I must return to Facebook for the time pendant. I need the connection to readers and I haven’t been actively persuing an actual career in any other sense, it has been years since I have sent anything off to a publisher or tried writing columns and ‘letters to the Editor’. The value of my letters that were published is a great bone for my two sorts of psyche to contend over. I am almost never sure that what I write is ‘chosen’. Since the Windsor Star is more than a little like a ‘dog bites man’ newspaper, my letters were always published – there was plenty of room. I always questioned the real value of what I had written. Sigh. In my Facebook world, I found a core group of readers who actually seemed to value my work. That was interesting. The sense of accomplishment I had in reaching out is missing in the new day, my attempted day away from servitude to a marketing strategy. It must be possible to work around Mr. Zuckerberg’s traps successfully. To do so will take a great deal of personal strength…I shall try. I will turn this whole science around and make it work for me.

Tally-ho!

The book is shaping differently than what I had hoped. “Nearly Every Dish in the House” appears to be more a memoir? That said, I will have to be very careful in the writing of it in order that no one gathers enough material for a law-suit. Ha. (Hey! Interesting story — Motorcycle Man is back inside, getting a coffee. I think he was having an affair with that woman. The affair is now a thing of the past and he is meeting no one today. His pants are very tight and it is difficult to tell whether he is overweight or not. I think not, he is just round. Hmmmm, new haircut….) Back to the book.

‘Nearly’ might end up as a blend of the rough drafted ‘Buster’ and a couple of other essay-like pieces. I am having a daydream that it would be appropriate to do so. Taking it as a whole, then I will have finished a book of poetry and a full memoir. I will have proven to myself that I can do it. Wish me luck.

Over time, it becomes less and less important that I write the masterpiece. What is important is that I write for enjoyment, not that I make an indelible mark. I have proven that I can complete a 70,000 words plus bit of writing that makes sense and has a couple of good, useful things to say. That will have to be enough. That I can get a letter published in the paper will have to be enough. That I can get a poem published in a regional poetry broadside will have to be enough. There is not enough time to complete the training and develop the skill to be a truly great writer. Random House is never going to call me. I don’t think that folks like Barbara Striesand will respect what I do but that is less and less important. The rest of the world is someone else’s thing. Mine is to do and be for myself, a lesson I am still working on at age 70.

I have spent most of my life now in a prison of my own making and the breakout started when I succeeded at four-year college classes of various types. I even took Algebra/calculus classes and passed them with a 3.9 average? Who would have guessed? Now, I am: a writer, a singer, a guitar player, a pianist… None of those things are peak efforts but they are real. I can write a poem that sounds ok. I can sing fairly well, if given lots of rehearsal. I can play a song or two or three on the guitar and piano. Am I Justin Timberlake, Ella Fitzgerald, Pablo Neruda, Charles Bukowski, Dylan? Um…no. The absolute, utter truth is that I don’t need to be. There are enough of them and they are doing just fine. I can read good writing any time I wish, I can hear great music any time I wish. I can also write and make music, any time I wish.

I miss the connection to folks so I am returning to the Facebook platform that I might send my messages off on the next train in.

Have a pleasant day, that is all there is.

July 23, 2021

A new start.

Every day is a new start…duh… Yeah, well, this is a thing all creatures know by observation. Some of us know it by experimentation. Some of us know it because we are really good mathemeticians and scientists and astronomers. Some of us know each day is new because we repair clocks and have a notion that time can be measured, which gives us wacky ideas about the ever-changing nature of the present. Some of us have read about each day being new and didn’t bother to question the author’s veracity. Some of us know our truth by belief? Some of us think God planned it that way and some of us use that ‘new day’ ism as a motivating or inspiring factor. A reason to keep on a-goin’. Some of us just ignore that every day is a new day and pick up in the morning where we left off in what was our night.

Sometimes, I am an ignoring fool and just pick up a day where I left off the previous one. While clinging to the concerns of the previous workday, I often don’t notice the sun coming up and that it might be a new day. Not today. Here I am again, in the throes of change, bouncing in the wake of my past life, hopeful for something new, eager for change. Sigh. I am trying to find my daily writing routine again. Now that I can sit for hours in Starbucks, as before, I am excited that my ‘flow’ return. I have my ‘daily assessment reports’ to make. I have things to say. I have things to notice. My tooth is hurting vaguely. Ooops, I used an adverb. So naughty. The skinny young feller who stares at me a bit is actually pretty well built for a barista. or…no! that is Simon, the built guy! One of this morning’s other notes is that a younger than me customer fella is wearing gay-looking sandals. They are open back and white leather with a thin sole. Very feminine. Hmm. Interesting.

Today, I woke to a similar sun but I feel different. Perhaps, it is the same sun from yesterday and perhaps not – I don’t have proof of my own and must trust the general knowledge on that. Suppose it were not the same sun? This is nearly a moot question, there being what they call ’empirical’ evidence that it is, indeed, the same sun as yesterday. But, suppose it were a new sun? From some other galaxy. It crept in during the night while the last one slipped out of sight. The government’s tests and measurements and calculations were incorrect? Nobody noticed anything while on the International Space Station? Perhaps a scientist turned his back at just the right moment, allowing the newsun to slip into place without fanfare. It is not impossible for each scientist to look away at exactly the same time, as a group. There may be a certain, to date undetected, element of space and time that allows for all eyes that are in space at the same moment to be diverted for a brief second. This, I submit, has happened on each of the occasions astronauts have been above the atmosphere and able to observe the sun at every moment.

This is possible. The sun could have slipped a ringer in if you consider the great speed at which such things as suns are clocked. Perhaps the ringer is in sync with the sun of the previous day, just behind it and invisible to the naked telescope. At just the right instant, the previous sun, the one we saw yesterday, slips away or maybe just backs up, fading ghost-like through and letting the new cloud of burning gas take the primary position. Maybe it’s just the two suns, back and forth? In order to be open to such a whack idea, it is necessary to suspend some belief and accept other belief or proof to imagine that this day shows us another sun, not the same one we watched turn colour and slide down yesterday evening.

So. There are at least two suns, one in front of the other and, being clouds of gas, they pass through each other at some point during the day. It is unnoticed. This is a new fact and has negative consequences when you accept it. One down side to accepting this new revelation is that there will be social grief. You will be denied in church, shunned on the street, laughed at in the grocery… asked to leave Starbucks when you can’t stop laughing at your own suggestions?

July 2, 2021

The shadow of autumn is in the air today. It is one of the rare days, where season is indeterminate. Here, it is currently delicious. That isn’t true for everyone, everywhere in Canada. The western part of the country is frying under a blister-dome and we relax with cool breeze and angled sunlight that suggests winter is approaching. Or maybe, it is the end of April and a brilliant, early, warm spring of green still has an eye for the recent past of blustery chill from the north? In any case, this sort of weather is my favourite. It’s close to perfect. The wind is cool, the sunlight warm, the trees bent and swirling in brisk motion. All things seem possible. Anything could happen. I am excited as the green and flexible things are. Anticipation is the scene I witness and the emotion I feel. It could be warmer? It could be cooler? It could be better and it could not.

For me, good fortune smiles yet and I browse on cherry pie, the cherries being ones frozen last year in anticipation of such a day as this. I still don’t have the knack of a decent pie-crust but it is coming along, I am learning, I am improving. The crust? matters to none save me, since I have consumed the pie and have somewhat lower standards than others might. I tend to accept what I have without expectation of anything better when I am by myself. When I am with others, I might feel shame that my pie-crust was not perfect. That has been true of my interaction with the outside world for as long as I can remember. Lately, that sort of bowed head submission to individuals of higher developed skills and what they might think has started to evaporate. It must be a natural thing, that as a person ages, gains experience, they begin to not sweat the small stuff, to tolerate imperfection and those who criticize it with a broadening yawn. The yawn acknowledges how unimportant squirming complaints and bad pie-crust really are. “Pie, is easy,” they say but it isn’t, so you eat what ya got and ya enjoys it.

I read something that made me think hard about myself, who I am. What I care about. What is important. What others think and how to evaluate that, what store to set by another’s opinion. I read that we are several persons. We exist in another’s view in ways that we cannot imagine. My dog sees me how? My neighbour sees me how? My friends see me how? In each pair of ‘other’ eyes, I am someone I do not know and likely wouldn’t recognize. Isn’t that interesting? Inside, here on the couch, watching TV is a guy that I talk to or whom talks to me, tells me what he thinks of the stupid movie or the wrong-headed thing I have done.

My tail-wagging, slurpy lipped, eager dog sees and communicates with some totally different person than who I am. My friends, when they think of me, think of someone I could not imagine. Even my analyist doesn’t know the me I know. In peculiar fact, I don’t know me either. Isn’t that interesting? I know the person I imagine myself to be, depending on mood. Am I cheerful, good looking, depressive, boring, fat? Depends on the hormones and the time of day. My dog sees comfort, protection, sustenance of all kinds. My dog sees a true pal, my friends see just whatever they see. These ones probably don’t mind me too much. It is hard to say. Inside, there is yet the person I don’t want to know or see who exists but is behind some kind of curtain. Of all these creatures, which am I?

An indefinite and honest answer to “who am I”, is: I am all of the above, you are all of the above. We have traits, we are unique but we are also what the kaliedoscope shows. I am what the dog sees, I am what the cat bit, I am the fellow helping an old lady cross the street, I am the bedeviled substance abuser, I am that asshole who shows up to the party empty-handed, I am that really smart friend who figures things out, I am funny, I can sing and I cannot. I am fat and I am thinner. I am just right and way too intense. I am a clear sky day that suddenly rains. I chase and comfort the birds at the same time. I am shelter and I am riot. I am spring and summer and fall, all of them in the few minutes it takes a cloud to pass. I am the light changing from hopeful to overbright and back again.

Some things can be pointed to with unanimity. The crowd witnesses the crime and points to where it happened, the police go to make the arrest. There is a moderate agreement on the facts at times. For example, I like to write stuff and sing stuff and try to play stuff. I see that. I think others see me in that way as well. The dog sees me typing, the pussycats hear me singing and bashing at guitar. My neighbours saw me carrying in the box of printed books, they see me go off in my tuxedo, with a smile on my face. They have attended concerts and seen me in the back row with an ear-to-ear on my face. The general opinion is that I can be defined, described as a creative person, involved with the arts. Even the little doggies and pussycats know that much.

Being creative is my innocent charm. The charm that harms none. We all have that, each of us. We had it from the git-go. We have a born light, a true light and it doesn’t disturb. Not a baby thing on earth provokes more than a smile. (unless you are a hungry predator and enjoy freshness) Yeah, each of us, animal, mineral or vegetable has a thing, a self, a real. Perhaps, you were born to stare at stamps from far-off places or knit fantastic things or cook… Maybe you aren’t that good at it but hey…only a few can be, you are still a knitter, a cook, a stamp collector. You are imperfect or not. It doesn’t matter a damn.

Nothing is perfect or will ever be other than life. Nothing is perfect other than the right now day. Nothing is perfect beyond the time that is blowing in or blowing out. Today is blowing in as unique, as a surprise. Mmmmm, delicious! This is not perfect weather but it’s damn close. Actually, I think nothing is perfect because nothing has to be. We already have enough perfect to go around. Check it out. Whooops! There goes a bird about a hundred clicks. He is flying! Wow! the trees are dancing like crazy! OOOh! There goes a boat, out into the bright sky horizon lake! Mmmmm! I am gonna go write all this down, just because.

More Ghosts

It is the last day of June and the sky threatens a thunderstorm, as though to say goodbye to June. Well, goodbye, then. Goodbye June, goodbye, goodbye. I am not ready to say hello to whatever is next. I am stuck here, in the moment, at the kitchen table with my fingers on the keys, my thoughts approaching from the shadow. I am getting myself ready for the latest summer storm and talking about it.

I have witnessed storm before and know that winds come, darkness comes, the drowning and healing splash of water comes: all of these things come, then go. All that is seems in danger of ending up blown away, everything. At times the wake of a storm is chaos, bent trees, blown away things, lost pets, a smashed past. There is also, always a fresh sky, a different temperature, a greater contrast from the lily against the field. The storm comes, it goes and we go on into new light. The light is a different colour? Maybe the shoes are missing afterward but, on we go. At the moment, it’s getting dark and my eyes hurt. I am in rough conditions. Trying to type under gloom lighting and with unreliable glasses on is a chore.

Brought to us 24/7 now and for another week or so, maybe more are the ghosts of residential schools. The drumbeat of modern media pumps adrenaline urgency into our veins. Ghosts! Shock! Horror! More at Five o’lock! See our webpage for the brutal details! Back to you, Fred! The ghosts themselves, however, wisp about the broad and unmarked fields of Canada as they ever did. The ghosts care nothing about Tik-Tok video or media interviews. They jangle nothing, move nothing, they shout solely with a stilled voice. For their care and keeping, is nothing to do save quiet ourselves a moment, respectfully. There is nothing to do save realize and note the facts. There is nothing to do save take a knee on an otherwise unremarkable summer day. The knee does not dismiss Canada. Putting out the candles for a moment does not dismiss the flavour of the birthday cake. In an offer of respect, an act of comfort, is nothing done away by any Algebra of ‘correctness’.

From across the limitless golden fields of plenty, a pitched-battle thunderstorm is approaching. I fear the brash, green, unfinished things that promise tomorrow may bend badly. The possibility of grievous damage exists. True, tomorrow is a tender green of untested mettle under perilous skies that beg our full concern but the boiling clouds are not eternal. We need not worry long, gray moves quickly and will pass, leaving it’s judgement. That said, for the moment, there is proof plenty that at the edges of all things can be found shadow.

A summer day is not forever spoiled by storm. Wildness releases emotion, freshens what is dry, reaffirms our grip on the railings. The storm roars in but leaves, in it’s time. The ghosts awakened don’t roar, we still have to listen for them. If we take a knee, take a day to hear, we can brace against the clouds/wind/rain. If we lean an ear for the quiet, we offer respect and may, possibly, learn. A single day off from nationalism is a good thing. In taking a knee to glory, to anthems, to conditioned view of what is, we are saying goodbye to innocence of all kinds. Goodbye to innocent belief in the smiling Mountie, the happy beaver, the snow-capped peaks. Those things exist yet in essence but were never really anyone’s to hold forever. When the storm passes, with luck we will find the loose things blown away and other, more durable things in their place.

It occurs to me that each
of us knows exactly
What Jesus Would Probably Do.

He would build a coupla bookshelves,
buy some hammers and stuff,
read a little bit,
eat some bread and some fish
(if there was any
or go to the market
if there wasn’t any
or send someone else
if he was busy and
someone else was available).

Jesus might drink a little wine or
go for a ride on a donkey or
walk around wearing the footgear of the day or
not.

That’s what he would probably do,
I don’t know for certain.
Actually, he might leave the old ways
behind and get
a car.
Would he need a driving license?
Maybe he is a scofflaw
and thinks,
“Well, what are they gonna do?
crucify me?”
or
maybe that sort of
thing is just taken care of,
the way it is for Queen Elizabeth?
I don’t think Her Royal Highness
has a driving
license and she drives.
If there is a problem
and a car rolls over
the Queen just says,
“What are ya gonna do?
report me to the Queen or
something?”

So,
Jesus might drive.

I hope he would drive carefully
because I have driven
on the sidewalk myself
and the people running
and screaming
means it isn’t that much
fun
in my opinion.

Jesus would offer his opinion,
I am certain of that.
Some pretty reliable folks wrote down
his more adamant opinions.
The writing down
was done a long time ago
and people have been
arguing about it
since then.

It’s a bit like
art and poetry critics,
how they talk about what it means
and whether or not
the words are in the right place
or if the guy writing the
stuff down
knew enough to come in out of the rain.

I am one funny dude. Yes. Complicated as all get-out and twice as queer. Queer being a useful English word that has been wrongly abused, twisted and wasted on the tongues of intolerance. This has happened to Queer in the same way it happened to Gay. Fairy is a close third but that one turned into such an insult that even the offenders blanched a bit.
Over time, Fairy has resumed most of it’s original meaning in part because the ‘other’ meaning was too awful. Time has turned a tiny twist and a person can now almost say Fairy without it’s having a capitalized meaning, an association that catches the eye/ear before any other can settle there.

I am curious now. I just noticed that these words ‘gay’ and ‘queer’ are imported into American English from the Brits. This is, of course true of all English words but somehow, certain words were spit out when the persons who carried English with them hit the sands of the eastern coast and southern United States. They are now British English first and American second, as most that is useful in the English language. My English-born friends readily use all of these sorts of words in common, everyday speech. In Ameri-speak, words of that colour are the exclusive province of the posh folk. Posh is, itself, a word reserved for ‘posh’ folk to use. Posh is posh, as calling your workmates ‘colleagues’ is posh. Even calling your workmates ‘workmates’ instead of ‘buddies’ is posh. Posh is disrespected. Posh is upper-crust, posh is ‘them’. Posh is the enemy.

I think there just might be a serious problem in Americans of the middle-north continent. Is it possible that, in the effort to revolt against Great Britain, certain of the U.S. residents began to eat themselves linquistically? A snake-state that so hated it’s own origins-tail as to begin eating it, word by word? I know that the frequent and easy mispronunciation of French words which appear in English is no accident. The so-self-called Americans despise the French even more than the British. As a result, chaise longue became ‘chase-lounge’ pretty quickly and envoy became ‘n-voy’ in a similar amount of time.

The degradation towards homosexuals, British and French people is equal in America. It can be seen readily in the misuse of language in violent ways. America has a serious problem. The problem is one of terrific intolerance. That problem has been on parade in America since the country’s inception. The puritans who were half-driven out of England for their judgemental interfering have built a whole country on belittling and subjugating others. Those folk used, abused and suppressed black folk, indigenous folk, Irish and Italian and Chinese folk as well. The ‘melting pot’ and individual freedoms of religion and self are the lie of America. Those things were always tongue in cheek.

What is interesting is that the lie of America is now it’s near undoing. The U.S. Constitution speaks of liberty and justice for all but the courts and politicians have always held one hand behind their backs, with fingers crossed, while standing under the wall-mounted plaque that says ‘In God We Trust’. Now, Marjorie Taylor Greene (posh spelling, by the way) and Trump (adulterated from it’s original German) with company are rearing up their ugliness without even a whisper of shame. Those folk and others of their ilk (posh word) would have America be a sort of great that it always and never was. They bring intolerance into the open, and bury the constitution’s false promise. As a result of that burying, the country is in a state of flux. Things could go very badly. Very badly.

Things could go well, also. With luck, the current crop of conservatives might be driven out of the North American continent as well as their forebears were driven out of Europe. Fairy came back to us as a useable word, maybe the American Lie can come true? I don’t know. Ya know what? I am feeling pretty queer this morning, isn’t that odd?

June 1, 2021

On June 6, my ex-husband will be 62 years old. He will be an old-codger then and have another year further to look back on. He will be one of any number of human souls who made it to the final act portion of three-act living. I beat him there. My dad beat me, so did my mom, so did my older brother. So did Mum. None of my immediate ones beat me by a mile, as I did not beat my former spouse by much…9 years ain’t a lifetime, is it? (unless you are a mayfly but that’s another story) All the creatures get to this part, if they are lucky or unlucky, some things do really depend on point of view and circumstance. We all share that much, point of view and circumstance, along with eating food and fouling a place afterwards, moving to the next place. In between, there are lots of stupid things we deliberately do or don’t. I don’t know why the power that is, was and will be set things up like that but that’s the way it is, was and will be.

In the movement that stars and planets, moons and daffodils perform, there isn’t a heck of a lot of use in looking backwards or forwards. Looking forward is not much use when the inertia of light speed is pushing you. “So step on the brakes, see what good that’ll do.” or “Shit..well, we hit it before I could say ‘Look out!'” For the stars and planets, backwards is a mighty long way and impossible to revisit. How the heck do you slow down and turn around? As humans, we can’t revisit where we have been, either. That place we were has changed, it isn’t there any more. We do try returning, of course. We aren’t all that smart, are we? We look back in our minds or actually try physically returning but the place has moved on. Other feelings live there now. They are different. We look back, evaluate but what good does the looking back do? (Maybe it offers a warning for the looking ahead part, I don’t know. The shit of it is, things change. What not to do in future becomes something different.)

I don’t think the daffodil or the cat looks back to evaluate anything. Maybe they do, secretly but the appearence is that the last moment does not matter, nor does the next. Does the pussycat reflect on his foolishness in jumping to the toilet and discovering the seat was open, not closed? Does he wring his paws with angst? Nope. (He does shake them a bit, I am witness.) I think the pussycat is focused on where he is going more than how he almost splash-dived to get there. He is in the moment of jumping, calculating trajectory and such. No time to look much further forward and you can’t look over your shoulder while traveling forward at speed. Even being human and so-called superiour, we can’t look back and forward, simultaneously. It is nicer to stay in the moment and possibly avoid that old lady who is crossing against the light. Not the one two blocks ahead, the one RIGHTHERE! No sense to end her last third prematurely. Probably get a lot of flack from those who depend on her pension. “Dammit, Grandma…now what?”

The daffodil just grows as much as he or she can, leaning or reaching in the direction of sun and water. For the lovely things, it isn’t possible to do anything except accept what comes their way and what space they are in. Not at all useful to look back toward the seed and the bee and the endless repeating story. And forward? Nossir, not much use looking forward when you are rooted by genetics and molecular biology to the spot you are in, a victim of or plaything of sun/water/wind.

I could have regrets and I could have fears. Oh my gosh, there are stacks of events now to reflect on. I was a spendthrift, a drunk, a jailbird, a bad lover, a wandering husband, a mean little snot. Oh yeah. I have the next few minutes of future as well. The stove could blow up? Donald Trump could become King Of Everything and end world hunger, strife. That could happen. The sun could explode, accidentally. I might have a heart attack when I get my TV cable bill and all that pay-per-view naughtiness comes to roost. The past and future, the regret and fear are real things but what drawer is best for them? Do I really have space to keep them? Do I need them? Aren’t they in the way? Don’t I stumble over them all the bloody time? Are they really useful to cling to?… (But I love that one, the dark grey…That is the time I was bad to my dear old Mum – I think I will keep that regret a while, even if it only fit for a moment and was forgiven long, long, long ago.)

I woke thinking about water and erosion. Reflecting on what I woke thinking, I think more.  How many kinds of erosion might there be, how many kinds of water. I woke thinking about the sea, in particular,  the sea and rocks, sand, gravel, waves both lapping and crashing.  I have been to the ocean and seas in several places.  I visited the gravel beaches of southern England, I stepped out into the Atlantic Ocean in Florida and in New Jersey.  I walked along the shore in western Newfoundland and in Vancouver, British Columbia.  I lost my breath watching the Bay of Fundy tide rise, quick and so deep! I walked along the sand at Schevenegen In Holland and I visited the Pacific Ocean again in California.  I have seen a Mediterranean beach in Greece, Adriatic beach in Italy, Caribbean beaches in Mexico and Florida. Those are wildly different places but in every case, it is rock being broken, shaped and ground to sand by water and fellow rocks.  I am amazed and grateful that I have been to all of those places, seen all of that power, observed magnificence.  

Who knew that a little boy from Grass Lake, Michigan would ever see the ocean?  Who knew I would witness power?  At the shore of my hometown’s namesake lake, there is very little erosion and few rocks.  Most of that little town’s erosion comes during a heavy rain and we had to bring the sand in by truck.  Grass Lake is a wide spot in a creek, really.  It is shallow, mucky, reed choked and full of life,  full with nearly stagnant water.  Mosquitos, minnows, pike, perch, frogs, water beetles, dragon flies and a million little birds disquiet any calm summer day.  Erosion might be a dream of the water, there. Yeah,  the water probably wishes it were an ocean, lifting rocks and smashing them  to bits, making as much noise as all that wildlife.

I have been a few other places and seen other erosion.  I have been a lot of places, really and seen lots of erosion.  There was wind erosion in Arizona and Nevada.  The desert sand shaped towers out of rock there.  Where there were hills, sand pushed by wind scraped away the loose stuff and left the hard core standing. Wind is powerful as water.  Combined with the rock they push, water and wind smash everything eventually. It is as though someone? or something? had said, “Let there be small stuff out of big stuff and let the smooth stuff make it so!”  Ha.  

Of course, I am leading up to something here, aren’t I?  “Let there be small stuff made of big stuff and let smooth stuff make it so….”  

See you in a bit.  Lots to do today, I am enroute for Niagara Falls and the Day Of One Thousand Musicians.  Yep.  999 musicians and one poser.  I will have the guitar and I can play some of the chords, so I am going to stand in the park and make noise.  I will make noise like the ocean and the rocks and the wind.

There is tired
and there is tired…

an old woman leans, is patient, observes from her second floor railing. The straightened steel is a haunting black that’s just dry, not enough time has ambled through the barnyard yet. There has been nothing extra for healing yesterday’s burned out truck so it sits, without tires, immobile. Rusted fenders and multiple small punctures are a reminder to look close at things. Otherwise, this is a hushed paradise of green and the remaining family sell blended lavender to tourists. Life is almost as usual but the tourists are too quiet, too respectful. They buy a hand-made sachet, aware the contents must be disposed of before climbing on a homeward-headed aircraft.

This woman casts a vague sigh in no particular direction. She is between tasks, the sort of tasks an old woman can still do. A little washing up, a bit of cooking, a sweep or two at encroaching dust are manageable. She takes her time, she rests a bit. There is only a little work, a little time, a little breathing, a little bit of heartbeat left.

May 17, 2021

I am not alone angry. It sure looks as though everyone has a degree or so of anger, waiting at the ready. In my particular case, since I have unrealistically high standards, anger wants to spill right over. It’s boiling, fed by the flames of politics and bad behaviour. I am disgusted. I am more than disgusted. I am so thoroughly disgusted that I am disgusted with myself: for slipping up, for bad habits, for lounging around sighing, for not doing the things I know bring me pleasure, for not feeling joy in living. I can’t go out and sing, can’t go to a restaurant and eat too much, can’t hang with my buddies, can’t have folks over to dinner, can’t travel to a distant hotel, can’t, can’t, can’t. I am feeling it.

I struggle to stay in my lane, folks. At the present, it is sometimes nearly more than I can do to remain civil in a public setting when a fellow idiot lets go of their tenuous hold on reality. I try to wait my turn at the traffic circle, a fool cuts me off and speeds into the distance, grinning like The Joker gone from his medications. They let go their better sense and go for it. It. Whatever ‘it’ may be. I very dearly wish to let go as well.

At the marina today (where I have to go since I can’t go to Starbucks) a group of ‘older gentlemen’ parked their damned lawn chairs on the sidewalk, instead of the grass. Now, I (or anyone) need(s) to walk around them. It’s rude and they just don’t see it. The odd thing is that they probably see me malfunctioning as well. I could see that snort of disapproval on their faces. Are we all seeing only rudeness, disobedience from others? Yeah. Yeah, I think so. We have skewed glasses on. Skewed and distorted lenses of television, radio, internet talk at us and fill us with dread. We have a shit-coloured view. Politicos, talking heads, the constant rape, murder and mayhem that masquerades as art — all conspire. They are like decibels. When one person sings, then another chimes in. For each additional person chiming in, there is approximately a 3 decibel rise in overall level. Each 10 decibel rise is a doubling of perceived volume. …so, 4 people screaming about something is about twice as loud as one person screaming.

The pandemic is testing us. Yeah, we’ll make it through. We will make it to the other side because there are still enough reasonable people. There are still enough people who grit their teeth and wait patiently. There are still enough people who don’t flare or flame out and succumb to the base nature of a human being, the need to kill what offends. “If thine neighbour offend thee — pluck him out!” Our numbers dwindle. Fewer and fewer of us are going to take this sXXt lying down! Nossir!