A hell of a place to find heaven

This has been one strange Christmas. Not awful, but not one we'll forget in a hurry. Details later.

In the meantime, here's one of the odder Christmas songs I've encountered. It's called "Joseph, Better You Than Me", by The Killers, released in 2008.

The vocals are provided by lead singer Brandon Flowers, with guest vocalists Elton John and Neil Tennant (of the Pet Shop Boys).

 

[Vocalist: Brandon Flowers] 

Well your eyes just haven't been the same, Joseph 

Are you bad at dealing with the fame, Joseph? 

There's a pale moonshine above you 

Do you see both sides? 

Do they shove you around? 

[Vocalists: Elton John & Brandon Flowers] 

Is the touchstone forcing you to hide, Joseph? 

Are the rumours eating you alive, Joseph? 

When the holy night is upon you 

Will you do what's right? 

The position is yours 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a child 

When she took her stand, did she hold your hand? 

Will your faith stand still or run away? 

Run away 

[Vocalist: Elton John] 

When they've driven you so far 

That you think you're gonna drop 

Do you wish you were back there at the carpenter shop? 

[Vocalist: Neil Tennant] 

With the plane and the lathe 

The work never drove you mad 

You're a maker, a creator 

Not just somebody's dad 

[Vocalists: Brandon Flowers, Elton John & Neil Tennant] 

From the temple walls to the New York night 

Our decisions rest on a man 

When I take the stand, will he hold my hand? 

Will my faith stand still or run away?

And the desert, it's a hell of a place to find heaven 

Forty years lost in the wilderness, looking for God 

And you climb to the top of the mountain 

Looking down on the city where you were born 

(Oh, the years since you left gave you time to sit back and reflect)

Better you than me  

Better you than me, yeah 

Well, the holy night is upon you  

Do you see both sides, do they shove you around? 

Better you than me, Joseph

Making waves

There are waves of fatigue, and waves of fear.

The Resident Fan Boy was awash in a tide of terror in the wake of a too-close-for-comfort encounter in the park. 

While I was mixing flour and lard for tourtières this afternoon while battling off the fatigue of a slowly healing arm, elder daughter hastily did some last-minute Christmas shopping through a haze of jet lag, then met up with her father and sister for lunch, followed by a walk in the park, where younger daughter loves to feed the ducks.  She told me this story first, with the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter supplying details later.

As they walked along one of the small lakes in Beacon Hill Park, a man approached, bellowing at all he passed.  Sadly, this is not that unusual an occurrence, but usually shouty, deranged people in Victoria are not screaming at people we can see.  This guy was making eye contact.

Swearing vociferously and continually, he observed the Resident Fan Boy looking anxiously at younger daughter, and spat, "Don't look at her; that won't protect you!"

Elder daughter and the RFB closed ranks, and guided younger daughter past. Younger daughter, her high clear voice ringing out from the spectrum where she lives, declared:  "That was unacceptable!!"

Her father and sister gently hushed her, and she protested:  "But he shouldn't be using those bad words!"

The deranged bellower was now walking away, but with each of younger daughter's comments, stopped, turned, and glared.

Walking steadily, and speaking softly, elder daughter and the RFB explained that the man wasn't well.  Younger daughter accepted that, but when I asked her about it on her return a couple of hours later, she repeated solemnly:  "It was unacceptable."

"I know," I nodded, "but his mind isn't working very well.  Every day must be pretty scary for him."  Perhaps even as scary as it was for the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter for that one awful moment of being taken for the enemy.

Love the Guest is on the way

The Resident Fan Boy has taxied out to the airport. Elder daughter left Heathrow at breakfast time in Victoria. Her bed's ready. Just gotta get out the towels, pillows and facecloths.

Fading

Elder daughter shows up tomorrow. 

This is fabulous, of course, but I'm nowhere near ready, so seized the opportunity today to locate the box with the Christmas wrapping bags and stockings in it, which I stored under several boxes in a corner of our bedroom.  My rationale was that, instead of having to retrieve it from our storage locker, it would be more accessible.

I hadn't factored in the possibility of a fall, and the consequent pain and fatigue.  Oh, I'm getting better.  By centimetres.  I find that every time I tackle a project requiring actual energy, I'm reduced to a quivering mass in less time than it takes to accomplish the task.  This is a heckuva problem, considering Christmas is coming, and this requires finishing gift-shopping, wrapping said gifts, preparing Christmas tourtières, and cleaning the damn house.

It's still a shock when the fatigue wipes me out like a chalk drawing.  It's a bit like being pregnant again.  To what am I giving birth? (I have a nasty feeling it's a much older version of myself.)

Meanwhile, the Resident Fan Boy has noticed more people are asking him to speak up.  He didn't think much of it until younger daughter, who has the hearing of a fruit bat, and can hear what we say from her bedroom with the door closed and our television on - particularly when we're discussing her - also starting asking him to speak up.  His fellow cathedral volunteers opine that this is wide-spread, and a result of a combination of isolation and ZOOM meetings.

I guess that, along with everything else, our diaphragms are atrophying from not having to talk boisterously to one another out of doors.

No wonder I find the cyclists at the coffee shop so loud and obnoxious.

I'm dreaming - oh gawd, I'm dreaming...

 Struggled awake from one of my "failure dreams" in which I've failed to prepare for something, my injured arm aching dully.

I don't need an analyst for dream interpretation.  I'm terrified and frozen, as Christmas bears down on me like a bright SUV -- or a horde of cyclists.  I'm healing, slowly and steadily, from my fall two and a half weeks ago, but I tire easily, and find myself slow to attempt even the least labour-intensive tasks.

Elder daughter arrives in two days; American Cousin arrives in a week.  I'd so hoped to have everything prepared by then.  I haven't even finished the damn online shopping.

Among the things I have been doing is uploading my favourite Christmas videos on to the Resident Fan Boy's YouTube channel, so we can watch them on the large screen television.  In doing so, we've discovered that the RFB really needs to sign into his YouTube account, rather than just watching without doing so.  Apparently, if you don't, the algorithms decide what might appeal to you, and put them into your "Watch Later" file.  The RFB was horrified.  I had to show him how to delete stuff. I'll spare you.

Most of my favourite Christmas offerings have shown up on my blog at some point, but I don't think this one has, probably because it's usually viral during the holidays, and is customarily shared without giving credit to the animator.  Mind you, it's not that easy to give credit where credit is due, because there is surprisingly little information about Joshua Held online.  I gather that he is an animator, film-maker, and writer.  He was born in 1967 in Tuscany.

I leave you with this, as I've got a lot more procrastinating to do.  (I'm sure you've already seen this anyway.)

What's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me

So, yesterday, Annie Lennox showed up on my Twitterfeed. (Yes, I'm still following Twitter; what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me.)

Wowza!! I just saw this incredible interpretation of SWEET DREAMS…
Gentlemen..You’re AMAZING!!!
Thanks for choosing our song!
ps.. Who ARE you???? pic.twitter.com/uQFLUYZ5iI

— Annie Lennox (@AnnieLennox) December 10, 2022

And I had to look, because what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me - I suggest you play the video, too. The trees and pavement looked very Vancouver Island to me, and sure enough, someone responded in the comments that the dancers were Canadian. I quickly looked them up.

They call themselves Funkanometry, and the shorter one is Jacksun (yes, that's how he spells it) Fryer, and the blond guy is Carlow Rush.  I think they're based in Nanaimo, where they clearly film a lot of their videos. I think Carlow may be from Duncan, which is midway between Victoria and Nanaimo, but it's safe to say they are Cowichan Valley boys.

In the comments in response to Annie Lennox, someone remarked, not quite sardonically, that the guys were finally responding after an hour or so (with a very Canadian graciousness, of course).  I thought, given the time difference, that this was a little harsh.

I soon found out, with local news coverage, that the reason for the delay was that, just as Annie Lennox had never heard of them, neither boy knew who Annie Lennox was.  Carlow was born in 2002, and Jacksun in 2003.  I guess neither of them caught the Eurythmics' induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year.

Their respective parents had to explain to them why this tweet was so significant. (Sadly, what appears to have really clued the boys in was the fact that Jennifer Aniston "liked" the tweet. They know who she is.)

Their videos are generally clips, for a generation with a short attention span, I guess.  Still very clever and entertaining, with good production values, a lot of skill, and superb synchronization . They remind me a bit of Hall and Oates, not that Funkanometry would recognize them, either. 

I particularly like this one, mainly because, being a dinosaur, I know who Roland Orzabal is.

(Update: Apparently Tears for Fears also responded promptly to this video.)

Womansplaining

I posted this song years ago, but I've come across a much cleaner, clearer copy, and more information about it. 

In the intro, included in the better defined edition posted below, Michael Nesmith mentions in passing that Martin Mull is performing with "Mrs Mull". 

She is, in fact, Wendy Haas, Martin Mull's third wife, and had some street cred in the music field, as a vocalist and keyboardist. 

HBO is currently running a documentary about Fanny, a rock group considered at the time to be a novelty, because all the members were women. (I believe the late George Harrison suggested the name, perhaps mischievously, knowing that Americans are not familiar with English slang.) 

Anyway, Wendy Haas was in the band before it morphed into Fanny, and has also performed with the likes of Santana and Melissa Manchester. 

This song appears in Martin Mull's 1977 album I'm Everyone I Ever Loved, where the backup vocals for "They Never Met" were supplied by Melissa Manchester. The following version appeared on Television Parts in the summer of 1985:     The boy was almost forty-eight years old. 

All he'd ever gone to bed with, was a cold. 

And he said to his mama, "Mama, I'm afraid it's true; 

Th'only woman that could love me is you." 

The girl could almost drink her age in beer-- 

Couple cases, give or take a year. 

She worked at the hospital -  hey, lots of people do. 

That's where they fell in love 

(Oh God, I wish that that was true).

 

But they never met, 

Not even briefly. 

I know what you thought, 

You thought that they might. 

Now, what was the problem? 

The problem was, chiefly, 

She worked the day shift 

And he worked the night. 

They never met, not even inform'ly-- 

I know you thought things like this work out right. 

No, no, they never met, not even abnorm'ly. 

She worked the day shift 

And he worked the night. 

Now the boy is almost fifty-nine. 

You ask him, "How's it goin', Frank?" and he says, "Fine." 

"And what's become of Mama?" "Well, Mama's in a better place." 

And he points his finger right straight out in space. 

The girl is finally chief admitting nurse; 

Considering what she had for brains, it could be worse. 

She could have been a victim of the dreaded Asian Flu; 

She could have had to live with you-know-who-- 

Now the boy's gone to meet his mom-- 

Natural causes: the bottle, not the bomb. 

They found him in the dining room; his face was in a stew. 

They dressed him in a suit of shiny blue. 

That same year, the girl gave up the ghost. 

The minister said she'd be missed the most. 

Her patients cried a tear, recalling how she signed their casts. 

The nurses said she'd find a man at last.  

They never met, 

Not even in spirit-- 

I know you thought things like this work out right! 

No, no, she went to Heaven... 

But he's nowhere near it. 

She works the day shift 

And he works the night.

Peeping Mom

 I've run out of day again (which seems to happen more often in December; shall I blame the Soltice?), so here's my Advent calendar this year. It's the kind of Advent calendar I loved as a child: where you open the doors and windows and see what's behind them.

Or else something has changed.

I still love it.

Good night.

Music therapy

An impossible day. Well, clearly not impossible - I got through it.

Due to a delayed grocery delivery, I found myself at Demeter's at 2 pm trying to serve and clean up after lobster bisque without running water.  I only remembered when I went to fill the kitchen sink that there was a scheduled water turn-off for Demeter's building that afternoon.

As I was boiling pots of water to clean the dishes, and trying to wipe up sticky umbre soup drips without scalding my fingers, a waltz tune drifted into my addled brain, along with snippets of song.

I realised it was The Story of Celeste, something I hadn't heard since I was quite a little girl.  It was written and performed by Paul Tripp with an orchestra, back in the days when there were quite a few of these kids' stories with symphonic orchestras making the rounds and being recorded.  Tripp also wrote the rather better-known Tubby the Tuba, but as a little girl, I thought Celeste's waltz tune was just the most beautiful thing ever.

It's a Cinderella story, with Celeste, an orphaned tune looking for an owner, being locked up by the cruel Miss Squeak (a clarinet), who detests tinkly tunes.  Celeste, of course, finally wins the heart of Prince Cello, and becomes his tune. So she can belong to him.  And he can play her. 

Okay, perhaps it's wiser not to look too deeply into this story, but the music is lovely.

Close to tears from fatigue, I left Demeter's and ran into her neighbour, who told me what a good daughter I was, and thumped me approvingly on my injured arm.  

I didn't cry out, but staggered home to see if I could dig up the recording I remembered.  YouTube didn't fail me.  It's about fifteen minutes of your time, if you have it:

Dieu veille

When we had small children, a new mortgage, and little money, I made "blessing bags" on Christmas for the Resident Fan Boy, Demeter, and my Friend of the Right Hand. The idea came from the "Angel Cards" we had on a table at Victoria Hospice. One of the nurses told me that if you drew three at a time, you would have many, many combinations.

The Resident Fan Boy didn't seem to have much use for his, so I commandeered it, and draw three blessings each day.

It was only this morning, after a sad phone-call about a professional set-back for elder daughter in London, that I remembered I had tucked a handful of keepsakes and inspirations in the blessing bag as well.

Among them is a treasure from Mary Helen, the friend who died three weeks, but the news only reached me yesterday.

(Courage donc, et patience, monsieur. Courage pour les grandes douleurs de la vie, et patience pour les petites. Et puis, quand vous avez laborieusement accompli votre ouvrage de chaque jour, endormez-vous avec sérénité. Dieu veille.  - from an 1841 letter written to Savinien Lapointe, a cobbler and a poet, whom Victor Hugo encouraged.)

Mary Helen gave me this years ago, during one of my summers in retreat to Victoria from Hades.  It was probably during one of my "used years".  She scribbled it on the back of one of her business cards.  I hadn't forgotten it was there, because I regularly take it out when I've used all the blessings and shuffle them before returning them to the bag.  But, in the shock of yesterday, it had slipped my mind.

It's a message from her, on repeat, every few months.  It's a comfort to know that this will continue.

Quo vadis

I feel slapped.  

The day was going well, and I left younger daughter happily listening to Michael Bublé Christmas music while preparing macaroni and cheese, went over to Demeter's, bearing Wednesday's lunch, courtesy of the local Japanese eatery.

Demeter looked up from her book.  "Did you know that Mary Helen died on November 13th?"

I froze, gaping at her.  

Mary Helen was diagnosed with ovarian cancer something like five years ago.  Immunotherapy, a relatively new break-through in cancer treatment, brought her a fair whack of quality living, reducing her pain and boosting her energy for a couple of years.  The final descent began a few months ago, while visiting friends and family in another province.  A "Go-Fund-Me" was set up to pay for the astronomical cost of bringing her back to Victoria via air ambulance.  (Demeter and I sent modest donations.)

The last report I'd heard, via Demeter's church, indicated that she was doing well in hospital and regaining some independence.

Then I had eye surgery.

Then I fell.

And there I was, reeling at this expected and unexpected news, realising that I hadn't checked Demeter's emails for more than six weeks, which is why neither Demeter nor I had heard.  Holding back tears, I set up email reminders for me to check every other day.  

Demeter herself seemed relatively unmoved.  She's at that stage of life, when letting people go has become a necessity.  It's a necessity for me, too, I guess, but I'm still pretty bad at it.

Mary Helen was one of the most centred people I've known. She was one of those highly organised, capable women, who did not use her capabilities and organisation to bludgeon those less so.  She used those gifts for good, finding time to help and support, even when illness clouded her final years and sapped her energy.

If I wish to truly honour her memory, I need to attempt to emulate her.  I'd never fully succeed, but I'd be a far, far better person.

So many will miss her.  Surely, that's a great way to go out, with family and friends sad to see you go, but letting you go, wherever it is we have to go.

I spy with my little eye

Today would have been my second eye operation, but my tumble to the pavement ten days ago has pushed the procedure into late January.

Never mind.  Having just one eye done has made a significant difference.

I was just reading my journal entry from six weeks ago.  It sounds euphoric, to say the least:

Oh. My. God. I CAN SEE.

Today was my first post-operative visit to Moka House.  In the pre-dawn light, I peered into the lit windows of the buildings I passed: lamps and shelves and wallpaper.  In the arch of trees, I could see branches, leaves.

Walking by a man at the bus stop, whose figure stood out in clear relief.  He stared into nothingness, listening to whatever was in his white earbuds.  He didn't appear to notice me, but, by golly, I could see him: his side profile, the strands of his blond hair.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps leading into the coffeehouse patio, taking in the individual bulbs in the string of lights.  I entered and could actually see the baked goods, and read the menu on the chalkboard.  For the first time in over a year, I read the posted clip of the day's horoscope by the pick-up station.

There's a beautiful, small, dark painting on the wall opposite me.  I've never noticed it before.  The other paintings are clear and colourful, not impressionistic at all.

And this was long after the Ativan wore off.  On the morning of my operation, I was offered medication, as I sat in a recliner in the waiting room, my eye full of various preparatory drops.  I told the nurse that giving birth twice has taught me to accept any drugs offered before a procedure.

"Fair," he said, cheerfully, giving me the tiny pill to pop under my tongue.  A fair bit later, I was gingerly positioning myself on the narrow operating bed, and the doctor pressed a kind of white gel pack to my eye, through which he opened a hole.

And all I could see was a kaleidoscope of brilliant oozy smears of light, blobs that changed colour from magenta to royal blue to poison green.  It reminded of the "Stargate" bit from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Thank goodness they were playing a classical guitar piece, and not the weird music from that part of the film -- or the rather clubby, thumpy stuff which was on when I came in.

I was told to focus on the farthest left of a cluster of three brilliant orbs, and I held my breath, then forced myself to breathe slowly, trying to relax my hands, under the blanket which firmly swaddled me to the stretcher.

It was a short procedure which seemed to take forever.

I had no trouble rising and walking on my own back to recovery.  Yes, I could see, but nothing dramatic.  At home my operated eye was cloudy, but nowhere near as bad as it has been for the past year.

It was early the next morning en route to the first operative check that I noticed I could read signs out the taxi window.  After the appointment, we elected to take transit, and the Resident Fan Boy commented on an approaching bus, several blocks away.  Without thinking, I told him it was a "Not in Service", then realized the significance of what I'd just said.

On another bus, which was in service, I gazed at the faces around me, the braids of the girl ahead of me, the couple bent over their phones, the details of the design on the ancient seat upholstery.

By evening, the images on the big screen television - purchased because I could barely make out things on the smaller screen of our old TV - were vibrant and clear.

"They always were, " said the Resident Fan Boy.

"Shut up," I told him.

By bedtime, I realized I could read books again.  I could make out what I'd written in my journals.

My mocha is topped with bubbles edged in brown, I noted in my current journal, my first morning back in the coffeeshop.  The croissant is made up of crisp crumbs and flakes.  I can see.

I can wait for my other eye.  When I close my new "good eye", the old "good eye" reminds me of what was.  For now.

This is vastly more entertaining than it sounds

Okay, I've spoken about Jay Foreman's videos before, but I'm married to a maps geek -- particularly transit maps. As the Resident Fan Boy is a Doctor Who fan, this may not surprise you. 

This is the second half of Foreman's dizzying verbal essay on the classic London Tube map, and like all of his videos, it's advisable to keep your finger on the pause button to catch the visual jokes that flash by, so quickly, it's practically subliminal. 

For example, there's a section in which Foreman lists transit maps from around the world that owe their appearance to Harry Beck's original design. One of those cities is Toronto, which you are not going to register without pausing the video. Trust me. 

Also included is a quick written critique of each city's transit map. I paused the video (after repeated scans) and quickly transcribed what Foreman wrote about the TTC: 

Toronto. At first I thought the uneven distances, wonky angles in the suburbs, and "north" compass point were redundant, but I just had a look on Google Maps, and it turns out Toronto's pretty griddy, and this is pretty much to scale. 

Foreman is not wrong; I lived there, and as a home support worker in my misspent youth, went to almost every TTC station to reach clients. 

Anyway, if you like London, and especially if you love transit systems, you'll enjoy this. You'll probably enjoy it, even if this is not the case. There's a very funny ad at the end, but it's a wee bit disgusting.   I'll be showing this to the Resident Fan Boy next. (But not on my blog; I'm not that crazy.)

The abyss of Christmas

Look, I love Christmas.

I really do.

This year's is shaping up to be somewhat of a challenge.  One of my American cousins is coming up from California to pay her respects to Demeter.  She's coming five days before Christmas, and will depart on the morning of Boxing Day. This is because she's American, and, as far as she's concerned, Christmas began on the American Thanksgiving and will end abruptly on Christmas Day.

This means my deadline for getting Christmas ready has moved up sharply.  It also means a Christmas of fire signs, because, naturally, Double Leo Sister and Jolly Not-So-Green Giant Brother-in-Law (an Aries, like my American cousin), plus, possibly, my younger nephew (another Leo).  All wonderful people.  All exhausting people.  All people who dwell in a different world than mine. And I will be picking through an emotional minefield of expectations and extra effort - with my injured right arm.

It'll be lovely to see them.  My daughters will be thrilled.  

And I'll be looking forward to Boxing Day, which is, after all, the second day of Christmas.  Americans don't observe either.

I've been avoiding the preparations I should be making, and doing genealogy and watching YouTube videos.  I've shared this one before.  It's about British Christmases.  They understand something about darkness and depth, even in a festival of light.

Watered in fears

A little over a week after my fall, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I sent off the Christmas cards early, as hastily written as they were. One in particular was scribbled and tossed into the mailbox, to prevent myself overthinking, because I did way too much thinking in February, while someone else did way too little thinking.

I'm not going into much detail about the so-called "Freedom Convoy" which occupied Ottawa between January 30th and February 20th of this year.  There's a pretty good timeline and break-down at Wikepedia.  Suffice it to say that I was once again relieved to no longer be living in Hades, because the situation there was hellish for my former neighbours, to say nothing of elder daughters' friends and colleagues, most of whom live in Centretown.

I followed events from a distance, getting social media updates from people I knew.

When the whole trucker mess started, there were reports of people blocking long-term contacts on social media, as they learned that relatives and friends supported the truckers.

I thought that was an unlikely thing to happen to me - me with my intelligent reasonable friends.  Of course, within a distressingly short time, I found myself spending days, weeks, trying to pull together a compassionate, polite, calm response to my best friend from high school.  This kind and gentle lady had posted a link to a blog-post, which, among other things, declared that the truckers were honking out of love for Canada, to save it. 

This blow came in the midst of reports from people I actually knew: reports of sleeplessness, of watching helplessly from their windows as people defecated against their buildings, of being unable to get their children to daycare or school, because truckers and police had blocked off access. Two of elder daughter's friends watched from their living room as two men put starter logs in the lobby of the apartment building facing theirs, lit them, then tied the entrance doors shut. (Elder daughter's friends, who are of many colours and sexual orientations, lived in terror, because they were visible targets. Most of them eventually fled to friends and family living outside of the downtown core.)

After a couple of weeks of despairing and steaming, I felt I was in a better place.  I quoted William Blake to myself:

I was angry with my friend/I told my wrath; my wrath did end.

I should tell her.  Then I could stop being so damn angry.

To better illustrate my diplomatic and calm arguments, I re-checked the blog post she had shared, in order to ascertain who was writing.  (I was pretty damned sure she wouldn't know.)  It was some guy named only "Dave", who described himself as a "leading data scientist".  In the post just before the one declaring that the truckers were honking night and day in downtown Ottawa to save Canada, he compared the "unvaccinated" with - so help me - Jews in Europe over the centuries.  A "culture of cruelty", he called it.

Nope, I wasn't going there.  (I'm pretty sure she hadn't read this post; I'm pretty sure she hadn't read the blog entry she did post very closely.)

I felt the exasperation and rage well up all over again.  I envisioned my friend, in her house on a suburban hill in the Okanagan, picturing her reaction if she were surrounded by people using her driveway for a toilet while honking for days until, in a blur of sleeplessness, she stumbled out to walk her pedigree bull-dog.  Not likely.  Which is the point, isn't it?  Too angry to contact her; I distanced myself.

Her birthday is in early November, and I had the pile of Christmas cards out.  I scrawled out a quick greeting, then hurried to the mailbox, before I could change my mind.  She's my friend, after all.

Just not my Facebook friend.

I think I see a pattern forming.

Do I?

I spent most of the day not getting stuff done -- well, not getting the right things done, anyway. 

This song, according to Spotify, is in my top five for 2022. Naturally, it's from 2008, but I never heard it until this year. I like the driving tempo, with the surprisingly wispy vocals (which I like as well). I was a little disappointed when I looked up the lyrics, but I can ignore those. Feel free to ignore them too.  

 On a whim

We climbed in a car 

That was headed down South

You were older

And I was hard-pressed for action

Could you tell?

You said, "Here, my dear!"

At the vanity fair

"Let's make hay while the sun shines!"

But was it fair?

Old playthings are all laid to waste

Thrown out to make better space

So I got a job

Cleaning toilets

In a nightclub in Baltimore

And I guess that's that

Almost shorter than a dream

And definitely less noise.

(Do I? Do I? Do I? Do I?)
 

Music for dinosaurs

I'm not exactly hip, am I?

On the edge of December, Spotify once again released Spotify Wrapped, an algorithmic imagination of what I liked in music during the past eleven months.

In 2020, I was bemused and baffled. Last year, I don't remember paying it that much attention.  This year, though, it's pretty accurate.  I assume it's because I've got better at nudging the algorithm.  Or something.

I was also wooed by a little - I dunno, what would you call it? - reel on my phone, telling me, among other things, that my morning mood was "Poetic Empowering Confident", my evening bent was "Easygoing Tender Sentimental" (must be that "Sleep" playlist I compiled for my sleep-bar), and that I "seized the day with Lit Fancy Relaxing".  (Personally, I think Spotify should invest in some commas.)

Elder daughter and I compared profiles during our weekly Skype call.  We're both "Adventurers", according to Spotify, and we suspect that everyone gets that.

"What on earth is 'Stomp and Holler'?" I asked her. (It's supposedly one of my favourite "genres".)  She said it was American folk and country.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who has asked this question, and there's a sort of answer in this not-entirely-reassuring article. 

Still, this year's playlist is a good fit for me, which means, I suppose that next year, I'll be categorized as what?

"Complacent"?  

"Jurassic"?

Now all that's left

Earlier today, I was waiting to Skype with elder daughter in London, when the CBC flashed up in my newsfeed. Christine McVie, the other (and original) female vocalist and pianist in Fleetwood Mac, has died.

One of the perks of babysitting in my misspent youth was access to the music collections of others. 

This song, written, played, and sung by Christine McVie, became one of my lifelines in troubled times. Not because of the lyrics, which are your standard "longing from a distance" kind (perfect for adolescence), but for the soaring melody and full-bodied setting. 

If we can't hold on to the artist, thank goodness we can hold on to the music.  

I'm dancing to the music 

Of a simple melody 

And I wonder are you thinking 

Of a single memory

And I know when I see them swaying 

I can hear myself saying:  

Come a little bit closer 

Because I remember the time 

When you held me in your arms  

And you wanted to be mine 

Everything good, everything gold 

Now all that's left is a sweet memory 

If you love me, let me know 

Why don't you show me which way to go? 

Please don't leave me all alone 

Because I can't make it on my own 

And I know when I see them swaying 

I can hear myself saying:  

Come a little bit closer  

Because I remember the time 

When you held me in your arms  

And you wanted to be mine 

I may be wrong, but that's where I belong 

Why are you just a sweet memory?

I saw the sea

This shot from the beginning of this month, was the first time I'd been able to see Juan de Fuca Strait clearly in nearly five years. It was evening and the mist was being funnelled down in between the mountains. My heart was full of joy.

Things we're all too young to know

Sometimes, when I'm journalling (or just putzing around) in the coffee shop in the morning, I really can't stand the playlist.

Most of the time, it's fine, or at least, ignorable, but when it's just damn irritating, I slip in the earbuds and listen to a few of my 1490 "liked" songs on Spotify.  (Coincidentally, that's about the same number of posts I've submitted so far on this blog.)  I put the playlist on "shuffle" and usually get a pleasant surprise, because when you have nearly 1500 liked songs, that means you won't have heard some of them in a while.

Recently, this one came up.  I stopped scribbling and listened.  

 The book of love is long and boring. No one can lift the damn thing.  It's full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing. 

But I love it when you read to me, and you can read me anything.  

The book of love has music in it;  in fact that's where music comes from. Some of it is just transcendental; some of it is just really dumb.

But I love it when you sing to me, and you can sing me anything.

The book of love is long and boring, and written very long ago. It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes, and things we're all too young to know.

But I love it when you give me things, and you ought to give me wedding rings.

Peter Gabriel and Josh Groban have performed lush, romantic versions of this song, but I must say that I prefer Stephin Merritt's dry and spare version.  After all, he wrote the damn thing.

O, you tireless watcher!

About four years ago, I was walking down Trutch Street, which is two blocks long, and has since been renamed Su'it Street.  It's an old street, with houses dating back to pre-WW1. My toe hit the edge of an ever-so-slightly raised pavement block. In a rush of shock and adrenaline, I stumbled forward and caught my balance, resuming my journey a little shakily, and resolving to always be careful to lift my feet.

Last night, I did one of my "loops" before dropping in for Demeter's evening check.  I climbed the hill at Linden Avenue, which is also lined with heritage houses, and slipped into the shadows to gaze up at the stars.  I made a mental note to look up the constellations when I got home; I was pretty sure I was seeing Cassiopeia.

Su'it Street is just around the corner from Demeter. I was less than a block away when my toe caught the edge of that same damn pavement division.  In one of those moments that happen in a flash, yet seem to be in slow motion, I felt my body lurch forward, thought I'd be able to catch my balance, then saw the pavement, glowing in the street-lamps, hurtling towards me.  My umbrella, which I hadn't needed, flew ahead of me and popped open on the sidewalk.  I rolled to my side and wondered how I'd get up.

A couple appeared, seconds later, out of the darkness.  They'd heard my exclamation ("Oh!" I think), and seen my light vest, which dissolves through a parade of rainbow colours when it's charged.  They'd also heard and seen my umbrella.  They were patient and kind, as I stammered through my apologies, and with only two efforts, I was back on my feet.  They offered to walk me to the corner, but my legs were steady, although my knees stung a little.  Luckily, I'd been wrapped up in my cozy commuter coat, which had provided a little bit of cushioning against the body-blow.  I rummaged in my pocket, called the Resident Fan Boy, and he met me at the entrance hall of Demeter's building.

Over the next few hours, I iced my arm, cleaned the abrasion on my left temple, and ignored the stinging in my knees.

The arm is the problem.  I've done something to my wrist and elbow, and if I forget and do a sudden movement, or a twist, I am painfully reminded that I need to do things with my left hand -- if I can.  I also may need to lay aside a number of plans, which is awkward, because Christmas is coming relentlessly.

I think it was Cassiopeia I saw.  Not that it matters now.

(O you tireless watcher!  What have I done to you, that you make everything I dread and everything I fear come true? - Joni Mitchell)

Dividing lines

 

This door locks.

Here's the thing: 

For most of the pandemic, all customers at my local coffee house have used the men's/handicapped washroom, which has one toilet with the main door to the room locking. The ladies' room, which is down the corridor and around the corner, was closed for over a year, and only re-opened a few months ago. This has a change table (rather sexist, I guess, because dads change diapers too), and two cubicles with simple locks. The main door to that room is, of course, unlocked.

Ever since the ladies' room re-opened, I have made a point to choose it, should the need arise, reasoning that I shouldn't use the washroom needed by the fellas and those who need the room to physically maneuver.

One morning, getting ready to leave, I head up the corridor past a man waiting for the locked washroom.  I nod pleasantly to him as I pass the sign posted right next to that door.  It's about eight inches by ten inches, and at eye-level.

I turn the corner, and enter the unlocked room with the two cubicles and a fold-into-the-wall change-table. The door also bears a sign.

In the booth, I hear someone enter the neighbouring booth a few seconds after my arrival. I see shoes under the space below the dividing wall. 

 Nothing unusual about that. 

 Except. 

 They're facing the wrong way.

I leave my cubicle, wash my hands, and while doing so, the fellow I passed in the hall emerges from the other booth.

I give him a startled look over my mask, and say calmly:  "Did you know this is the women's washroom?"

"No, I didn't."

"There's a sign on the door."

"I didn't see it; I'm sorry."  He exits hastily without washing his hands, passing the other sign which he also evidently didn't see, and probably doesn't notice now.

I'm a little taken aback that he clearly followed me into the washroom, but I'm not frightened or offended.  It's interesting how perceptions have shifted over the pandemic.  Not long ago, while waiting for my coffee, I overheard two younger guys waiting for the locked washroom.  One told the other, "There's one around the corner."

"That's the women's washroom," I interjected matter-of-factly, but not belligerently.  I merely wanted to save some embarrassment.  However, I find when women are matter-of-fact, it's interpreted as belligerent.  

The fellow who exited hastily moments ago is at his table with his female companion when I return, probably relating his adventure.  He catches my eye, and looks away.

I pack up my stuff and climb the hill ruminating about JK Rowling, whose stance on women-only areas such as washrooms and change-rooms is getting her in such trouble with the trans community.

In a recent online discussion on one of the social platforms, one woman gave the most sensible comment I'd heard on the topic.

"If I were a man intent on attacking women in a washroom," she said, "I wouldn't dress as a woman; I'd simply carry a mop."

I mentioned my washroom incident to elder daughter in London on our weekly Skype call.  To my surprise, she seemed puzzled that I should be uncomfortable with a male stranger in a neighbouring bathroom cubicle.  

Am I being odd? I have nipped in to a designated men's washroom when in a hurry, but never one that takes more than one person, and certainly never with a man in there. Am I really being outlandish?  Is it decades of antiquated conditioning?  As someone who has spent a great deal of time in the line-up for the women's washroom, I don't think it's particularly equitable to let the guys in. 

And just for the record, I'm fine sharing the washroom with trans women. (Which way do their feet face?)

Losing Leonids

On the whole, I have lousy luck with meteor showers. 

Last week, I hauled myself out of bed, and after dressing in the living room, went to the roof some time after 5:30 am, to see if I could glimpse some Leonid meteors.

The first thing I saw when I stepped over the high sill leading to the narrow fenced in walk leading to the other stairs was Orion the Hunter.

I haven't seen him in a couple of years, mostly due to eyesight problems and the fact that he generally hangs out in the southern portion of the winter sky at night, while our apartment faces a hill to the north.

It was a crystal-clear pre-dawn sky, which is why I was there, and it was startling to see that mythical rapist, so stark against the black sky.  There was a peach-coloured planet above his left shoulder, and a brilliant star twinkling near the southern horizon to his right.  A very bright, moonlight-casting quarter moon was in the east, and I moved into the shadow of the building, noting a couple of lit windows in the facing buildings.  Neighbours needing to rise early -- or bed late.

Looking up, I saw no meteors, but two "stars"moving slowly but steadily -- one headed north, the other south.  They seemed to pass each other not quite directly over my head.  Some minutes later, another southbound dot, too high and compact to be airplanes.  Satellites?

I stood, leaning against the wall, craning my neck for about twenty minutes.  No meteors, even with Leo in the south.  The city of Victoria causes a fair bit of light pollution -- although I remember seeing stars clearly when I was a teenager.

I didn't feel cold until I descended the stairs, having eschewed the elevator, which had been making strange noises. I didn't care to be trapped at 6 am.

Shivering belatedly, I found a web site that gives you a map of the night sky at any given time, in any given city.  The screen shot above is Victoria's sky looking southwest, at the very date and hour that I was gazing from the roof of our building. The peach planet was Mars.  The brilliant star was Sirius.  Well, of course Orion would be out with his dogs, like a number of my neighbours below, just before daybreak.

Post pumpkins

On the morning of the eve of Guy Fawkes Day, I found myself on sidewalks strewn with finger-bones and wands.

Walking in the half-light of pre-dawn and mindful that daylight will bring pedestrians using canes, walkers, wheelchairs, and even strollers, I kicked and pushed fallen branches off the sidewalk, the remnants of the night's high winds.

Guy Fawkes Day, that British celebration based on a history of grisly executions, plots of mass murder, and state-sanctioned religious persecution, found me reducing the jack o' lanterns into mash for future pies.  I saved my favourite for last.  I was the one pumpkin-carver in our household to use a stencil this year, and I'm rather proud of the result.

I ran my fingers over the holes and etchings, and thought of this year's Hallowe'en.

We're only allowed to shell out to trick-or-treaters who live in our building, and this year, for the first time in three years, no one came.  I left younger daughter to savour her own Hallowe'en tradition, singing along with Rocky Horror Picture Show, and escorted Demeter home through the dark.

It was still early enough afterwards to stroll out to Linden Avenue, which had been preparing for Hallowe'en for weeks. Unlike the spooky other streets near our place, practically deserted under a misty half moon, with outlines of owls and cats posted in the windows and jack o'lanterns glowing in forlorn festivity from the steps and pathways, the hilly part of Linden was crammed with costumed revellers of many sizes, crowding in front of the ambitious frontyard tableaux, and lined up for someone's haunted house.

I breathed in the atmosphere, from the uncrowded side of the street, and wondered what the COVID count would be in a week's time.

A movement caught my eye from the direction of the much quieter intersection to the north.  It was a human-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, riding a scooter uphill.

I gave my head a shake, and decided it was high time to go home, where we took in the pumpkins and drew the blinds.

 

A better place to dwell

It's a chilly October evening (finally!), and the Resident Fan Boy is pulling a supper together, while we watch a performance of all six Brandenburg Concerti.  

The music is like a warm, firm but gentle massage.  Furthermore, it's a Doctor Who special night complete with several regenerations, and our cat, who is fourteen pounds and roughly the size of a lithe and lethal mini-puma, kneads and nestles into the crook of my arm.  By the end of the evening, I am so relaxed that my FitBit thinks I've been asleep for an hour and twenty minutes, even though the show was pretty exciting, and I stayed awake through all of it.

Then I remember what day it is.

Today is the fifth anniversary of our last day in Hades.  On an unseasonably warm afternoon, brilliant with fall colours, I took younger daughter on a last visit to the National Gallery and that evening, walked through the dark streets of Centretown with elder daughter and the Accent Snob, who would be staying behind.  Elder daughter had taken an apartment a few blocks from her workplace, and the Accent Snob was far too elderly to survive the trauma of a plane trip. The only pull on my heartstrings were for the separation from my elder daughter (whom I would see again for Christmas) and my dog (whom I never saw again), plus the trauma my anxious and autistic younger daughter experienced, being taken away from the only home she remembered.

Tonight, I pull myself back from the memories of that day.  Not because of the grief, but because of my shame at my lack of grief.

Some things are not improved by dwelling on them.

I have found a better place to dwell.

Same date, same place, a world apart

Rejoicing in our new neighbourhood 22 Oct 2019

Similar view, three years later

 

The year of eight months

This year, we didn't seem to have a May and a June.

I kept trying to put my winter coat away, then having to retrieve it.

Summer hit in July, and our usual yearly drought started about the middle of that month, and continued on, and September and October were subsumed into a three-month August.

Yesterday evening, it felt like autumn for the first time this year.  I needed a jacket, and looking west, saw the grey clouds swirling with the lemon-yellow light in a sky that finally looked seasonal.

This morning, I walked out with a furled umbrella under an expectant pewter-coloured canopy, but it was only after my early coffee shop visit, when I turned my toes in the direction of my mother's home, that I caught the first faint sounds: the crackling hiss of drops hitting the dry leaves in the trees and the dead ones on the sidewalk.

When I walked home after setting up Demeter's breakfast, the pavement was dark wet, and starbursts of fall burst left and right of my path.

In the evening, there were pockets of puddles, not seen for months.

We'll get tired of it soon enough, even after being cheated of a proper October.  Funny how long the year has seemed, with so few months in it.

 

One brief shining moment

Back in the "noughties", I was still relatively new to the internet.  We'd acquired our first home computer about six months after our arrival in Hades for a number of reasons, but mainly because it was clear that life, or what passed for life,  in Ottawa was not negotiable without one.  Unlike Victoria at the time, the vast majority of households in the Nation's Capital were online.  Cell phones were still not universal, and email was still a thing.

It was the era of listserves and forums.  Younger daughter had just been "identified", as the health professionals called it, and I found myself "lurking" and eventually chatting to strangers about childhood developmental delays.

To dampen the hurt, I began pursuing genealogy, which provided a crash course in computer literacy.  I got "flamed" (another term you don't hear anymore) on occasion, but I was learning.

In 2006, I stumbled upon the "blogosphere".  I'd become a David Tennant fan, along with a large chunk of the female UK population, and a Google search brought me to a blog by author Marie Phillips, whose writing style and followers were a good fit - witty and inclusive - it was rather like having friends again.

Many of Marie's followers and commenters had blogs of their own, including one "Belgian Waffle", an Englishwoman whose bleakly funny take on her life in Brussels with her husband and two young sons was very relatable to my own life in Hades with my husband and two young daughters.

The camaraderie of the blogosphere encouraged me to eventually start my own blog on the last day of 2007.  I mainly began it as a means to fill in the early months of every year, often neglected in my journals.  I continued because I found writing under a pseudonym freeing.  I could pretend to be someone not quite me, although a close friend, one of the handful of people who knew I wrote the blog, described it as being "you -- but more so". I took a cue from the blogs I followed, and never referred to my family, friends or acquaintances by name, and always wrote with the awareness that it was being read.

It wasn't being read by many, as I hadn't the talent or wit of Marie Phillips or Belgian Waffle, but I had a small steady stream of kind comments, and I continued with the camaraderie of the comment sections in the roughly half dozen blogs I followed.

After a couple of years, this began to change.  Marie Phillips changed the format of her blogs and used them less and less, as she wrote more books, and a wonderfully hilarious limited radio comedy. She eventually branched out into storytelling events.  Belgian Waffle started writing newspaper columns under her actual name, Emma Beddington.  Other bloggers faded away into other activities: some died.  The comments on my blog, never that frequent, drained away to a dribble.

I felt a major factor in the deflation of the blogosphere was the advent of Twitter, originally promoted as "micro-blogging", promising all the fellowship of the blogosphere, but with posts limited to 140 characters.  Later, they doubled it, but it's not a blog post.  It doesn't required the concentration required of someone either posting or reading or commenting on a blog post.  I've discussed my issues with Twitter before.  I rarely "tweet", but I still find the platform useful for finding out about a current news incident quickly, or being alerted to projects by my favourite journalists.

What I didn't know was what had happened to Emma Beddington.  She had accidentally "outed" herself, as she explains in this 2021 Guardian article.

I was quasi-outed too, years ago, when I wrote a (thankfully) positive review of a genealogy presentation.  The speaker approached me before one of my own presentations, and said quietly:  "Are you Persephone?"  We had a nice chat.

Well, I'm surrounded by family researchers, who know how to find stuff out.  I'd rather, however, not be stripped of my superpower, my anonymity - which is neither very super nor powerful, but I treasure it.  It's not important who I am, after all.  It's not like I'm writing significant or salacious or sensitive stuff.  I write for myself, as a record for myself, to force myself to process things.  Very self-centred, in other words.

I miss the heady days of the blogosphere, but it was a loss that happened gradually, almost imperceptibly.  I'm grateful I had it for a few of those lonely years at the foot of a hill in an Ottawan urban neighbourhood, where I never quite found a home.  

I'm home now.  Blogs are no longer a thing.  Emails are no longer a thing.  I still do both, of course; I'm stubborn that way.

No one can do the Evil Eye like a Welsh person

Ran out of day again.

I'm cheating and leaving you with one of my very favourite clips from the panel show Would I Lie to You?, based on the party game where you tell a story and the players have to guess whether it's true or false.

The story-teller is chief BBC newsreader Huw Edwards (who I know from his wonderful limited series The Story of Wales).  This episode of WILTY is from ten years ago, but the Resident Fan Boy and I are re-enjoying it on the new television.

"Family trees are not trees, but matted webs"

Years ago, I decided to treat myself to a course in the sociology of families and households.

Don't look at me like that; we all have different ideas of a good time.

Our professor asked us, as an exercise, to go home and work out how many fifteenth great-grandparents we had.  Math was never my strong suit, but I soon realised that if you double a number fifteen, sixteen, seventeen times, your calculator will run out of digits, and you will end up with a number greater than the number of people living on the earth five centuries ago.

Wow, I thought.  We may not actually be all brothers and sisters, but we really, really are all cousins.  My fascination with family history just grew.

So, this morning, I was delighted to run across this thread of rants from a genetics professor in response to an article expressing wonder that a (that's as in one, folks) descendant of the Cheddar Man could be living close by to where the remains of the 10,000-year-old man (give or take a few millennia) was found.  I haven't included the whole thread - it's easy enough to find, if you just search "Dr Adam Rutherford" on Twitter - just the bits that amused me.

 Clicking on the individual boxes will enlarge them for easier reading.

My favourite bit is when someone brings up Charlemagne.  

Never mind a genetics prof; if you want to exasperate a seasoned family researcher, just claim to be descended from Charlemagne.  (If we have any Western European blood at all, we're descended from Charlemagne.  If we have any English ancestry at all, we're descended from Edward I.)

As you can see, I'm now following this guy.

The raveled sleave of care

 I've reached a stage in my life when a reasonable night's sleep is not a luxury.

I simply don't function well without it.  I suspect I never did, but now I know it. Call it wisdom if you like; it really feels more like surrender and resignation, in my case.

So the Resident Fan Boy snores from time to time.  This past weekend, he snored big time.  Every time I felt my body relax and my consciousness drift down, a huge motor-like buzz pulled me back from the ocean of slumber.

The first couple of times, I was gentle and courteous:  "Darling, can you roll on your side and elevate your head?"

The response was a "Wha-a-a-?" and an audible slump.

The second couple of times I resorted to gentle pushes and pokes.

By one a.m., ninety minutes after bedtime, I was murderous.  I made my way out to the living room, setting up my pillows, water, and a herbal sleep aid.  The last time I did something like this (apart from when the RFB got COVID last summer), was after a fight early in our marriage, a couple of decades ago.

The Resident Fan Boy remained in blissful, noisy repose.  He also remained alive.  I am capable of self-control, in a crisis.

Fortunately, these snore-fests are usually far between.  I mean, the RFB has snored for years, but I can usually manage a decent rest.

But I need a head-start.

So I'll bid you goodnight.

I cannot get o'er

I've only just heard this song in the past few weeks, but it was making itself known just as the world was slamming down in the first wave of the pandemic. 

Down in the valley, the first of May

Gatherin' flowers, both fresh and gay 

Gatherin' flowers, both red and blue 

How little thought of what, what love could do 

Don't you break my heart 

I put my hand in, into the bush 

Finding the sweetest, sweetest rose 

I pricked my finger deep to the line 

And left the sweetest rose, sweetest rose behind 

Saw a ship sailin' on the big blue sea 

She sailed as deep as, deep as she could be 

But not so deep in, in love as I am 

I cannot whether I, I sink or swim 

Don't you break my heart 

Thousands and thousands all on this Earth

Pretty well all good art is achieved by stealing. The third verse definitely is; it's from the old Scottish ballad "Waly Waly", which is so beautiful that it turns up everywhere. 

I first heard it when I was housesitting for a couple who had ended up in Victoria to escape the draft during the Vietnam War, and decided to stay. Their house was a Sixties experience: a water bed, which I can't recommend, and pot plants in the garage which I innocently watered, until Double Leo Sister enlightened me. I continued to water them. They also had a huge vinyl record collection, which included a concert album by Peter, Paul, and Mary and this song.  As with my ignorance of pot plants, I didn't know this song is known as "Waly Waly".

Here's one of the many incarnations of The King Singers performing it in 1987:

The water is wide. Time to go wait for the ship that will carry me through to morning.