Well friends, that was a Christmas or Channukah or general celebration to remember. For all persuasions, all around the world, we have a little something to remember. The days around this time of year will take on extra significance in each of our private histories. Grandmas and Grandpas will have stories to tell, “Remember that Christmas we were so broke?” (Auntie Mame) I am given to understand that winter solstice is a pagan celebration, that Christianity hijacked the celebration, that Channukah is usually a minor celebration in the Jewish calendar, that Ramadan only sometimes occurs near mid-December, that Kwanzaa and other events may not be high holidays or occur near the solstice. I don’t even know what the Hindu do? Whatever it is that we do separately, whatever it is we usually do, we all did it but we did less than in previous years. We cooked less, we ate less, we bought and gifted less, we drove less. We flew less. I can imagine that only a few folks put on sack-cloth robes and gathered at the Stone Henge. There were fewer turkeys sacrificed, a couple of pigs lived to wallow another day. There were latkes left over to put in the freezer.

It was not a bad time at all. Each of us made it through, or we didn’t. That is the way of it. At every juncture the whole of our existence there are the same conditions. Some of us make it through, some don’t. There is plenty to eat or there is not. There are many people dead, there are many survivors. I glow today. I am feeling odd today. I am feeling that this is the way of life, that no time is better, no time worse…we only have different times.

This winter solstice was different than most. In one huge wave, we flowed sort – of together. For one moment, one season, one year…the entire of human beings were slowed down together. It is world-wide and synchronized. We each had to stand clear a bit, stay home a bit, keep distance and do less…a bit. There were fewer planes, fewer cars, fewer horse or ox-drawn vehicles. The skies were clearer, the moon brighter? Nay, probably not that much. There was, though, less of everything and it was universal. Interesting. We have proven that an advanced creature can work toward the common good, once, for a brief time. It’s a win. A small win. Infinitesimal but a win.

I had a good time, this late December and I hope you did, to. I ate less, traveled less, saw way fewer people and treasured the time all the more. I guess I was pretty lucky.

Aha. Folks are beginning to bother the baby jesus out of me! In righteous, Christmas mood fashion, the arse-holes are out in force! Grrrrr. “Merry f’n Xmas to you!” Okay… so I left it late, as well. I am as Covid jammed in as everyone else. “Who gives you the right to sneak around the end of the barrier, Mr. GuY!” “Okay, lady…you can’t reach your gas cap from this direction anyway, so why are you blocking my forward progress through the lane? Hmm? Hmmm?” “Okay, go ahead and screech your tires as you speed around me! I am only waiting in line like the other reasonable folk!” oh, and…”Don’t you dare cut in front of me to get to the auto-teller first! I am a former American! Do you know how dangerous they are?” Grrrrrrrr.

“Stuff yourselves, I’m feeling grumpy…fa la la la la, la la la la…” Haha.

And, after my foray into the wilds of the marketplace…I discover that I forgot the raisins! Darrrrnnnnnnn it! Well, I have to go visit the butcher anyway, so…off I go. The butcher is so handsome and friendly that I go there now, just to have a lift in my spirits! I think I am in love, though It does tire me out, the rapid batting of my eyes and the coyness. He might be suspicious. I ordered a steak just to keep him in view, bending his backside towards me! I suppose visiting his store is financial foolishness but who cares what a steak costs?

Here comes a blank Christmas holiday. The first time in some thirty-odd years that my younger brother and I will not be having lunch at Habb’s. Shoot, that sucks. I love that little place! Every year they have the exact same Christmas tree up, with it’s red lights and opaque frosted glass ornaments. Every year the same appetizer bread, the same pewter bread plates! So lovely. I will miss that. Yeah, it is only a day. It is only one day in the year and I am not even so committed a Christian. What is the grief in waiting until next year to drink too much Canadian Club and sing too loudly? It can wait while we sort out how to work around the little bugs that wreaked this havoc. Just the same, it is a super huge drag, isn’t it?

As in olden days, I have tasks laid out that will keep me busy all the rest of today and most of tomorrow. My bad. I had plenty of time. I dragged my feet. I arranged for my last Christmas gift only yesterday afternoon! Since I had to send it, it won’t arrive in time. Whoa! Now, I am committed to a series of exercises (somewhat military) in the kitchen. With luck, I will be too distracted to write my MP and complain about stuff. I won’t have time to send a letter of disaffection to the editor, either. What a botheration!

Merry Christmas, everyone! Happy holidays. If your holiday doesn’t align with Christmas or you don’t do holidays – have a pleasant day anyway! (just get outta my way…I gotta get some f’n raisins!)

I am engrossed with writing a poem and have no idea about where it is heading. It has evolved from ‘Why Am I So Mad at God’ to ‘Am I Mad At God?’ Hmmm. I am enjoying the writing but it is work. I have to approach it like a job, of all things. Ha. A creative job? A job that requires me to get up in the morning, have breakfast, have a schedule? A job with planning? One problem I have with creative endeavor is planning. I often start with a vague idea or a vague sound or a vague direction that evolves as the words appear on paper (well, not paper – a back-lit screen). I am not truly aware if other folks do that. Do they? I should research the question and quiet my mind.

I remain uncertain of my value as a writer. Until I sell my first million copies, it is just a hobby. Until Margaret Atwood calls and asks me to dinner, wanting to pick my brain over a tough-to-produce story line, writing is a thing I waste time with. I have good friends who tell me otherwise. It has even been my good fortune to have a creative writing instructor and a paid/published/experienced writer tell me, “Hey, I think you should get this stuff published.” Whether I am good, whether I am not, the truth is somewhere in between and has something to do with educated opinion. I don’t trust my friends, they love me and don’t want me hurt. I don’t trust the professsionals because I assume they were being encouraging and kind. I guess opinion doesn’t count to me, unless it is a negative opinion. It’s best when I hear, “This is crap.” I always say that. Then I get lost in “Why bother to do this, you don’t know what you are doing? You idiot!” Then, I stop for a while. Sometimes, I burn the pages or delete the files to free up space on the computer for important things, like recipes or horoscope charts or little stories for my journal about the neighbours and squirrels.

There have been long years between bursts of creative ambitions. Once, fifty years ago, I burned every last page of the writing I had done over 10 years. At least, I thought I had burned them. Turns out that a family friend had kept a couple pages of my very first writing. Something I had written at age ten or so, was held safe. The family friend wasn’t particularly close and I will never understand why they had the pages or why they kept them? Weird. My first impulse is to believe that the pages were kept as a sort of ransom. “Ha, this crap will embarrass him badly some day. If he gets lucky and gets rich, we can extort some money. Good idea!” Then, they got bored with waiting for a miracle. Understanding the lack of opportunity, they simply called my brother to come and get the crappy one-page, two act play called, ‘Go easy on the Elderberry, Nero!’ “Get this out of here,” they said.

I am frustrated by my miserable efforts, in part because I have so many good friends who really shine. My gosh! I have a music friend that moved to North Bay who has played drums and guitar for folks like Jeff Healey, for goodness’ sake! He is a great jazz guitarist and I am sure an even better drummer since he tends to apologize that the guitar isn’t his primary instrument. I have a woman friend who isn’t classically trained but who has a natural talent, a real gift! Her abilities are completely amazing and she learns quickly, to accompany herself on the ukelele. Jazz Uke? Oh, yeah. She writes deep and soulful songs. I also have friends with amazing resume’s. One couple have been very high up the musical ladder and yet choose to live here and be my friends. They are wonderful musicians and keep us all thrilled with their work. I know a guy who uses the microphone stand as a bottleneck slide when he plays guitar! Good looking fella, too! All these folks let me hang out with them and sometimes tolerate my guitar or piano ‘stylings’ ha.

What strikes me is that I don’t have writer friends in person. The friends I have who write are mainly ‘facebook friends’. I know two who have published several works – well written things. They do care what I think but are distant, as FB is. My guess is that I haven’t taken my writing seriously enough to bring it out on stage or show it to anyone other than Facebook. While I can sing and play (knowing that no one is taking it seriously helps) I can’t bring myself to stand up in front of others and make literary noise yet. As a result, I haven’t dared ingratiate myself with a ‘writing’ crowd. Ha. Me so silly.

It sure is chilly today. Right to the bone

December 21, 2020

Oh boy. Those were my Dad’s nearly last words. I don’t remember what else he may have said, it couldn’t be much because immediately afterward, he dropped into a coma and emerged just once, for a brief flutter. The short swim up into consciousness was to express disgust at an embarrassing physical incident. He was fully awake a second and I leaned in to hold him out of the mess, reassured him the nurse was coming to clean up. He returned to Morpheus’ embrace and died about 5 days later. As to actual last words, there could have been something further, I guess. I don’t remember. Memory fails on all the details but I do remember he said, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy”. He repeated that phrase in urgent whispered, rapid succession. He knew what was going to happen, I think. Beyond that last expression, the aware communications I had with him were twice and of non-verbal nature. The first, he looked at me in a very child-like way, smiled and gave a little-boy cheerful wave. It was later he woke to frown and show utter disgust. I think I shall remember only the sunny little boy wave he gave me.

My dad was an ordinary man, a good man fundamentally. That means, at the base, at the foundation, he was a good man. He had a lot of flaws, lots of weaknesses. Maybe more than others? I don’t know. Most of his flaws came back on him, not anyone else. Some of them involved us, of course…that happens in families, but his flaws didn’t involve allowing hundreds of thousands of people to die. His flaws didn’t involve imprisoning innocent people who ‘snuck into the country’ illegally. My dad was a racist who knew he was wrong in that and never exposed his children to that point of view. He tried to change. I think he did, in the end. My dad was a homophobe, too, yet when I sat him down to tell him I was gay, he said, “Oh! Well, you were so nervous, I thought you were going to tell me something serious.” He acted with love and his heart changed. My dad was able to work around his flaws and be decent. His last words meant something.

The last words I heard from Ed’s mom were, “We are glad you came!” She spoke carefully, with certainty and meaning but one word at a time. It was Christmas and we were at the dinner table, finishing up. Some of the guests already had their coats on, having additional engagements in the busiest season of our Christian year. Mum thought the party was breaking up and she was saying her goodbyes. She didn’t remember who I was and I knew that in the moment. She didn’t remember my name or what my relationship to her was but she made a point of saying those words to me. She was nearly fully aware and she wanted me to know how she felt. It was sincere. When I returned a day or so later to visit, she no longer spoke, she just smiled or frowned or sighed contentedly. I treasure her last words to me. When I am too much for myself, I can try to remember what she said to me and I can keep going.

Ed’s mom was ordinary, she wasn’t rich or well-educated or glamourous. She didn’t cook brilliant meals. You were invariably going to have pot roast, sliced tomato, thin sliced cucumber, mashed potato and jello for dessert at her house. She wasn’t brilliant in the kitchen but she was giving, she WANTED to cook and do for others. She might have seemed common to many but her talents were great. She was remarkable in her own fashion. She kept an incredibly clean house, was great at mathematics and she was honest. Honest to the bone. She never used her skill with numbers to screw people she owed money to. When she said something, she meant it and everyone loved her for it. Her last words were the most important she ever spoke. (…and she did love to talk!)

My own mother’s last memorable words in my prescence were, “Well, it must be worse than I thought. You are ALL here.” That revealed her true wit and cleverness, summed it right up. The remainder of her communications were all matter-of-fact, “…yes, another blanket…could you ask her to turn the television down…no, I am not really hungry.” My younger brother was in steady conversations with the nurses after that, since the home was locked down and none of us could visit. We couldn’t do window visits or even Facetime visits. No one was available to move her to any window we could have seen her from and she us. The border quickly closed and I couldn’t travel after that. Complicating matters was that she wouldn’t answer or talk on the phone and was never much bothered with any other, newer technology. The nurses had to relay her condition and concerns to my brother. Her care-givers were good to her and they were the only ones to hear her final words. I think those words could honestly have been, “…may I have something to make me sleep?” as reported by the nurse. The humility of those words rings out loud and clear.

Mom was always respectful, always polite, always well mannered and intelligent. She, too was an ordinary and flawed person. Her flaws kept her in a dark place the whole time she was living. Her salvation was the love of reading, the love of knowledge, the love of handwork. She was a master at knitting, crocheting and sewing. Her upsy-downsy finances never allowed her to buy much of anything. If she needed something, she had to make it. She would not be Barbara Striesand’s favourite person, in that she never accomplished much, apparently. There was the matter of personal survival, though. Mom did that extremely well. In her surviving life, I don’t remember a time she was ever rude or selfish or cruel. No matter her own situation, she never put herself above another soul. She didn’t have much but she had that and it’s so much more than many do. It’s more than many so-called ‘important’ people have.

When I woke today, the first shot of news was frightening. The province goes back to full lockdown, Christmas Eve. We will be back to the initial frozen movement in just a few days. Then, two minutes later, came news that an extremely contagious variant of the virus is breaking out in the U.K. We are in it deep, my friends. My great fear is that things are just beginning, not nearly ending as we thought. I was allowing relief to creep in (on little kitty-paw feet, Like Sandberg’s fog). I was relaxing. I wasn’t thoroughly fearful before but am becoming so, now. (Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy).

The U.S., particularly, is in dire shape. I believe that the fibres are separating, the fabric rent. The leaders, the bright, the influential, the supposed ‘best of’ are not that, they are more common and seem to be lower than dirt. If (and I do sincerely hope the otherwise comes true) leadership fails, the fully exploding country will spread a wicked poison around the world. I am mindful, fearful of that as Covid also moves it’s way around and insinuates itself. A great number of us ought to be writing our last words or planning them. We can make them famous or we can make them infamous – as some other ‘last words’. The other words I mean are those of the would-be triumphant king, Donald Trump. I can be honest and say I hope there are no more of his words disseminated! He is a paradox. He is everything our society despises, all wrapped up in a package that claims to be ‘larger than life, the best, the most superiour, the greatest ever seen’. He and his cohorts drip with everything negative that was ever said of my Mom, my Dad and my dear Mother-in-law. I hope that his last words were “It’s just the flu, it will disappear…just like that” …because I can’t hear any more!

My writing software just sent me Christmas greetings? I am not sure I like that. I prefer my machines to just shut up and perform a function. I, without a sense of shame, prefer my machines to look pretty and keep out of the conversation but I don’t expect my machines to bring me a drink, not even if I tap an empty bottle or cup on the table and raise my eyebrows. I am a modern, equitable man and don’t think my machines should have to light my cigar, though I don’t want my machines to offer their opinion, either. My software is a typewriter, as far as I am concerned. It is a machine. It is not an intelligent being. It does not owe me anything beyond the parameters of typewriters that organize type accurately according to my bidding. If I am typing, then I do not want my typewriter to ‘suggest’ corrections, I do not want my typewriter to know what day it is, I do not want my typewriter to ‘greet’ me. I don’t want my typewriter to ‘autofill’ and complete my sentences. Worst? I don’t want my machine to say ‘Merry Christmas’ in Times New Roman, 12pt. If I am typing, I want my typewriter to print letters in a neat, orderly, legible fashion and in a font of MY choice,completely disregarding what time of year it is. Period.

That much aside, I usually feel bah/humbug around this time of year anyway. It’s easy enough for me to be overwhelmed by what presents I should give and to whom, or how much of which type booze to drink and whether it should be mixed or straight, how many cookies to make for others, how many for myself. When I have all of these electronic devices informing me what holiday is coming up, that just makes it worse. I turn on the computer, a reindeer and sleigh swoop across the screen. I open the microwave door, a little jerky motion Santa displays on the L.E.D. screen? I open my Christmas card and get a soulless midi version of, “We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas…” until the best thing for it is to get a hammer and put these things out of my misery. If such magic as an appropriate seasonal greeting is possible, why do I have to re-program day and time whenever the power goes off? It ain’t right.

Sigh.

I can almost imagine how it must be for our fellow humans of other religious indoctrination. “Yeah, yeah.. Merry f’n Christmas to you and by the way, Happy Kwanzaa, a pleasant Solstice and Happy Hanukkah!” (which holiday is spelled 24 different ways, according to the Oxford English Dictionary and does not occur on December 25. Just imagine how difficult it is for a software designer to figure out which way to spell Channukah in blue light? No wonder they can’t get the electric boxes to figure out what time it is …and, the Islamic calendar is lunar, not solar so what then? Their microwaves and writing software must have to guess whether it is Ramadan or Eid or, or…) It is little wonder that most people get grumpy when the days get to their shortest length of the year.

I am grumpy, too.

My treat-loving squirrel must be resting the last few days. I see no imaginary tiny hats on a furry head, no one scampers across the skinny neighbour’s garage roof. The tree is empty of more than just it’s leaves, with the resident beast not out or about, not resting on the big branches. His/her part of the parade past my window has changed, tilted slightly. M. Squirrel is… absent. There are no further daily mysteries to report upon. I have no dried out cookies or doughnuts at my doorstep today, none yesterday. I am concerned.
I would call the authorities, excepting that my understanding is they will not search for and I may not report one gone missing for at least 48 hours after the event.

It seems that %90 of missing squirrels return on their own within a 48 hour time period. According to the cops, It’s true of people as well. The men and women in blue (or red blazers and funny hats, depending)may have a point when they caution that creatures slip out of their habits occasionally. I had an uncle who disappeared for days, months at a time every little once in a while. He went to Chicago sometimes, to Florida once. Maybe M. Squirrel is in Chicago? That must be it. M. does not need to go to Florida, he hasn’t gone bankrupt and won’t be able to take advantage of the quite liberal property laws there. I read that in Florida, Jared and Ivanka may keep their primary residence safe from creditors. It doesn’t matter how lavish or pricey the primary residence is, the creditors may not seize it. M. Squirrel could have a primary residence there, too, if it were necessary. It is not. M. has no issue with the banks, being quite independant and frugal. He may act ‘squirrelly’ the way J. and I. do, but he is a much more careful manager. He stays off twitter and out of the newspapers.

I do worry about M. Squirrel and hope he hasn’t gone off to some sort of rendezvous with accident. Such alignments are our fate as living creatures (and I consider myself of that ilk). Accident abounds, waits in the bushes for us. Accident drives too fast down our little laneway and catches up with it’s title. (Bear that in mind, new renters! I see you Zooming by my window!) That is just part of it. Though we are each integral to the scheme and important in our own ways, accidents do happen. We go missing for 48hours, sometimes for more. Sometimes the missing part is permanent. There are folks who blame God when accidents happen but I don’t. God didn’t create accidents – read your bible. He created the heavens and the earth and all the walkers, crawlers, swimmers and birds of the air but there wasn’t a mention of accident. I don’t even think that Satan created accidents. Accidents are called accidents for a reason – they happen by accident. God may smite you or Satan may get you to sign a contract but it won’t be an accident. I have been smitten, I have signed contracts and I know.

Poor M. Squirrel. If something untoward has happened, I don’t know what I would do without him. He is a part of the story of my laneway neighbourhood. He is a part of the ‘fabric’ as they say. This entire ‘fabric’ is called Otton Lane but might as well be called ‘Sesame Street’. I say ‘Sesame Street’ because M. Squirrel used to leave a sesame seed bagel on my window sill every little once in a while. At first, I thought it was possibly a gift from the ‘Mayor’. A gift meant to erase hard feelings between us. A gift meant to say, “I apologize for doing a Google search and analysis of you and telling the other neighbours what to do”. It wasn’t. I discovered this recently. One day, I caught M. Squirrel banging a hardened sesame bagel on the brick to break off a piece for lunch. He was making more noise than the Mayor claimed I was. The sound made was a curious tapping, or rapping, somewhere near my front door and I went to check. It was M. I miss that irritating sound already and it hasn’t been more than 48 hours.

M. Squirrel is(was) one of many creature characters here. There are other similarities, like that, to the TV version of Sesame Street. For example, M. and some of the others here have fur, notably Skinny Shirtless Guy with his little beard, but none have blue fur. None have yellow feathers and stand six feet tall. None are green with webbed feet. As well, only M. Squirrel eats/ate cookies messily. There is no person or thing named Bert and none Ernie. I should say that with reservation because I haven’t learned the name of Skinny Shirtless Guy or Mysterious Sneaky Slouching Guy. Either of them could be a Bert or an Ernie. Lastly, there is me. Though I am not on the TV version of Sesame street, I am here. I direct things from my seat by the window. I make up little stories about the folks and beasts, their trials, tribulations, successes.

Here on ‘Sesame Street/Otton Lane’, I am the only resident celebrity. I am the famous writer who can’t get published and can’t get book tours anymore, so I live here. The people who watch ‘Otton Lane’ don’t know who I am though I am still famous. The producers say I lend an air of ‘respectability’ to the proceedings. There are times I invite another celebrity over to sing a couple songs about the letter Z…(that’s not true. I do have celebrities over but I can’t figure out how to get them to play or sing. I am working on that. I think they probably want to be paid.) When my celebrity friends are here, we tell stories to each other so the people watching can learn about M. Squirrel and M. Pussaycat. It eases the monotony of singing, “A – a deer a female deer. B – a drop of golden sun…” for them. Plus, we aren’t supposed to sing anymore.

If I think about it, I suppose M. Squirrel could have legitimate, unrelated to accident reasons for being absent. Under the latest Covid restrictions, M. might be in quarantine. That explains his absence. He/she must be watching Netflix and eating the bagel or cookies or doughnuts alone. Next time he is out and about, I bet he weighs more than I do. We will have a weighing-in contest. He will get on the scale, then I will. The first one of us to cause the scale to make a creaking noise wins. I can hardly wait for the 48 hours to be up so that I can report M. missing, if he still is.

This year is closing in on the next year. Days are shorter, most of the birds have gone on to their un-travel-restricted vacation homes. The squirrels are busy as heck, running around and packing the last few calories on before they start taking their intermittent breaks, the little siestas. Hard done by, lawnmowers are silent. Each breeze has hardened itself a bit, chills what it kisses or bruises what it punches. Everything is wrapping up, maybe with a bright little bow of expectation for a time that is assumed to return, maybe in plain brown. Maybe a hinted possibility of returning spring sifts into your memory, triggered by the last leaf from the year of 2020 drifting down. In the mean-time, this next shift must start. Having ground down to temporary halt, routine will hesitate for a while. Dressed for work in washed out non-colour grey/white and utter darkness, the quiet of an earth gone silent a spell is ready to begin it’s task.

It is at this point, we can let go. Approaching winter reminds that what can be done has been done, we are prepared or not. Nature will proceed in it’s own way, no sense belabouring anything more. It is now that a brief light of celebration will glow in the hearts of us – pagan or otherwise. Relax, what is, is. Perhaps best of all, this year is a turn of government down south. I am so ready, the rest of the world is so ready. Going to be a different sort of year coming up. One way or another, Trump will be fading out of the news cycle soon. I am grateful for that. He already has lost part of the front page to the other things and people that have been happening all along. There is, indeed, something beyond a narcissitic, pathetic small boy and his antics, tantrums, ruses.

It still astounds me that folks will follow Donny and others of his ilk, when they so obviously are the worst possible choices as leader. I think of the arrogance of Moamar Qaddafy, the tyranny of Saddam Hussein, the unstable treachery and ruthlessness of Josef Stalin. None of that seems to be remembered long. After the perpetrators of evil are gone on to their inevitable rewards, a time comes that folks forget. It is as though the comfortable fat summer of any new tyrant’s illusory success lulls a tiny mind to complacence. Memory dims or doubts itself. Then, as ever, in a final gasp of glory, the Emperor parades in his new clothes one fine autumn day. In the current case of the United States of America, half the people see nothing of substance and have prepared for coming winter, half the people celebrate. Did Trump win a new suit of clothes or is he parading naked?

Hm. We are about to see a proof of what is, a change is beginning. There is nothing more to be worried over. Winter has settled. All that can be done is done. History shows that the Emperor’s clothing is in the eye of the beholder and that half of the beholders are going to be proven wrong. Half the beholders/witnesses are warmly dressed, half believe themselves to be but are not. Some will get chilly. The birds are gone, the squirrels busy, the grey/white and darkness is upon us. Chillax, if we freeze to death, nothing can be done anyway. Hm. Maybe, I should turn up my cheap-skate thermostat?

I am lately running later and later in the day to get started on work projects. Today is a further expansion of my time at idle. The Covid conditions are affecting me as well as all the rest of us. It will take a long while for folks to understand and recover from this sense of isolation. Even the folks who have eschewed mask-wearing and staying home are feeling the effects. You can see it in faces you pass, the eyes tell the story. Some are frustrated, angry, blaming government, wanting government to do less than governments are doing world-wide. Some are subdued, fearful, wanting governments to do more than they have done. It is often said that ‘you can’t have it both ways’.

Are governments doing the right thing? I don’t know. I don’t think any one knows. There isn’t a history, there isn’t a precedent other than 1918. The plague doesn’t count because at that time, there was far less knowledge of the human body and diseases it is susceptible of. The plague was bad, the flu pandemic of 1917-18 or so was awful, too. Millions died. During the plague, governments tried to intervene but had no idea what to do, what measures would help. In 1918, governments reacted almost identically to what is happening now. Schools went outdoors or closed and there were various degrees of other lockdown measures. Our case is little different in that respect. No, so far Covid and it’s forbears, ‘sars’ etcetera have not destroyed millions of lives. The likely reason for that is the sets of precautions governments have put in place. The anti-vax and anti-mask crowd haven’t thought about that.

So. Here we sit, champing at the bit of Covid-19. We are eager to get back but unaware there is no getting back. Times have changed, for good. For better, for worse? Who knows. The only thing we know is that times have changed. Predictably, some folks roll with the changes, some rebel against them. How many of us do which one is a crucial matter. Since Covid has been politicized, I have a good guess at our immediate future. Judging strictly on the vast number of people who voted for Donald Trump – we are going to have some rocky road for a while. I have a suspicion that those folks are the ones less willing to accept the changes our world is traveling through. Those changes are more than Covid restrictions.

We have taken capitalism to our breaking point. The future, if we are to survive, looks more to be in the hands of some sort of democratic socialism. That is where we have to go. That is where we will likely end up, no matter what. It was rampant capitalism that cut down all the hardwood trees in North America. Capitalism flooded the air, the rivers and lakes with poisons, continues to do so.Capitalism and imperialism enslaved the dark skinned folks, stripped them of their cultures and heritage, robbed them of anything they owned. Capitalism destabilized the world, creating a huge underclass and a tiny upper class. Capitalism impoverished generations of folks. Capitalism drives it’s shiny new car down broad throughfares, leaving the majority of folks in the dust. Those folks are grim-faced and ready to explode.

Innovation, ambition are not bad things. Rewarding them is not a bad thing. Essentially, the idea of capitalism is not a bad thing. Yes, for effort expended a person should be rewarded. I should be able to sustainably make of myself what I can, do what I wish, live as I wish. That would be a pure Capitalism, taking what I have and building something better out of it. We have seen that our capitalist forms are not pure. They don’t advance us as a group. We are susceptible of a horrific corruption, where greed and any number of other base human traits drive us apart, imprisoning some and freeing others. We are marching toward destruction. We are not working together. We are not building together. We are working for ourselves, disregarding the group.

Covid and the Donald brought out who we are for all to see. We are cold, we are not community. The small businesses suffer, the large ones with political clout have enriched themselves. The mask fools are spreading Covid as fast as they speak. Those in masks become targets. Vaccines will subdue some of this but the evidence is clear that we are self-absorbed, gone shallow. We have weak politicians who are bowing to the multi-nationals and leaving the less moneyed and therefore powerless on the sidelines. We believe in tyrants of all descriptions, far-left, far-right.

Of course, only half of us do believe and behave badly. Only half of us are pro-right wing. Only half of us pro-left wing. Only half of us promote an indiscriminate individualism. Only half of us promote a restrictive groupism. Only half of us are pulling against the other half. If we survive, a sense of duty to the group will combine with a duty to the self. It will have to balance into a sort of social democracy, where we take care of each other and the planet before we build towers and monuments.

Someone else will almost certainly say, “yesterday, December 7, 1941…etcetera”, today. I said it first thing in the morning, even though it won’t be effective until tomorrow morning. I got the jump on it. Actually, I didn’t ‘jump on it’ exactly. I did something more akin to sitting and typing on it. Since I had a nice cup of coffee before sitting and typing, I will be sitting on something else very soon. Sigh. Those who know me well will understand what I am talking about. My old friend and confidante, Mr. Coffee, has betrayed me in my later years. I have had incidents. Some of the incidents have been international, some more local. During the most heinous of my international incidents, a perfectly good pair of new underwear were abandoned in an airport toilet waste bin. It was amusing but I did feel a little exposed for the remainder of my trip home. The coffee that caused my episode was delicious, as this morning’s cup was. ‘scuse me for a moment.

I am back. That little distraction put me in mind of something else. A difficulty, as we age, that no one seems to discuss is: wiping up after a movement and it’s more cumbersome elements. Myself, I can’t bend and twist to reach around my expanding girth very well. Severe arthritis and bone spurs at C6 make such elaborate ballet nearly impossible. There are times I have had to ‘go between’ and that just doesn’t seem right. It’s unnatural. Because a bidet is completely unseemly, I have threatened friends that I may simply install a post. I shall call it ‘does a bear..question mark’ post. The post will, of course, have a foot pedal that, when depressed, will pull a new sheet of environmentally friendly material around the post after each use. The used material will be wound on a second roller and later washed, reused. I think it is a brilliant idea. For the sake of getting the idea out there and working, anyone may use it without fear of copyright or patent infringement.

Next time we meet, if you offer me coffee then later notice a noxious odour and can’t determine whence it rises, remember and note; I will most certainly be the one grinning facetiously and sidling out of the room at the time the mystery unfolds. If I suddenly reappear, wearing a new outfit? No, I am not being effette and ‘dressing for dinner’. I am being fastidious. I am not in the cast of Downton Abbey, I am just little ol’ ordinary me. Grin. The scene has played before. It happened recently. It happened before December 7.

In a dramatic understatement, my days of infamy have not been as extreme as that of the year 1941. While that particular December day of shit was an extraordinary day, mine have thus far been only moderately embarrassing days. My days have not been horrible. December 7 is an anniversary of horror. Sadly, not the only one. There are so many days of horror to mark in a year that it’s easy to lose count. It is easy to confuse horror with the mundane. It is easy to become blase. The aroma of horror fills our lives like a familiar, noxious cloud we can’t identify. The aroma of horror entices a little sniff, a wrinkled nose and a look away. We prefer not to acknowledge. We prefer not to really know. Somehow, we pretend the real is not real. We don’t want to engage with what is at it’s very least, embarrassing.

I wonder that I don’t finally quit coffee. I do try but almost always surrender to it’s delightful aroma. I get drawn in, wary or not. Our leaders prefer not to really quit encouraging horrible things, ordering horrible things done, then we get drawn in. The aroma of power wins out over good sense, wins out over considered, mutual, respectful engagement. Over and over and over and over. The same process, the same result. Tomorrow, yesterday, ad nauseum. Well, then.

Power, corruption, lies and coffee. Mmmmmmmm, irresistable. We are human, that is the way of it. Unfortunately, though it would be lovely to continue our ways, we are getting older. The body is changing and won’t accept the same things, the same poisons. There are more of us every hour. We can’t bend the way we used to and will have to build something fanciful we can rub up against and get clean. It’s our only choice if we don’t quit. We have been delighting in the odour of killing/warring/nationalism/righteousness. We have been drinking it all in, even though we know what will happen. There is plenty of history. Lots of abandoned underwear at the side of the human road. Some of it sticks up from under the surface of Pearl Harbour.

I am back to blogging from home. It is now grey-weather winter and the semi-lockdown has re-arrived. I can only attend Starbucks for a pick-up. Simon, Brandon, Jorge and the girls (Alex, Large Blonde – who impresses me with her brightness – and Brunette – who has my tea ready when she sees me across the parking lot) shout out to me in the drive -through as I whisk by, sad of eye. I feel pressed to move along against the “Please! sit-and-write.” of previous days. I am moderately addicted to the anti-depressants. I spend far too much time scrolling social media and drowning in the news. As a result, I have tried to find time for preparing my manuscript for publishing but can’t seem to find energy. I can’t go a day or two without a pill and not have a stress incident of some kind. Speaking of medication, the vaccine is on it’s way but likely won’t be here in the quantities needed until next September. Sigh.

In spite of all this, I am changing my style an almost imperceptible bit. I think I am healing but the truth remains to be certified. Maybe we need a larger sample group. But…lately, when an incident starts to swamp me…I laugh. It’s a small moment that readjusts the thinking. For example, I was in the kitchen (a very common place for me these days at 255 lbs?) and I was getting frustrated. I spilled water, dropped a cup then kept misplacing a tea towel… I stopped in mid-panic and smiled at the ludicrous situation. All things were going in the opposite of my desired direction. I paused. I grunted my appreciation of the humour. The stress lifted. I went on about my business.

When everything piles up, I am paused in my ‘frozen moment’. I can’t move, think, breathe a second or two from time to time but a snort of amusement thaws me. Is it this way – was it this way, always, during wars, famine, collapse? Did the romans snort a quick laugh as Vesuvius rained down on their vacation homes? Did General Custer say, “Ooops, my bad”, as the knife slid across his throat? I should do some research. I will have to look it up on-line since my parents are now gone and I can’t ask them. They got out while the getting was good. Ha. “Dr. Google? what the h is goin’ on?”