Lucia Frangione

Killarney Lake loop is a woodland 5km, my newest and fastest friend as I collect my ten thousand steps. I pass babbling brooks with red legged frogs, slender spring blue dragon flies, a tree that oddly flung off a long piece of bark, draping it over a lower limb, ready for a coniferous skinny dip. I pass a broody young man with headphones. Two old ladies in turquoise and pink leisure wear. Three young mothers all dewy with sweat, their babies in backpacks, bobbing their downy heads. Then, for the next hour, I trek entirely alone. Earlier in the week…

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A tug boat chugs its way across the sound and everyone is still asleep except for me and the dog. I spy on him from the balcony. He’s a different creature here on the island. So bristly snorty and happy. He is carefully navigating his way down a grassy slope, blind, deaf and pretty much at peace with his limitations. His tail wags as he approaches the beauty berry. “Well, hello old friend, I think I’ll piss on you. Just in case the squirrels have forgotten: you belong to me.” My mother-in-law is here: a well read, sharp, gregarious and…

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Today I had the privilege of spending time with a woman who is dying. I brought a blanket made of faux fur and spread it over her skin and bones. Seeing the corner of it, and rather delusional right now, she whispered, excited as a small child, “Oh, do you see the fawn?!” Where? “Right there beside me, all curled up. Oh touch it!” And she gently caressed the bundle of blanket beside her and cooed to it. “Oh, oh, so precious you are…”  and clucked her tongue as though to a baby. “He’s winking at me! Can you believe…

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One could say that tap is the geek of the dance world. The children learn the names of their great grandparent’s heroes: Shirley Temple, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Bunny Briggs and Ernest Brownie Brown. There is no hip hop sneer, no gratuitous jazzy pelvis thrust, no solemn Brisé volé. It’s generally smiles smiles smiles and often suspenders and funny caps and adorable little flouncy skirts that all harken back to an earlier more innocent time. And I love it that my girl loves it. I watch the rehearsal. This is her first year in competitive tap. This is her first…

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Driving to the island in the rain, I make the mistake of taking Nora’s Furby with me, out of kind consideration, this being her new toy. She is coming in the other car with the boys later. For those of you who don’t know what a Furby is, it’s a toy that talks to you in a loud obnoxious voice and it is stimulated by movement. There’s no real way to shut it off except to pull its tail for eight seconds and keep it still. This is what I didn’t think through. If you’re driving and have it in…

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I stare at two posters on the ferry terminal message board and they both look like the inside of my head: so many colourful ideas and lofty ambitions all crammed into one tight space. In short, utter chaos. It makes me laugh. At least I’m not alone in the ol’ creative process here. I am half way through my first draft of Holy Mo! A Christmas Show! and coming to the island to write. This red crazy poster is for…a dance…? a Buddhist chaplaincy while returning to Alawi? A fundraiser? Meeting an alluring woman I “can’t forget”? Eating cupcakes? African women…

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Coming back from dropping Nora off at school I see a big brown stuffed recliner out in the rain on twelfth street. A sign is taped on it, “Allah is the only legitimizer.” I chuckle to myself and imagine Allah, sighing, “How many times have I said not to shop at the Brick? The furniture breaks in a year and a day, and public litter is so not cool.” I muse over a sign I might add, “Will Allah also take this chair to the dump?” Legitimate. What a powerful word. Don’t we all want to be the real deal….

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My heart is sick with a family matter and I wander the house, sleepless and headachy from ending my love affair with coffee. Why does a person feel so ill when they’re trying to get healthy? Oh I know. I know. All those terrible toxins are leaching out. Sexy. I bend down over my Valentine’s bouquet to sniff a fading rose. How can I write when I cannot think? The rain discourages me from a walk. I should go, regardless. Get in my 10,000 steps. The last great hike I went on was on Bowen. I came across a stand…

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I unexpectedly find myself lying on a bed of amethyst crystals while listening to Whitney Houston implore, “When you believe” in the background. No, I am not filming a My Little Pony episode. Let me back up. I was offered a free haircut by a master stylist who owns her own salon, really sweet lady, and she gave me a great cut. My fellow had helped her with a flat tire in our church parking lot (because he is Fellow and saves people even on his day off) She wanted to thank him, but she looked at his shaved head…

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I am writing a Christmas show. It’s the end of January and my tree is still up. The needles cling ferociously to bulbs when I leave it this long: crispy little green fingers, clutching like the dying clutch. I hate to disrobe him and throw him into a heap on the front porch for Fellow to chop. One really shouldn’t have to do something this macabre until Easter. He was a fat and lovely fir. I am too intimidated to write so I pack up the ornaments instead. Maybe if my house is cleaner my brain will clear up? I…

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