Trivia Saves Lives
Arleen Paré
When I was still at work in the offices of the land, waking weekday mornings to a radio alarm at 6, to newscasts that shunted my quieted heart into pre-dawn alert, I strategized to save my life. One typical strategy employed by office workers was the morning shower. First thing. Let the hot water. Let it runnel our office-short hair, our office-bent shoulders, our bellies full of days.
Another strategy, more personal, was chewing gum, sugar-free, which served as both boredom buster and mouth freshener, two-in-one. Another was the 11 o'clock latte with its power to catalyse and soothe at the same time. The walk to the coffee shop, rain or shine.
Every day I answered phones and questions, advised staff and clients and the next level up. Every day I sat in meetings watching colleagues who dreamed of Bermuda or Mexico or their bed at home. No one wanted to be where we were. The fundamental patience required was overwhelming. You could hear pins drop. Everyone buttoned down and buttoned up, sad or seething, saying nothing. All reality seeped out, under office doors, oozed down elevator shafts, along corridors like rivers in their beds.
When I was still working in the offices of the land, I had to save my life. I brought office work home; smiled as often as I could; I made love with my girlfriend. Every so often Trivia magazine arrived in my mailbox at the front gate of my house. Another strategy. Atypical. I placed my briefcase on the sidewalk and opened the mailbox lid, the hinges almost rusted off, reached in and grabbed it, that miracle of sense, a boredom buster with the power to catalyse and soothe, all in one small magazine. Trivia. I bore it into the house like a secret prize, tore off the white wrapper and studied the cover. Also white. Opened to the first page. The names on the masthead, the names in the table of contents, the titles. All beautiful. These were my people. My sanity. I bolted upstairs and threw it on my bed. Removed my bra and office pants, my earrings and shoes. Ran downstairs two steps at a time, raced about the house like a dog who had never been allowed into the house before. Opened the fridge door, ate a handful of nuts, a radish. Anything to keep my head from rocketing off my office neck. Ran upstairs again, plumped onto the bed and read the first page, the editorial. Stopped. The pressure of happiness uncontainable. Ran around the room some more, putting my bra into the wash basket, my earrings into the jewelry box. Then I flopped down again, flushed and worn, propping up on my elbow, read the second half of the first page. Savoured it. The sense.
These were my people. This, my magazine: my survival manual.
When I was still at work in the offices of the land, waking weekday mornings to a radio alarm at 6, to newscasts that shunted my quieted heart into pre-dawn alert, I strategized to save my life. One typical strategy employed by office workers was the morning shower. First thing. Let the hot water. Let it runnel our office-short hair, our office-bent shoulders, our bellies full of days.
Another strategy, more personal, was chewing gum, sugar-free, which served as both boredom buster and mouth freshener, two-in-one. Another was the 11 o'clock latte with its power to catalyse and soothe at the same time. The walk to the coffee shop, rain or shine.
Every day I answered phones and questions, advised staff and clients and the next level up. Every day I sat in meetings watching colleagues who dreamed of Bermuda or Mexico or their bed at home. No one wanted to be where we were. The fundamental patience required was overwhelming. You could hear pins drop. Everyone buttoned down and buttoned up, sad or seething, saying nothing. All reality seeped out, under office doors, oozed down elevator shafts, along corridors like rivers in their beds.
When I was still working in the offices of the land, I had to save my life. I brought office work home; smiled as often as I could; I made love with my girlfriend. Every so often Trivia magazine arrived in my mailbox at the front gate of my house. Another strategy. Atypical. I placed my briefcase on the sidewalk and opened the mailbox lid, the hinges almost rusted off, reached in and grabbed it, that miracle of sense, a boredom buster with the power to catalyse and soothe, all in one small magazine. Trivia. I bore it into the house like a secret prize, tore off the white wrapper and studied the cover. Also white. Opened to the first page. The names on the masthead, the names in the table of contents, the titles. All beautiful. These were my people. My sanity. I bolted upstairs and threw it on my bed. Removed my bra and office pants, my earrings and shoes. Ran downstairs two steps at a time, raced about the house like a dog who had never been allowed into the house before. Opened the fridge door, ate a handful of nuts, a radish. Anything to keep my head from rocketing off my office neck. Ran upstairs again, plumped onto the bed and read the first page, the editorial. Stopped. The pressure of happiness uncontainable. Ran around the room some more, putting my bra into the wash basket, my earrings into the jewelry box. Then I flopped down again, flushed and worn, propping up on my elbow, read the second half of the first page. Savoured it. The sense.
These were my people. This, my magazine: my survival manual.
Working Notes
The Women's Movement, Feminism, Lesbian Feminism were all major miracles to me. The various journals, magazines and books that provided the written notes during the 70s, 80s and 90s, that spelled out the theories, the reportage, the ideals, the stories, and the history of these miracles were like lights along a highway. They showed the way. They also provided a form of ecstasy in my day-to-day life. I wanted the editors and contributors of Trivia to know how much they saved my day-to-day sanity.
About the Author
Arleen Paré lives and writes in Victoria, BC. She is a retired social worker. Her first book, Paper Trail (NeWest, 2007), was nominated for the 2008 Dorothy Livesay Poetry Award and won the 2008 Victoria Butler Book Prize. Her writing has appeared in various journals including The Malahat Review, CVII, and Geist magazine.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.
For an updated list of works published in TRIVIA, please see this author's contributor page.