I am witnessing one of the more interesting outfits a man could wear, being worn, by a man.  A fellow is dressed completely in black except for some turquoise tennis/walking shoes.  The look is so complete.  He has on a little black mask, stretchy and fitted, tailored.  On his left arm is a compression wrap that covers three quarters of his otherwise exposed skin.  The wrap is black.  He has on an undecorated t-shirt, in black and is dressed in some peculiar black trousers.  There are three black buttons on the back side of the trouser legs where the cuff would be, if there was one.  They are stretchy and quite vulgar, almost dirty looking, like baggy leotards with no fly.  I have to assume the trousers are cheaply made because the seams show in an odd way, they are completely exposed.  The trousers look sort of like a blanket-stitched tent covering. It would appear that IF he is wearing underwear (and by the apparent size and shape of things, I guess not)…well I would bet they are black, too.   I am intrigued.  I would never leave the bedroom wearing something like that.  Hmmm. Maybe, he is finally doing the laundry and had to step out because there is no coffee in the house.  Maybe, he thinks he is Johnny Cash?  Nah. Maybe, he has no more money left.  Maybe, he is building a new house he has invested every last dime in and he’s had to scrounge the outfit from resale.

There seems to be an awful lot of too-expensive house construction going on in this little far-south tip of Canada.  Because we aren’t exactly a high-wage area I’m encouraged to wonder about that.  In the case of the homes being built, most are some sort of mansion house.  Each place, a little bigger than it’s neighbour, having a little extra space that will not be cleaned or maintained because it isn’t possible to do so without ‘staff’. I cannot figure where the money is coming from to do this constant ‘bigger than’ building.  I imagine myself to be middle class and I couldn’t afford  that kind of thing nor do I know many people who could.   Yes, mortgage rates are low but still…even the household dog would have to be donning an apron and dragging a tomato wagon on one of the farms.  Maybe the cats would deign to sell a belly rub or two on some street corner and help out?  Meow.

Construction and the cost of it comes up in conversation often.  Not the least of the costs are environmental and social ones.  Just because it can be done, should it be?  Is it moral to indulge ourselves in orgiastic space, chopping down every available tree, pushing all creatures into the new streets to join a homeless parade?  Is it ok to allow builders and real estate agents to push prices into the stratosphere because they can? As prices for real estate climb,  I wonder how those who are not established already will ever be able to own a place of their own and fully participate in community.  Is that a good thing for our future? Luckily, there is me to worry about this for everyone.   That leaves the rest of you free to buy, build, sell with abandon.  I will discuss this with God and see if I can come up with some sort of agreeable plan forward. 

A few of the folks I have mentioned my concern to think that people are evacuating the high costs of places like Toronto and settling here to retire, pushing up our prices and driving the mini-boom. That sure makes sense.  Stuff is not inexpensive there.  That city, and others has/have exhausted any reason and galloped away on golden chargers.  $3,000,000 for a two bedroom wartime house?  Uh…really?  Without lower costs for renting, where do people who can only get a job at Tim Horton’s live?  What happens and is happening to crime rates/homelessness/grief/sorrow?

When I first became fascinated with Canada (1983), it was on a vacation road trip with my younger brother.  I met someone during our weekend in ‘The Big Smoke’.  The someone started out as a long-distance romantic affair and settled back to long-term friendship because of impracticality.  That affair and multiple trips across the border led to another, nearerby romance.  That romance was also a Canadian/American affair and lasted almost thirty years.  I came here to live and had/am having a darn good life in the land of the Maple Leaf. During my earlier working time, I dove into the ‘work hard, get ahead’ manifesto with zeal.  I never questioned what I was doing.  My ex-husband and I bought real estate, built new houses and owned a condominium in Toronto.  We, too, bought cheap and sold high in ‘hog town’.  I did all of the things I now witness and cluck my tongue at. Are we always too late smart?

I just noticed that Mr. Black is wearing a gold cross on a gold chain around his white neck.  It is worn outside, dangling and bouncing on his black t. I would never do that.  I may have a silver cross that I don’t wear and I may have done what I could because I could.  I may be stopping now to think hard about the relative merits  of building more, building bigger and the possible social/environmental crimes I, too engaged in —— but I would never wear an outfit like that! Whew?  At least I won’t have to discuss that part with St. Peter….  haha.  Enjoy the day and don’t worry about stuff.  I will do the worrying and feeling guilty.

Steady habit draws me back to this place, my chair, my breathing air. This is my room, a good place to go and get out of the house. I am here with a tea and a bagel, my electronic devices, my thoughts and a background of busyness. The radio is still playing, same as any day. All of this feels like a hologram, sometimes. Someone turns a key and it goes on. It starts with a low frequency rumble, a hiss or two and the lights flicker. Then, brightness, false cheer and a signature greyed-green all spray out toward the blank world. This little trailer-like impression of a place is generated at the head office and sent by satellite relay to all parts of the world, maybe also into the deep Amazon jungle? Oh, lord… Starbucks on the shores, just out of reach of piranha with tiny people in a row, smiling for the cameras and looking confused? Is this a phony island in the midst of world-wide chaos? That’s cool. It’s ok, it is normal, regular and I am ok, my folks/friends are ok. It’s a good life until the batteries run out. It’s a good life that is slow tipping toward an end. It’s a good life, slow winding down with certain pre-echoes of the days to come. In politics there is a major pre- and post-echo of change. The once mighty and moral U.S. is disappearing into a mire, no longer a melting pot of freedom for all. Of course, it never was that. The lie is uncovered as the place collapses. It is a rusty old facade.

Myself? I can’t get up and down without a bit of stagger and sigh. Haha. I’ve still some miles to go before the sleep but not so many promises left to honour. Not so many things to leave behind, either, few marks. There are a couple of pissed off folks back there whom are eagerly awaiting my lights out. Perhaps they have that day’s events pre-planned? A bit of celebration? Haha. I did almost have a child, long ago but circumstance stepped in and that ended almost as soon as it began. There won’t be a fortune left behind, I own mostly a pile of vinyl recordings and too much furniture for anyone to sort through. Years of dissipation and foolish real estate moves have used up the ’60 hours per week for 40 years’ money. I am living on Social Security and a smile. All 32 teeth, though.

Mine will probably not be an immediate end nor an anytime soon one. No. Lots of time left to finish some work around the house, finish a book or two, learn to play piano better. Lots of time. Lots of time to live through and beyond the days of Donald Trump and pandemic and Starbucks. Those days will end before I do, most likely. I will disappear and probably quietly one day without a lot of dust or fuss. Most of us go out that way. Unlike my quietness and yours, there is an inglorious end waiting for Trump, no matter how loud the shouts, “I’m the greatest!” Folks will piss on his grave for a while. In the meantime,
he is a sorry mess and so demanding of attention that we have little hope he will go softly. When Muhammed Ali shouted out his greatness to the listening world, it was true but he went softly, gently into the good night to a chorus all ’round of “He Was The Greatest!” Maybe making such a statement yourself is self-serving hyperbole but Mr. Ali was a man of integrity. He had morals, empathy, honesty. Those things are pretty great. I don’t think Mr. Trump can spell any of the words, let alone understand connotations or denotations. I am almost feeling sorry for him. He is a sad man, on his inevitable way out.

I don’t feel sorry for myself and inevitability today. I am not worried about that for a moment. I am just typing. I am just finishing my tea. I am making modest plans for the future. I suppose I should do so but I have no regrets, not really. S’okay. Cheers, mates!

Why do I have such a hard time sleeping? Why am I making silly mistakes managing my life? (spending too much, drinking too much, eating too many donuts, watching too much television) I am, as many seem now to be, denying the stress I am feeling and wondering why we are screwing up. What doesn’t help is that all around, my world still looks ok. Portland is burned out, partly, in the downtown area, in a few blocks… but Leamington is not on fire. Most of us still have a job, most of us have enough to eat, a safe place to live, most of us don’t have Covid, most of us live, if not far away, at least a bit of distance from the bloody United States. There is a temptation to disbelieve we are feeling stress. “Why should I be feeling stress, nothing is that far out of the ordinary, I can still go to Wal-mart and Costco.”

Because our local, pie – wedge of the world seems to be a nice, rich cherry it is easy to devalue nervousness. It is easy to blame the stiff pillow for the difficulty in falling asleep. “It couldn’t be stress, gotta be something else wrong.” “I couldn’t be stressed, this is a piece of cake compared to life under Pharaoh.” The kind of stress we are living is a real thing. The unquiet, the tense feeling should not be dismissed. No, our lIfe is not ‘the way it was during the war’ or ‘the depression’ or at any other time in history. It is a unique time. The stress I am feeling, denying is unique. It is still stress. I/we am/are under pressure. It’s a bit of foolishness to compare pressures, evaluate stress levels and find any one greater than another. That just complicates us. To compare the past to the present isn’t useful. So many other factors were/are involved in each situation. Yeah, it was worse under Pharaoh… Who are we to complain? Are we a bunch of priveleged bums or are we completely worthy folks who had a good thing going that was trashed in so many ways? Yeah.

The ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ or ‘cheerio-stiff upper lip’ attitude can be so destructive because it is a judgement call. Keeping a stiff upper lip still allows the bottom one to tremble unimpeded, though. I think denial might be the most serious of negative thinking patterns. How can we climb out of a pit if we can’t accept there is a ladder necessary? How can you deal with stress if you don’t choose to see it? Denial of your emotions devalues and causes you to question your being. It wastes your time and redirects the anguish, rotting the rungs off your confidence ladder. Without a ladder, ya can’t climb out! It is a vicious pit we deniers are in. “I can’t be feeling real stress. Grandma wouldn’t have complained about this state of affairs.” “It would be petty of me to be feeling uncomfortable and to want something better.”

Is my/our worry such an inconsequential thing? Nah. I don’t think so. It is real, it is serious enough. Left alone to grow, it pops up in the most interesting ways. The woman shouting about having to wear a mask in the store? Stress. The pedestrian who steps out boldly into the street? Stress. The driver who imagines himself running over said pedestrian? The driver who sits writing about the said running over of said pedestrian, gleefully? Stress. Thing is: There isn’t time in living to feel stress and not deal with it. The denied urge to buy an ice cream because you are stressed and need some immediate comfort escalates to the pedestrian’s imagined detriment. There isn’t time to waste dismissing our discomfort as unworthy somehow and judging ourselves for minor slip-ups that let pressure escape. Yeah. I am feeling stress. If I have a donut with my tea and then another one just because? Can’t I allow that? Which is better: If I smile satisfactorily at the thought of crushing a rude pedestrian under all four tires and perhaps reversing to ensure the kill? or If I just go have the donut or ice cream, sit at the marina and waste the day chilling the h out? seems an easy choice.

I have sequestered myself at the office again. I am late arriving because Thursday is my on-line piano lesson. I am not so sure why I continue with the lessons, I never practice much any more. Not having a singing season to attend or the open mic nights has put me off my rhythm in many ways. I so rarely pick up the guitar, that I noticed I hadn’t used my tuner app in 17 WEEKS! arrgh! That is not good. Such a lazy musician… Here is my grand opportunity to really dig in and work at things and what do I do? I surrender to the idea of lock down. I surrendered completely and find myself pacing the room more often than not. That isn’t good. It also isn’t as unusual as I might imagine. There are huge numbers of us, all around the world going through this – feeling the same inertia. When is it going to end? Not likely soon. When are we going to rise into our lives again? Sooner than we think.

Already, many folks are finding work-arounds that really work. The masks are out in full force around here, not many go without and definitely not indoors. Whether that is a fact of being Canadian and a naturalized cooperator or not, is not certain. My piano teacher, who always was a bit daunted by germs, has worked out a method of quickly and thoroughly cleaning her studio between students. She did request hand sanitization before and after but now has installed a hard surface floor and moved her library of books to create a distance between her seat and the student. I feel quite secure and safe from transmission of disease. During the recent months, we have been doing my lesson on-line and successfully, since she has a brilliant ear and doesn’t need to be in the same space as me when I miss the e-flat.

(excuse me, I was distracted by someone’s exposed underwear for a moment)

There are other work-arounds that people are using as we slide back into living our dailyness. The first thing to notice were the clever masks, folks are having fun with this sometimes. We are also adjusted to the line-up at the beer store and some use the time for casual, masked chat with people. Nice, actually. The wheel-chair buttons to open doors are in use almost everywhere by everybody. I even catch myself elbow-bumping the button. Most of us are leaving space when we can and not being so insistent on quick service. It’s ok.

My feeling is that retail is going to die, though. It was on the ropes and as soon as a cheaper, less energy consuming method of home delivery takes off, it’s a goner. Amazon’s push to deliver via drone will likely end up being the way things are done. I am in fact surprised that someone hasn’t grabbed the opportunity already. I will miss being able to look at stuff before I buy it but that was happening anyway. Most of what I go out looking for is not in stock. Since store rents are so high, most businesses only stock what sells quickly. For example, my shoes almost cannot be bought at retail stores. Size 13 and one half is not common enough. Even the on-line shoe sellers carry only one or two styles like that. The lower costs of not supporting a bricks/and store should mean that more business folks will take a risk on slower sales and expand their markets with more stock. Sports have solved the situation in a semi-satisfactory way. The bubble and no-travel Stanley Cup battle is on without major incident. The players are staying healthy and getting on with the game. Our symphony is doing a season on line and the chorus is actually going to do a zoomish kind of rehearsal. Is that best? No. Is it a new way of doing things? Yes.

We are still moving and we will. Covid and Donald Trump will move out of our daily lives at some point. Maybe, it will be a better world? Could be. Already, the economic slow down has impacted the environment in a very positive way. Folks aren’t stupid… they can see that the air is cleaner, the animals returning. Stuff like that. It happened in six months time. That’s good news. We aren’t yet destitute and probably won’t become so. We aren’t going to be able to just buy stuff, willy and nilly anymore. That’s a permanent change. The fantastic costs to taxpayers are looming, so things have been altered for the long term.

Big, bad things are on the horizon but we will survive through it. As soon as we let go of the longing for the last century and it’s abundance materially…we will be fine. Changed, altered, hurt but fine. S’okay. No guarantees in this universe and lots of surprises to come. Both up and down surprises. We are better for the experience, we are rounder, stronger. What (as they say) doesn’t kill us… makes us. Ha. Somehow, though, I have got to lose the damn donuts.

Dash two

My everything bagel has been burnt a little bit. My tea is in a bent paper cup and it is too hot. It’s going to be a day. That is not the whole story. All around are other things burning, world wide news-wise. There are confused and hesitant steps toward the future. Where are we going? What do I want? What is going to happen? Grey clouds, scary leaders, too much of the ‘news’. The coming times will be unpleasant and much worse than the present time is. That much seems pretty obvious. What we can practically do about it is very little. For example; I can take desperate steps to try and make sure my ballot gets in and gets counted but if the border is not open by November, there will not be much I can do. I have been tracking my recent mailings and it takes about 4-5 weeks for a letter to arrive at a U.S. destination. With the 4-5 weeks return to me, I most likely will not receive my ballot until it is too late to return it on time. The sad folks are having their way with the world. By one method or a worse method, His Royal Highness will rule. I am sure of it but not sure exactly what happens after November. Will the U.S. go up in flames and street gun battles? I think that is very highly likely. It is almost a certainty that the U.S. will be substantially changed and a far less democratic place than it isn’t already. I am going to try, anyway. Miracles exist, things happen and perhaps a kind sun will shine in November. Perhaps, perhaps. I think now of this from ‘Casey At The Bat’… where ‘Casey’ is the spirit of hope and democracy — “.. Oh, somewhere in the favoured land the sun is shining bright / The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light / and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, / but there is no joy in Mudville — Mighty Casey has struck out…” Earnest Lawrence Thayer.

I am having difficulty getting going and I can’t really paint today, it won’t go well. This means I have to get the paint brushes cleaned up, I can’t let them sit with paint in. Rain appears on it’s way and it’s a dicey thing to use latex paint in the rain. I have decided to sit at Starbucks and force out a word or two, hoping that habit will push something of value onto the page. Writing usually seems like an exercise of futile proportions. It is precisely the size of useless activity. At times like these, I shrink away into a doubt cloud. That is the sad thing about a poseur’s life. Ha. What is nice is to hear from those who are well respected and accomplished artists that they feel the same way from time to time about their work. In my case, I hesitate to call it ‘work’, in my case it is more ‘crap’ than ‘work’. Hahahahah.

There was a good lookin’ feller in here earlier. He didn’t stay long. I think he was negotiating something with the day manager. That reminds me, the original day manager has gone on to other things. Most of the Baristas are now, new. Interesting. The changing of the guard. How often I wish I were young and things were important to do again. I did enjoy working and earning money, it makes you feel good. I would have liked working at Starbucks but it hadn’t been invented yet when I started my financial series of events.

I started with a job at K-mart, one of the first K-marts. That was a good job for me, it got me out and among other folks. I enjoyed running the cash register and stocking shelves. It was ok. Some of my customers were goooood lookin’ guys, I worked in the sporting goods department. An odd place for someone like me, who cared little for sports or outdoor activities. Ha. Some of my co-workers were goooood lookin’ guys, too. One, I remember particularly. He came up to me one day and told me that a girl was interested in me. I was drooling in my heart for him, not a girl. The day and age did not allow for overt gayness or even subtle gayness. I would have needed a heck of a lot of courage to blurt out my Saturday night availability to him, so I didn’t. I regret that. Whichever way it had gone (and I am suspicious to this day about him) would have been fine. If he had beat me up, it would have been okay. I should have tried it out. That’s the best advice… do it, anyway. Life is going to go down the tubes at some point regardless whether you be yourself and ask for what you want or not. You might as well ask, there is a slight chance that you will receive. Think of all the things that might happen for you while life is going to hell, if you just go and do and be – regardless of consequences. You won’t have to sit at Starbucks and daydream about a nice lookin’ fella you never went out with.

I cut the hell out of myself last night while trimming my toenails. Certainly, I am glad the toenails got cut but the cost was I got cut, too. That’s how the nailclipper bounces. It’s okay, something was going to cut me anyway… it might as well be the nail clippers – The trimming is a difficult thing, now and is beginning to require a podiatrist or chiropodist, I fear. I feel too young for that yet but it is a reality. Doing things around the house has also become more than just an emotional hurdle. I can really only do so much. I get very tired, very quickly. I am in a kind of denial that this is real but it is. Time is marching away to it’s own drummer (hahahahahahahhaahhahha — see what I did there?) and I must turn my face toward the music. (?) A nice lookin’ young ‘billabong’ shirt wearing ‘dude’ is standing in front of me. He doesn’t know I am writing about him. Perhaps, I should just sashay over and lower my glasses – give him a wink and my phone number? What have I got to lose? sigh.

What is it makes art, art?

With the sun down,
this low, dusty hill murmurs to quiet.
At the tired house where a door hangs, crucified from one half of hinge,
you can almost hear that
light, whispering radio sounds
remain within.
The helmeted cops are probably,
only recently gone on?

Outside, almost hidden in heat blistered trees,
are petty birds who’ve ceased their riot
and settled scores,

taken their winnings one by one.
Unaware how deep dusk can be,
one last, ruffled-loose feather drowns.

The photographer chose black and white,
those two which are every colour or none
and I agree.
There exists enough to imagine from what first seems a limited pallet.
Mystery of all sorts rebounds,

is set free from the affliction of too many
nailed down ideas.
Without much chromatic noise to follow,
any willing witness becomes again callow,
as if hollow.
Any who choose to peruse
can separate for a moment
and stare into whom or what
is evident by apparent absence.
What was seen and is not now obvious,
miraculous returns, resurrected.

Start again. I had nothing to do (uh…not true, there was plenty but it wasn’t appealing.) I watched a documentary about Wynn Handman. I never heard of Wynn Handman. Wynn Handman ran a theatre and taught acting (still teaches) in New York City. Oh New York, Oh Greenwich Village, Oh the days…the long gone days. Wynn Handman had a lot to say about acting that works for writing as well. In the terms presented during the course of the film, I am still a fraud. I haven’t done all of my work yet. There is much more to do. My bad. Wynn Handman would certainly ask me to do it over, try again. Start again.

Many years ago, in a fit of disgust and in the mood to change my life, I threw away about 15-20 years worth of writing. It filled a couple of extra large black plastic garbage bags. I don’t regret that, it was mostly a pile of undeveloped sketches and crap. I was supposed to stop writing then, buckle down and get a good job, work hard, buy a nice house, grow up. I tried to do that and it worked, sort of. I was married, we bought a house, we had a new car and a miscarried potential child. I had in-laws and ordinariness. At the last, the marriage I was in didn’t succeed since she wasn’t gay. I tried again at the ‘home and family life’ with a young fella and it took, we had a long time and a decent, respectable (if you can call homo-life respectable) life together. I saved money, worked at a job I disliked, built and renovated houses, prepared for the retirement future. A practical, work-a-day world far from Greenwich Village, far from Wynn Handman, far from New York City and the source, the answer, the reason, the magic.

The dull life went on for 30 years but I never totally stopped doing the writing. I wrote poems to my husband/partner/lover/male companion and put them in his lunch box. I wasn’t keeping a journal then, but I did keep some of the scraps of poems and the attempts at more developed prose. I continued, like a nearly broken wire connection – sometimes off and sometimes on but mostly off. It was mostly crap writing, bored housewife stuff. I finally threw that away as well when we moved between houses.

The second marriage didn’t work either, in the end. I was an unacceptable lover and husband, twice. Since both marriages ended at about the 9 year (of being officially married) mark, I called it ‘baseball’. I’d been at bat for both teams and struck out in the ninth each time. The second time, was time for a hard reflection and I found myself lacking in every possible way. I was retired from work, out of money, out of the world of family life, disgusted with myself. I determined to change. New leaf. Start again. I took up music in a serious manner. I actually took the guitar I can only half play up on THE STAGE and SANG in front of PEOPLE. Of course, it wasn’t good. My ex-husband was right about that. Sigh.

Now, I am old enough that starting anew is something I don’t have a lot of interest in. Starting anew has only one result: pennies on the eyelids half way through. There isn’t time to be a real musician or a real writer. As an artist, in any medium, I am raw, unshaped. There isn’t time to lose the excess weight, trim down the package. Wynn Handman’s advice is good, it applies to writing, to singing, it’s worth following but there isn’t time now. I have a friend who once said, “If you can’t play, then you shouldn’t”. He was right. The world only has a little time and struggling writers, struggling musicians, learning actors are clogging the system. The audience only has a little time and there are thousands of books to read, plays to see, music to hear. No time to sort through shit. “Shut up, sit down, be quiet.”

The trouble, dear Brutus is that we can’t sit down. Not totally, I keep writing. I keep picking up the guitar from time to time. I keep struggling with the piano. The pieces remain undeveloped sketches and crap but they are better crap than before. The inertia of doing it more and more means that a sort of osmosis is happening. Once in a while, a flash of something real? Rarely, but yes, sometimes. Always, in the back of my head are the Wynn Handmans of our lovely little planet. They are real, the advice they give is real, the work could be real but isn’t yet. “Try this…now, do that…lights down, do it again.” Will there be an audience (the second part of any artistic endeavor – perhaps the most crucial part)? I decide to keep moving forward, even though there isn’t enough time. There is time to relax about things and I am so very lucky that I have a living that is separate from the writing and music. I can bomb out (do, frequently) and it’s okay…the children have enough to eat, the spouse has already left. I can clutter the living room with barely-touched instruments and sheet music. I can sit at the kitchen table, adding more bits and bytes to the stack. It’s okay. In fact, it is one hell of a lot better than what Donald Trump is doing. I wonder what Wynn Handman would say to him? “…stop. Do it again. This time try empathy. Try to make it real, strip off the makeup, the orange hair, the defences. Okay, lights down…again…from the top.”

A year ago last night, I swallowed an ancient poison. Out of slow pain, grows each next blunder, submissive sigh. I know well what terror’s counsels be. Crouched low, in a dim light, I followed familiar rhythm. There is no gain, no use, to wonder might I die. I could feel the mirror watching me. (The Wicked Queen hates Cinderella and clucks a tongue with glee, though this time, because of luck, her apple has coughed free.)

Two oh, two oh two oh… another interesting day. There have been many, if you think on it, over the last nearly 70 years. My upcoming birthday (October) has me a bit reflective. This is a milestone, no matter how you examine it. I have turned a corner and, like an iceberg, most of me – most of my time is behind me. The people I knew and know are fading. The times are changing, the water tastes different, the young folks mumble and waste their beauty as if it would always exist, what work remains is not essential. I have ‘been there, done that’ as it were. Is it the ‘Farewell Symphony’? In a way, yes. All of the little music stand lights are clicking off, one by one and the sound is echoing off away. Pack it up, kids…

Still, the truth be told… I love a good sleep, a rich cup of coffee, a nice chat with friends, meeting new friends, learning new things, listening to rock roll (specially my young friends in England), reading a good book, baking something delicious and eating it, writing something that sounds right. Ha. What else is there? (Mad, passionate lovemaking? Um…okay…)

I had a full day today. I met a new friend at Starbuck’s (2 meters and mask), chatted with a friend who stopped by (no hugs), started a plan in motion for some culture, had a good piano lesson, worked on a poem that is being dragged out one word at a time but feels decent, ate a bit of really fresh fruit and talked on the phone…but I didn’t get much done around the house. There is still tomorrow. Someday, there won’t be tomorrow and that’s okay, no biggie. I wonder where the birds went, don’t you?

Poem preview from the new book, I am sending this out to a friend who is at a crossroads (mild). There is no judgement here, no solution, only awareness of something…something new.

3. A Generous Breakfast

The visitor looks paused, as if at brink.
Maybe, he waits to gather forward motion strength
or considers deep a common sentiment.
It is, by many, well-believed that
a crossroads met means something more.

I watch him grow quiet or
hesitate, like me, deciding what’s deeper meant
that once again, brow furrow
and finger tracing on the menu map
interrupt a comfortable stroll.

He first acted eager inquisitor,
and burst in striding, secure, content,
now sits cautious under a yellow
‘Open’ sign, hands folded in his lap,
listening to a cash register toll.

This little restaurant, my old favourite,
sits half between here and there,
promising the road from noplace might
actually lead somewhere.

I almost whisper to the waitress
who asks, “What will it be, friend?”
“…a generous breakfast, I guess,
and I’ll be on the road again.”