm the ultimate suicide. Before the doctors reduced our meds because we were laughing so much, we came up with our backpack idea. We’d load up backpacks with a ton of rocks, and jump into a lake where we could sink to the bottom. It would be like parachuting, but we wouldn’t have to jump out of a plane. Eventually, we decided we’d collect rocks: rocks that could archive our memories, rocks that could give us our life force, or take it away. Did you know that qi is one of the most often used words in scrabble? I looked up the meaning about a year ago, and it’s from Chinese philosophy, something about the life force in all things.”

“Qi, Mack?”

“So I’m a little off track. Sue me. Should I continue?” Mack pushed his chair back, knowing he could get up and walk out, and Argent could do nothing about it. He knew what Argent wanted. He’d wanted it for the past two and a half years: to know where Mack’s wife was. Mack was tired of being locked up in his home, even if it was by his own doing. He was ready to talk, and found his heart beating like the drum roll precluding the announcement of a "battle of the bands" winner.

“I’m listening.”

“Jenny was released a few days before me, but she had offered to come back and pick me up. I waited over three hours in the parking lot, kicking rocks from the pavement onto the grass. When she drove into the lot, I could see her bright red lipstick, even through the dirty window of her Vega. I folded into her car like cheese into an omelette, but I stopped short before shutting the door. I leaned outside and grabbed a rock. It was as black as coal with streaks matching the colour of her lipstick. Holding it up to her in all its glory, I said, ‘The first rock for our collection, baby.’

“Gently tossing the rock into her glove box and giving me a wet, red kiss, she spun out of there faster than I imagined a Vega was even capable of. I was in love, and I didn’t really know if that meant my life was just starting, or if it was finally over.”

“Wait, Argent. I need a drink. Will you fetch me a Coke?”

Chapter Two

Susan grabbed a diet-Pepsi from the fridge and headed out to the sundeck. The morning was crisp, and yesterday’s snow crinkled under her feet like wrapping paper. She couldn’t help but think about the Webster case. It haunted her dreams, and stole her days.

Her husband was certain that Mack had suffocated his wife, and Steven was determined to prove it. She remembered hearing about the pillow case the police found in Mack’s basement, and how it was soaked in saliva. Steven had been so angry when that information leaked to the press. Regardless, there was no way to link the pillow to a homicide without a body.

For some reason, Susan thought Mack was innocent. Maybe it was because she had experienced depression in her life before, and unlike her husband, she did not think that was reason itself to blame this on Mack. So Mack had a long history of depression. He also had a long history of a happy marriage. She’d seen Mack and Jenny around town before Jenny had disappeared, and even in their early fifties, they acted like love-struck teenagers. She couldn’t imagine Mack ever hurting Jenny.

A cool breeze penetrated her bones as she sipped her diet-Pepsi and remembered her dream from the night before. It was always the same dream. Steven was trying to suffocate her with a pillow. Susan was no shrink, but she was pretty sure that the nightmare was inspired by the fact that Steven’s obsession was smothering their relationship. This was another reason she felt compassion for Mack, after all, if anyone was feeling smothered, it was probably him during those early months of interrogation.

Today was supposed to be Steven’s day off. Just like every other day off, he began the morning in the den. Part of his consuming research involved playing some online Scrabble game. He’d told her he found Mack online playing hundreds of games at a time. Steven had signed up under an alias and started playing against Mack, too. A little after eleven this morning Steven came running out of the den looking like he’d just opened the door to Ed McMahon and a giant million dollar cheque.

He’d seen Mack’s updated status on Facebook claiming he was going to turn himself in today. Steven had apologized and run out the door. So much for the hike around Sundy Lake today, Susan thought. At this rate, Sundy Lake could ultimately evaporate before they got a chance to actually go there together.

* * *

“Here’s your coke. So, you’ve just got out of the hospital, and she’s driving you off into the sunset.” Argent pressed play on the recorder and waited.

“Jenny took me back to her place to meet her parents. They were swell enough, but I could tell right away they didn’t like me. I guess if I were a parent, I wouldn’t like some guy my disturbed daughter just met in a hospital, either. Jenny cooked dinner that night, and that’s when I found out she was a mean cook. I’m talking right down to crushing the pecans and rubbing them into the chicken before she threw it in the oven. I was already on my own at that time, and if I wanted something special, I used shake and bake. Actually, sometimes I just used ketchup. But wow could that woman cook!

“We moved in together before she turned eighteen, and if her dad didn’t already hate me, I’m sure he would have by then. Jenny missed her family, but they refused to visit us at our place, and never invited us over. It was just the two of us. We eventually bought a house, tried to have some kids, but that never panned out. Despite all that, we were really happy. I’m not talking date-movie happy, I’m talking really happy. The kind of happy that makes you wake up in the morning and not care if it’s raining. I can’t really explain it, but it was there. Until that night.”

“August 29, 2006?”

“Yes. I got home later than usual from the bank. I had an irate client who wouldn’t leave until I explained why he couldn’t get a new mortgage while he was still in bankruptcy proceedings. Jenny wasn’t home, and I knew right away that something was wrong. So I reported her missing.”

“I got the file a few days later, and we brought you in for questioning.”

“You said I must have killed her.”

“Come on, Mack. It’s no secret about your history of depression.”

“I tried to tell you that I would never hurt my Jenny, but you insisted.”

“We went to the house and found a pillow case in the basement.”

“You said I smothered her.”

“And you said she drooled a lot in her sleep.”

“I was wrong.” Why is Argent reminding me of my delusions? I am trying to come clean here! “I went home that night you released me, and I had a dream confirming every awful thing you said. It happened just like you guessed. In my dream, I remembered coming home from work, exhausted and angry. I smothered my poor Jenny in her sleep, and I hid the pillow case in the basement.”

“Where is she, Mack?”

“She must be in the basement.”

“You’re lying. We searched your entire house.”

“Did you move the rusty water heater?”

“No.”

“We have two water heaters. Under the rusty one there’s a four by four crawl space. I’m guessing that’s where she is.”

“What do you mean you ‘guess’ she’s there?”

“Everything I remember is everything you told me in that interrogation. The basement is the only place I can think of where she might be. Go look. I haven’t been in the basement since Jenny went missing.”

“Fine. We’ll go check it out. I’ll be back in a while.” Shutting off the tape recorder, Argent motioned for the guard to take Mack into custody.

***

It was too cold to stay outside any longer. Susan went into the kitchen and filled the sink with hot water for the dishes. As the water ran, she was reminded of the last time she and Steven had gone to Sundy Lake. They had hiked the eight kilometre perimeter, and then sat under the bridge to drink their Finca Los Primos. That was almost three years ago. Right before the Mack case had started. It was Steven’s first big case, and he felt he had something to prove to his colleagues.

Susan absolutely loved Sundy Lake. It was very calming at night, once all the teenagers had packed up and headed to other parties. As a teen, she’d loved jumping off the cliff on the north side of the lake. It was less than a four minute hike from the parking lot, and only a twenty foot cliff, making it less scary than jumping off the bridge which her friends had failed to convince her as a good idea.

Maybe after Mack confesses, it will finally be over. Steven will have “gotten his man” and they could celebrate by going to the lake. Maybe.

She turned off the tap after rinsing the last clean glass. Glancing at the clock, she wondered how Steven’s day was going so far.

***

Less than an hour had passed when Mack was led back to the interview room. Argent was waiting for him, and he looked like a can of beans on a fire-pit, shaking and ready to explode at any moment.

“What the hell, Mack! We found your little secret hiding place, but Jenny wasn’t there. It was empty except for a backpack filled with rocks. What kind of game are you playing here?”

“Only one?”

“What?”

“Did you say one backpack? There should be two.” Mack’s face slowly drained of its colour, like rain hitting a freshly painted water colour canvass.

Argent was still fuming. “Where did you take her, Mack?”

“We were supposed to do it together,” Mack said, more to himself than to Argent.

“Ok, Mack, listen to me. I have had enough of your games. Where is she?”

“If there’s only one backpack, maybe I took her to Sundy Lake.”

***

Susan looked around the house for something else to clean. The grandfather clock ticked incessantly in the living room, challenging her to distract herself. Opening the freezer, and without thinking about it, she started emptying the contents onto the counter. Not knowing why she felt so anxious, she wondered if she needed to see the doctor again. No. This too will pass.

***

For the third time today, Mack was led to the interview room. He slumped into the chair across from Argent, not bothering to look up. He did not see the look of empathy on Argent’s face.

“Mack.”

Mack’s eyes remained fixed on the tape recorder. It was still in the off position.

“Mack. We found Jenny.”

Drawing his eyes up to Argent, but still expressionless, Mack stared blankly at the detective.

“I was wrong, Mack. We found her in Sundy Lake, below the cliff. She was wearing a backpack filled with rocks.

Mack continued to look at Argent, or more accurately, through him, as if he were looking at somebody behind Argent.

“She had a letter, Mack. It was wrapped in a zip-lock bag. It is addressed to you.” He pushed the letter across the table towards Mack. “This rock was with the letter.” Steven placed the rock beside the note.

Mack lowered his gaze toward the rock. He picked it up and felt the immense weight of it in his hand. When he could avoid it no longer, he read the letter:

“Dear Mack – Sorry I couldn’t wait for you. I used all of my tiles, and I don’t have any moves left. It’s your turn now. Love, Jenny. XO.”

Mack’s lethargic gaze moved from the letter to Argent, then back to the table.

“Don’t you see Mack? Do I have to spell it out for you?” Silence. “You didn’t do it. You’re free to go.”

“You’re right, Argent,” Mack replied in a flat voice. “I’m free to go now.” Mack’s fingers curled around the rock, and it became weightless in his hand.

***

Susan heard the front door opening just as she put the last item back into the freezer. Heading toward him, she was nearly knocked over by Steven’s embrace in the hallway.

Steven held her tight, and Susan drank in his embrace, succumbing to her thirst.

“It’s over,” he whispered into her ear.

“What’s over? Did he confess?”

“Yes, but he didn’t actually do it. We found Jenny, with a suicide note. Mack is innocent!”

Susan, removing herself from Steven’s hug, stretched out her arms to look him in the face. “How did Mack take the news?”

“What? He was free to go. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Steven. What did he say when you told him?”

“He just said, ‘You’re right. I’m free to go.’”

Susan had a terrible feeling in the depths of her stomach. “I don’t think he’s alright, Steven. Sounds to me like he’s going to follow her. Don’t ask me why, but – ”

She could see the wheels turning in Steven’s mind as he considered what she was saying. “I’m going to Sundy Lake, just for a quick drive through. Just in case.”

“I’m coming with you, Steven.”

***

Mack sat on the edge of the cliff overlooking Sundy Lake. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a couple of random rocks. The white one that looked like crystal was the one they found under their blanket the first time they made love on Kits Beach. The second rock was a speckled green and brown one. Closing his eyes, he could remember their fight like it was yesterday. Well, it wasn’t the fight he remembered, but more about what happened after the argument. Jenny had picked up the rock in the parking lot of the Save-On-Foods. She had planned to throw it at him in anger and at the last minute through herself at him instead. They had held each other for about fifteen minutes in the parking lot that day, and went home to celebrate their fight. Sometimes he thought they only argued just for the passionate make-up sex.

He realized he was holding his breath. He let out a long exhale and forced himself to take a slow fresh inhale. The third rock in his hand was the one from the police station. The one they found with Jenny. It was as black as coal, with red streaks the colour of Jenny’s kisses. It was the very first rock of their collection, the one he had picked up after waiting three hours for Jenny to pick him up back at Riverview. He had waited for her, and now she had waited long enough for him. He tossed the rocks into his backpack and slipped the pack onto his back.

***

As Steven drove into the parking lot Susan could see a black figure on the bluff. It was dark out, but she knew it was Mack. “Steven, look!”

Steven jumped out of the car and ran to the top of the cliff. He reached the top just in time to see Mack jump. Diving in after him, he searched the dark waters for any sign of Mack. Near the bottom of the lake, he could see the pin stripe of the backpack reflecting the moon’s light. Although he was almost out of air, he swam down to Mack and removed the backpack. With the weight removed, they both bounced to the surface of the lake.

Susan ran to the shoreline, but couldn’t see either of the men. Scanning the water, she finally spotted them approaching slowly. She helped Steven get Mack out of the water.

Huffing at an embarrassing rate, Steven rolled Mack onto his side. This induced some heaving, and Mack coughed up a cup of lake water.

“What the hell did you do that for, Argent?”

Smiling as he reached for Mack’s hand, he said, “Call me Steven.”