tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32159263143125399492024-03-08T02:06:22.760-08:00Post-it Notes from HadesBe to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell, -- Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here." - Edna St Vincent MillayPersephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.comBlogger1510125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-27889181583030897792023-12-08T09:05:00.005-08:002023-12-08T09:05:38.422-08:00We was getting nowhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9AkhRPSQ0VHbcRwM0HyJrbrvUE0IiDfPwqdKQ23kmXxaQdFhklo-hqukvw0UhxLd7EphfEOJXUjEVHl-ttoW3S1QLPOVXetUFo7FjMCf0auqCFWcf8cG29G4fjceJeuVaGTEIahOsEvx_GM72O7AEutJ8aHtF598E4skSJ9x7R4NAYAexHi0uCVUAiGZ-/s696/Screenshot%202023-12-07%20at%2010.00.13%20AM.png" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="668" data-original-width="696" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9AkhRPSQ0VHbcRwM0HyJrbrvUE0IiDfPwqdKQ23kmXxaQdFhklo-hqukvw0UhxLd7EphfEOJXUjEVHl-ttoW3S1QLPOVXetUFo7FjMCf0auqCFWcf8cG29G4fjceJeuVaGTEIahOsEvx_GM72O7AEutJ8aHtF598E4skSJ9x7R4NAYAexHi0uCVUAiGZ-/s320/Screenshot%202023-12-07%20at%2010.00.13%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>For the first time in a long time, I watched a Doctor Who episode twice. I used to do this regularly on writer Stephen Moffat's episodes; in fact it usually took at least three watches for me to figure out his plots. I'm a bear of little brain.</p><p>For "Wild Blue Yonder", the second of Russell T Davies' bridging episodes leading up to the intro of the next Doctor, Ncuti Gatwa (whose Rwandan first name is pronounced something like "Shooty" - he's another sexy Scot), the plot is easy enough for me to follow, but I had to go back to check a particular moment.</p><p>If you haven't seen the episode and want to avoid spoilers, stop reading. (But I'm really pleased you're here!)</p><p>"Wild Blue Yonder" reminds me strongly of "Midnight", a Tennant episode from his third season, In WBY, there are also formless malevolent beings who are using enfleshed beings to manifest themselves and take over - in this case, the Doctor and Donna, who have crash-landed on a marooned space-ship hovering in nothingness on the edge of nowhere, due to an accident involving coffee.</p><p>As promised, the special was scary, and provided a nice illustration of the advanced acting skills of Tennant and Tate. Predictably, the Resident Fan Boy was particularly impressed with Catherine Tate's performance, while I admired Tennant's dramatic acrobatics. Years ago, he switched seamlessly between the frenetic Doctor and the repressed John Smith in "Human Nature/Family of Blood" (my very favourite DW episode). Here, he transformed himself by adopting the empty-eyed black stare of a predator. Brrrrrr.</p><p>Next episode is predicted to be one of Russell T Davies' world-gone-ape**** extravanganzas. I tend to not quite like those. We'll see.</p><p>When watching the previous Doctor Who special episode "Star Beast", I was startled to hear Donna declare that her grandfather Wilf was alive and well, because I knew Bernard Cribbins had died in the summer of 2022. In fact, I'd screen-saved this rather wonderful re-imagining of the Sergeant Pepper album cover, illustrating Cribbins' career, which went so far beyond Doctor Who:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJX3yHYYfVyycfR2c3o2PJrJjIWdsT2jAv0ATnoLKx2phT_9jpBachfnrMumTZQ0qVhN5qsz2WbCk0mS9_eO4cFTVIr516LWvlCJQ_N74MWQWnqm5fU1zjNrkhewiBXJGpgjGlf5TtGelfPc_PN9isu_bpLtNX_bXq6iq_OErWk9IALEAr16eiRfBSsjC9/s1064/Screenshot%202023-12-04%20at%208.53.48%20AM.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1064" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJX3yHYYfVyycfR2c3o2PJrJjIWdsT2jAv0ATnoLKx2phT_9jpBachfnrMumTZQ0qVhN5qsz2WbCk0mS9_eO4cFTVIr516LWvlCJQ_N74MWQWnqm5fU1zjNrkhewiBXJGpgjGlf5TtGelfPc_PN9isu_bpLtNX_bXq6iq_OErWk9IALEAr16eiRfBSsjC9/s320/Screenshot%202023-12-04%20at%208.53.48%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>And then (this is another spoiler - you've been warned), "Wild Blue Yonder" drew to a close, and there was Wilfred Mott, in his wheelchair. It was the only scene Bernard Cribbins managed to film, a few weeks before he died at age 93.<div><br /></div><div>Which left me with this earworm (composer Ted Dicks and lyricist Myles Rudge). I've had worse.</div> <iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/r5XX9LX2es4?si=-JG90vSWo9vub5jW" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-40208218476216249942023-12-02T09:48:00.001-08:002023-12-02T09:48:12.264-08:00Furby or not Furby<p><a href="http://ostitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2019/11/different-folks.html">Iphis</a> texted me this week.</p><p><i>Have you seen the new episode of Doctor Who!!</i></p><p>Had I seen the new episode -- who does he think I am? (Okay, let's not go there...) I cheerfully replied that I had seen it at the earliest opportunity. I hadn't planned to, but the Resident Fan Boy had tuned in to Disney Plus at the moment of release, and I just happened to return from the coffee shop at the same instant. I sat down to watch a few minutes, and, of course, ended up watching the whole thing, and was late for Demeter's breakfast call. It was David Tennant, after all, narrower than ever, and now with a deeply lined brow.</p><p>Iphis was, I suspect, especially excited about Russell T Davies' carefully inclusive story. (If you haven't seen the "Star Beast", and wish to be surprised, you might want to stop reading about here - and I thank you for reading at all.)</p><p>"Star Beast"'s plot turns upon a number of circumstances, one being the fact that an important security office uses a wheelchair, and a major one being the gender identification of Donna's daughter Rose. It's the inclusivity that, no doubt, thrilled Iphis and, undoubtedly, irritated and infuriated a certain cohort of Whovians. They're just going to have to suck it up, as I'm sure this is how Russell T Davies intends to continue. </p><p>I understand this week's episode (which begins in less than an hour, as I type this) is supposed to be very scary and not particularly child-friendly, and the finale of this David Tennant three-parter will be over-the-top crazy, which is usually where RTD leaves me behind.</p><p>"Star Beast", with all its modern sensibilities, is a bit of the gentler, family-friendly outing, and even features a Furby-like creature called The Meep. Sounds precious, doesn't it? (You know you're in trouble if a creature is voiced by the not-at-all reassuring Miriam Margolyes.). The plot reminds me strongly of "Smith and Jones" from Tennant's second season as The Doctor. You've been warned.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ekIH4c-FwivPiAEqqbcLrUNr66LF27oZ7GKsHup6CMhedF4vYLnBedQx_m9X4b8tHPWx_jSuVAZqmtUdHrjLbai4-0VrzV8cSq6EJdviUGb8Q70DZP8Ch-JNT7y_7Fdy-i-eF3o7tl6ZRt82qFbbPVBYxFwI9GeMMqGDIfs04VSAQqmFHVCJhvQhtdqY/s796/Screenshot%202023-12-02%20at%209.40.43%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="796" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ekIH4c-FwivPiAEqqbcLrUNr66LF27oZ7GKsHup6CMhedF4vYLnBedQx_m9X4b8tHPWx_jSuVAZqmtUdHrjLbai4-0VrzV8cSq6EJdviUGb8Q70DZP8Ch-JNT7y_7Fdy-i-eF3o7tl6ZRt82qFbbPVBYxFwI9GeMMqGDIfs04VSAQqmFHVCJhvQhtdqY/s320/Screenshot%202023-12-02%20at%209.40.43%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p>I plan to head out to Demeter before this morning's first broadcast of the apparently terrifying next Doctor/Donna outing - mainly so she gets breakfast, rather than brunch, but also so my hands don't shake the tray.</p>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-25935650947485757612023-12-01T21:30:00.000-08:002023-12-01T21:30:51.779-08:00"He didn't carpet-bomb Cambodia"<p><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shane_MacGowan">Shane MacGowan</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Kissinger">Henry Kissinger</a> had pretty well nothing in common, except for dying within twenty-four hours of each other.</p><p>Because I'm a Canadian, and therefore blocked from news organizations on social media, I learned about the demise of MacGowan from actor Christopher Eccleston, who posted his picture on Instagram. My heart sank, because I was rather a Pogues fan. (I was rather surprised to hear that Henry Kissinger wasn't dead already, to tell you the truth; he was 100 years old, after all.)</p><p>Someone on Twitter - I continue to refuse to refer to it by its rather Teutonic rebranding - was nonplussed, not that either of the men had died, but that MacGowan had received rather more coverage and longer articles. The wags were quick on their keyboards: "He wrote better songs."</p><p>One of them, and my personal favourite, is "Haunted" which was <a href="https://youtu.be/OLpcyHVhM4U?si=pJxyxvv1tySLDXs6">first recorded in 1986 with Cait O'Riordan</a>. Some years after getting kicked out of the Pogues for his legendary benders, MacGowan re-recorded the song with his friend Sinéad O'Connor (who later would report him to the police when she witnessed his taking heroin, but they were still friends when O'Connor died earlier this year.) </p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_q7307IWwr4?si=tH2SA1pkr1j9XBL1" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe>
<i>You were so cool, you could have put out Vietnam.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Another tenuous link to Henry Kissinger? (Nah.)</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-82743945148692420392023-11-25T17:24:00.001-08:002023-11-25T17:24:13.170-08:00Squirming squirrel<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbNs-ZzByQHXaGsU6SfTOTFx9C9B7VQ0KSUzif8bz_YxQmqi-bV4vJ4UDg6i9iKbso6cZqwgTrdaPAAne65-MemPFe_wnpOBjE5SQwkoTY7Hn-kQTnyiY5R0pq2uWFunBg7rcrl7fn3nnQZO-KX13VrbKubcXhXKPLi16mktFQp0Vp3yee7ixdNZB4EMs/s569/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-25%20at%205.21.33%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="569" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMbNs-ZzByQHXaGsU6SfTOTFx9C9B7VQ0KSUzif8bz_YxQmqi-bV4vJ4UDg6i9iKbso6cZqwgTrdaPAAne65-MemPFe_wnpOBjE5SQwkoTY7Hn-kQTnyiY5R0pq2uWFunBg7rcrl7fn3nnQZO-KX13VrbKubcXhXKPLi16mktFQp0Vp3yee7ixdNZB4EMs/w200-h134/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-25%20at%205.21.33%20PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>An unfamiliar movement caught the corner of my eye, as I sat in the living room, doing something else. It took a moment to realize that it was a black squirrel squirming through the dead leaves in the concrete well that constitutes our "patio". It moved on its belly in an odd serpentine pattern, and I noticed that one one of its legs was injured.<p></p><p>I called the Resident Fan Boy, as I watched in growing horror and despair. The creature was attempting to leap out over the wall, which is roughly thigh-high (for us humans) at one end and knee high at the other. </p><p>The RFB and I consulted the internet and discovered, that for injured squirrels in our province, the institution to call is the BC Animal Helpline (1-855-622-7722). There was also a suggestion to line a cardboard box with old towels.</p><p>"We don't have a box," declared the RFB, who had left a message on the helpline. (It was the weekend -- of course.) Without a word, I marched down to our condo building's recycling room, found a flattened small container, reassembled it, and returned, where the RFB was on the phone with someone who had evidently called him back.</p><p>They wanted a video, so we scribbled down the email address. By this time, the squirrel had retreated to a corner by the lower wall, a curled-up fluffy mass of defeat and exhaustion.</p><p>I opened the sliding window, and stepped out, closing the screen quickly behind me, although our cat was napping and missing the entire show, which he would have found engrossing.</p><p>"The tail is covering the head," I called to my husband. "They'll want more action than this."</p><p>"They suggested scaring him."</p><p>"Isn't he terrified enough?"</p><p>I took a couple of steps forwards, my phone in video mode.</p><p>In a flash, the squirrel sprang over the lip of the wall, and, still moving on his belly, disappeared over the garden soil, farther and faster than I would have thought possible, out of reach and out of our responsibility.</p><p>I wondered if he would be able to climb, or whether a predator would get him.</p><p>Squirrels die every day, of course. We just don't witness it. I was relieved to not have to watch.</p><p>The RFB called the helpline to update them. I suppose we should donate...</p>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-80285412863752246502023-10-22T08:43:00.002-07:002023-10-22T08:43:43.447-07:00Piecrust promise<p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBINzQ5v2jhvbpU7Bvu3Qdf4RzVQXzcaPdfaOPDprsfslcPEjkGH_qKRE2_m5kkS5J04flJWIVOoGSQtBjKjNzP6RUxfGnd2VXzYfKbprgRSN4Uf9s1SCSPm__QylWxwKb2KBAosuIACnxOsMY8lDRCg3vrC0QTbXu1YOKNcGOuKNYLhOxBdXPkQloF8JM/s4032/86381FB2-518C-4EE5-990B-F916C67196C7.heic" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBINzQ5v2jhvbpU7Bvu3Qdf4RzVQXzcaPdfaOPDprsfslcPEjkGH_qKRE2_m5kkS5J04flJWIVOoGSQtBjKjNzP6RUxfGnd2VXzYfKbprgRSN4Uf9s1SCSPm__QylWxwKb2KBAosuIACnxOsMY8lDRCg3vrC0QTbXu1YOKNcGOuKNYLhOxBdXPkQloF8JM/w150-h200/86381FB2-518C-4EE5-990B-F916C67196C7.heic" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div>Double Leo Sister and Jolly Not-So-Green Giant Brother-in-Law had descended into Victoria from their up-Island home to have an early Thanksgiving dinner with us the Friday before the long weekend, using up the last of the piecrusts I'd stashed in the freezer. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the Sunday, I had a lovely block of "alone time" while the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter went out for lunch. It was then that I discovered that I was out of shortening, so resigned myself to making all preparations on Monday. I was in bed when the RFB approached me to quietly ask if I were making pies at all. Apparently, younger daughter had observed my lack of preparation, and had made an equally quiet and anxious inquiry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Younger daughter lives somewhere on the autism spectrum, which despite the rainbow-like terminology, is a very concrete and literal place. Holidays must be made manifest and occur on the appropriate day, which, in our case is the holiday Monday. (Many Canadian families have the meal on the Sunday, to allow for travel time.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I, of all people, know the importance of making holidays tangible in our house, so rose early to make the dough and chill it, before heading out to set out Demeter's breakfast. Home to roll out seven piecrusts: two for the counter, five for the freezer.</div><div><br /></div><div>After another trip across the street and down the block to pull together Demeter's lunch, I returned to make the filling from pumpkins from last year's Hallowe'en, mashed and waiting in the freezer.</div><div><br /></div><div>To further realize and cement Thanksgiving, I'd assembled a playlist for daughter's Spotify account, and put it on while I worked, knowing she'd hear it from her bedroom.</div><div><br /></div><div>A Disney version of "Turkey in the Straw" drew her out, and I explained what I'd done. She seemed chuffed. (Other tracks included: "Thank You Girl" (Beatles), "What a Wonderful World" (Louis Armstrong), "Eat It" (Weird Al), "All Good Gifts" (London cast of <i>Godspell</i>), "Get Happy" (Judy Garland), "Happy" (Pharrell Williams), "Food, Glorious Food" (original cast of <i>Oliver!</i>), etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>We eventually sat down to a simple supper (attended by Demeter, of course) with our traditional sides of Caesar Salad and garlic bread, followed by pie, glorious pie. And younger daughter was relaxed and happy - even chatty, by her standards.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's important to keep piecrust promises -- perhaps because they're so easy to break.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-64243470815289783152023-10-16T09:25:00.006-07:002023-10-16T09:25:59.078-07:00Fingernail shadows<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcGXC19Y08C30EKFrNfzU5InK6xsw4JTxzbgpW237HW4oWHqjbywvMj5g7isZUDh6CPupdVk4k_gAU8rBVyoDacrYRZoWuxfTS9CBNvJj-GG_3oWsVDa0hzP7YM7TBad4HmS876QVixGZJMZgPjPrTbdHPoYCiUiEuAOlj0XzwOk5gqFVOmafWAVX8FyH/s4032/52DF986E-2490-4C34-8A14-4EABDF0A661D_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcGXC19Y08C30EKFrNfzU5InK6xsw4JTxzbgpW237HW4oWHqjbywvMj5g7isZUDh6CPupdVk4k_gAU8rBVyoDacrYRZoWuxfTS9CBNvJj-GG_3oWsVDa0hzP7YM7TBad4HmS876QVixGZJMZgPjPrTbdHPoYCiUiEuAOlj0XzwOk5gqFVOmafWAVX8FyH/w300-h400/52DF986E-2490-4C34-8A14-4EABDF0A661D_1_201_a.heic" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tsunami of sickles on a street near us</td></tr></tbody></table>The first partial solar eclipse that I remember occurred on a warm summer afternoon years ago. Our neighbours in our Edmonton neighbourhood had a small rectangle of smoked glass, and about half a dozen children took turns peering at the strange image of a black circle biting into a bright orange one. (<a href="https://slate.com/technology/2017/08/a-history-of-eclipse-glasses-and-injuries.html">Not a recommended medium today!</a>)</p><p>It was the only indication that anything was different about the afternoon. The sun continued to shine brightly -- except that I noticed the shadows made the sidewalk appear to be paved with cloudy cobblestones.</p><p>It wasn't until I was a parent myself, on a bitterly cold and cloudless Christmas Day, my first in Hades, that I realized what I had been seeing hadn't been a childish fancy. The midday light reflected through the latticework of our porch on to the pitiless smooth snow, a strange cluster of half-discs. </p><p>Not long before we finally escaped from Hades, another partial eclipse swung by us on a summer's afternoon. I tried a <a href="https://www.skyatnightmagazine.com/advice/how-to-view-the-eclipse">colander</a>, to no avail, but wandered to the front of our house, where tiny crescents were scattered amid the shadows of the leaves on our front walk.</p><p>So, on Saturday, I set the timer on my phone, and wandered home from the coffee shop, scanning the ground for sickles. About two minutes before the eclipse was scheduled, I spotted what I was seeking in the centre of a quiet street, and frantically gestured to an older lady strolling up the sidewalk. She told me, in an accent faintly tinged with Eastern Europe, that a neighbour from her building had already shown her the view through a "screen" - I didn't dare ask - and that it was "once in a lifetime" for her; she'd never seen an eclipse.</p><p>Next, a family with two young boys meandered by, but the kids were too young to be impressed, and their parents, though polite, were reserved, when I pointed out the odd shadows on the grass. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkJYZ6xsfHsPgm8AwlyNSJzwWOUqYCBn9zMdKGWXOI5cPq1ddXJEazclHQkyF2B9sukDRRdU99f8qGgF0EGGCFasUF45c4FBykPXbqU0Xhvb_bnUPAh1OKaAKHuWBFy16is21RctkaqdbGoB29nSnc2EzE1IsYJE0znMJ5URCKj2XWDAzGSo9RrzcwI8o/s4032/05DC0589-380C-4AF8-9AFE-4A06D765BF17_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkJYZ6xsfHsPgm8AwlyNSJzwWOUqYCBn9zMdKGWXOI5cPq1ddXJEazclHQkyF2B9sukDRRdU99f8qGgF0EGGCFasUF45c4FBykPXbqU0Xhvb_bnUPAh1OKaAKHuWBFy16is21RctkaqdbGoB29nSnc2EzE1IsYJE0znMJ5URCKj2XWDAzGSo9RrzcwI8o/s320/05DC0589-380C-4AF8-9AFE-4A06D765BF17_1_201_a.heic" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Undaunted, I headed back home, following a trail of sun-bows, and, ahead of me, a young woman was holding up her camera to the sun. A friend had just alerted her to the event via text. I pointed to the shadows behind her, and she exclaimed in astonishment, and starting snapping pictures.</p><p>Stopping at the path leading to the entrance of our building, I used my phone as well - to phone the Resident Fan Boy, telling him only to "come out --- <u style="font-style: italic;">now</u>".</p><p>By this time, a matter of less than ten minutes, the fingernails were rapidly thickening into something less delicate, more ordinary.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgq2Zf4bTWWpFc0HL_Yfd5bzJbNlPG39w8PtQNW8TYkB6wXSY0O49bchlKkh8WpVSPajGuMV7BMYP1BTBIjIynChkS7RNe0aTO3iCBzhSgO9sqYqOzmIVjJnTv73XAegpfLe2_d6DPEbW51IZXfcoj_q7ai5cTqVNSvJvG6p-3KtuGqWT7sa4AcxyVct9/s4032/A079B3BC-002D-43BD-AE76-FCAF8F60AD1D_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgq2Zf4bTWWpFc0HL_Yfd5bzJbNlPG39w8PtQNW8TYkB6wXSY0O49bchlKkh8WpVSPajGuMV7BMYP1BTBIjIynChkS7RNe0aTO3iCBzhSgO9sqYqOzmIVjJnTv73XAegpfLe2_d6DPEbW51IZXfcoj_q7ai5cTqVNSvJvG6p-3KtuGqWT7sa4AcxyVct9/w480-h640/A079B3BC-002D-43BD-AE76-FCAF8F60AD1D_1_201_a.heic" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-15776954700105953652023-09-12T17:28:00.001-07:002023-09-13T17:39:56.611-07:00Pescatorean precipitation<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivBJpLTO4Tm8lW0BFRPqAcAUfwSNJVzLEW31MFrATVCtyGRmNbdxOtLTd3HBLrpoa6ptL7bsPY2XcuOhDXLsR3GFkMCkUXpZTJtvX-18TsbTVWs9HiatlsnFE7mmRSexmosjbJENBRQfbtcKOD2EwaRDmApMjaxDerL4bStotio08g6xA9_9VYEcwF4EWW/s1684/Screenshot%202023-09-01%20at%2011.38.36%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="1684" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivBJpLTO4Tm8lW0BFRPqAcAUfwSNJVzLEW31MFrATVCtyGRmNbdxOtLTd3HBLrpoa6ptL7bsPY2XcuOhDXLsR3GFkMCkUXpZTJtvX-18TsbTVWs9HiatlsnFE7mmRSexmosjbJENBRQfbtcKOD2EwaRDmApMjaxDerL4bStotio08g6xA9_9VYEcwF4EWW/w400-h228/Screenshot%202023-09-01%20at%2011.38.36%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>Even in our charmed corner of the world, the erratic shifts in the rhythm of the year's weather rock us and scar us.<p></p><div>I walk down Chester Street, where the ancient plane trees arch in knobbly nobility. This summer, the sidewalks and neighbouring verges are littered with scraps of bark, roughly the size of business envelopes. Occasionally, I'm witness to the plummeting of some of them, clipping the pavement, and - so far - not my head. It's probably only a matter of time.</div><div><br /></div><div>A couple of weeks ago, I saw a stranger sight at my feet: about half a dozen tiny iridescent blue fish scattered across the concrete. It was a hot Sunday morning, and the flies were already arriving. I carefully picked my way between them, wondering where on earth they'd come from.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Resident Fan Boy, on his way to church earlier, had witnessed the fish-fall. He told me he heard a splatter, and caught sight of something falling from a cherry tree. He thought for a fleeting moment that a bird had had stomach trouble - then he saw the fish, and nothing else.</div><div><br /></div><div>They festered for a day or so, getting stomped and crushed, while attracting more insect life. I found other ways to cross and walk, until a thundering hailstorm scrubbed the sidewalk clean -- while setting off several more wildfires up-Island.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm praying for a less biblical September.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-8529643753651788412023-09-11T17:52:00.004-07:002023-09-13T17:39:40.922-07:00Wild horses<p>On the morning of the Resident Fan Boy's birthday, I pack away my journals after taking my coffee cup to the baristas' sink. I swing my packsack on to my back and step out into the shade of the coffee shop patio. The early September morning is cool, but the sunshine bounces off the trees and buildings across the street on to the naked body of a tall, thin young man, prancing and rearing like a mustang as two police officers attempt to handcuff his hands behind his back.</p><p>It is an arresting scene, in every sense of the word, surreal and silent, except for the sound of his bare feet beating against the side walk, as he jogs on the spot, tossing his shaved head. I hear his expelled breath each time he falls to his side in vain resistance. His forearm is bleeding.</p><p>Not one person behind me speaks. They sit transfixed at the patio tables with their untouched lattes. I am also rooted to the spot, not knowing where to look, my way blocked.</p><p>The officers get him as far as their car, parked in the middle of the north-bound lane; he's dropped down on his side again, and I hurry down the block to pick up a prescription for Demeter. The lights on the squad car flash red and blue behind me, and I pass more people, some becoming aware of the drama.</p><p>I say nothing about this to the pharmacist, and, making my way back, I see more police vehicles, and about a dozen officers gathered in the decks that the coffee shop erected for more outdoor seating during the pandemic. The naked man is now in the back seat of the police SUV; someone is leaning to speak to him through the window.</p><p>A young woman, who had been further down the sidewalk when I started out, now stands quietly by the curb, gazing intently with the air of one bearing witness.</p><p>I continue up the hill, as people appear in shop doorways, murmuring to one another. There's a corn cob in the centre of the sidewalk, with two of its fronds scattered to the edges. I pick it up and place it on a bench, not knowing what else to do.</p><p>It's not until I get home and sit on my couch, gazing out into the street, that I realize how upset and miserable I feel.</p>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-16050646570953685592023-08-03T09:38:00.002-07:002023-08-03T09:40:52.335-07:00Be careful what you wish forSometimes I rise in the morning, make my preparations, and stride out into the morning, emanating energy. <div><br /></div><div>Sometimes. </div><div><br /></div><div>On those mornings, I cudgel my brains for what I've done differently, and I never have an answer. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's on a morning such as this, that I take my accustomed place at the coffee house and tackle my journals and correspondance. (I also fall down social media rabbit holes, but let's not go there right now.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps it's my energetic aura that draws a young woman to stand by my table. </div><div><br /></div><div>"May I interrupt you?" she asks, as I look up quizzically from the webs I've been weaving. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I want to be like you when I'm older." </div><div><br /></div><div>I swallow my befuddlement at this, and manage a grin. </div><div>"Be careful what you wish for!"
(Gawd, she has <i>no</i> idea...) </div><div><br /></div><div>She says something about being on an eccentric path already.</div><div><br /></div><div>Great. I'm exuding eccentricity as well.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-58078067650635744622023-05-01T22:51:00.000-07:002023-05-01T22:51:46.379-07:00And if you saw him nowIt's not like I didn't see this coming.<div><br /></div><div>But on this spring evening, after stumbling across the news, I head towards bed sadly, remembering so many songs. Many will have their own favourites. </div><div><br /></div><div>This one happens to be mine.<br /><div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7Gs98fVoHVI" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe></div></div>
The old man has come home from the forest.Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-84202123609500401622023-01-31T22:17:00.002-08:002023-01-31T22:17:27.076-08:00Not a happy morning for worms or white elephants<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_NBl0c5Tp7Y3epOncNNHCcMJobtc6YDABoq6Kl-8EB63LoidJfxZ4RVCWYWakyV9lDi-i6pZsPcks20y1e2vkFg1-X3pxqcTe8BvEgsNWLeq8m3sRirzv7nm8BTjzgqSj1uWK6mTcf6oJKW4PHuqYY5smrWIhM2wrEKArrLYCPKPim6QhBUWFcFKLQ/s949/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-31%20at%204.47.44%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="949" data-original-width="710" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_NBl0c5Tp7Y3epOncNNHCcMJobtc6YDABoq6Kl-8EB63LoidJfxZ4RVCWYWakyV9lDi-i6pZsPcks20y1e2vkFg1-X3pxqcTe8BvEgsNWLeq8m3sRirzv7nm8BTjzgqSj1uWK6mTcf6oJKW4PHuqYY5smrWIhM2wrEKArrLYCPKPim6QhBUWFcFKLQ/w299-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-31%20at%204.47.44%20PM.png" width="299" /></a></div><br /> On a rainy January weekend, scores of robins swooped and scattered along the streets of our neighbourhood, all male, their red breasts flashing as they spiralled down to the grass before soaring again.<div><br /></div><div>It was not a happy morning for worms.</div><div><br /></div><div>Distracted by the aerial circus, it took me some moments to notice the odd object left by the curb, and a little longer to register what had been scrawled upon it in white. It was some kind of plug-in electrical fireplace, and I wondered what the story behind the inscription was, and if it was anything like what happened to us about twenty years ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the pre-breakfast hours of a grey morning in Ottawa, the Resident Fan Boy and I had struggled to the icy curb with an ancient and extremely heavy television set that no longer worked. </div><div><br /></div><div>When the RFB headed off to work at 7:30, the set had vanished from the sidewalk -- then reappeared <u>after</u> the garbage and recycling trucks had lumbered up the hill. Evidently whoever had made off with it had discovered the television was not viable, and had decided to return it to the exact same place. I've never figured out if this was misplaced helpfulness or petty vengefulness. We were certainly ticked off.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cursing our unknown malefactor, we staggered back down to the basement to store our burden for another month, when the next appliance/heavy furniture pick-up was due. </div><div><br /></div><div>We labelled it carefully this time - multiple times in proper English, not cod-Dutch, or whatever that white writing on the fake fireplace is meant to be. </div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-5875894436746868642022-12-30T18:48:00.005-08:002022-12-30T18:48:48.804-08:00A hell of a place to find heavenThis has been one strange Christmas. Not awful, but not one we'll forget in a hurry. Details later.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div>The vocals are provided by lead singer Brandon Flowers, with guest vocalists Elton John and Neil Tennant (of the Pet Shop Boys).<br /><div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uW8oEWfuEIg" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe><div><br /></div>[Vocalist: Brandon Flowers] <div><i>Well your eyes just haven't been the same, Joseph </i><div><i>Are you bad at dealing with the fame, Joseph? </i></div><div><i>There's a pale moonshine above you </i></div><div><i>Do you see both sides? </i></div><div><i>Do they shove you around?</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>[Vocalists: Elton John & Brandon Flowers] </div><div><i>Is the touchstone forcing you to hide, Joseph? </i></div><div><i>Are the rumours eating you alive, Joseph? </i></div><div><i>When the holy night is upon you </i></div><div><i>Will you do what's right? </i></div><div><i>The position is yours</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>[Vocalist: Elton John] </div><div><i>From the temple walls to the New York night </i></div><div><i>Our decisions rest on a child </i></div><div><i>When she took her stand, did she hold your hand? </i></div><div><i>Will your faith stand still or run away? </i></div><div><i>Run away </i></div><div><br /></div><div>[Vocalist: Elton John] </div><div><i>When they've driven you so far </i></div><div><i>That you think you're gonna drop </i></div><div><i>Do you wish you were back there at the carpenter shop?</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>[Vocalist: Neil Tennant] </div><div><i>With the plane and the lathe </i></div><div><i>The work never drove you mad </i></div><div><i>You're a maker, a creator </i></div><div><i>Not just somebody's dad</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>[Vocalists: Brandon Flowers, Elton John & Neil Tennant] </div><div><i>From the temple walls to the New York night </i></div><div><i>Our decisions rest on a man </i></div><div><i>When I take the stand, will he hold my hand? </i></div><div><i>Will my faith stand still or run away?</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><i>And the desert, it's a hell of a place to find heaven </i><div><i>Forty years lost in the wilderness, looking for God </i></div><div><i>And you climb to the top of the mountain </i></div><div><i>Looking down on the city where you were born </i></div><div><i>(Oh, the years since you left gave you time to sit back and reflect)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Better you than me </i></div><div><i>Better you than me, yeah </i></div><div><i>Well, the holy night is upon you </i></div><div><i>Do you see both sides, do they shove you around? </i></div><div><i>Better you than me, Joseph</i></div></div></div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-55759545792131225652022-12-17T22:48:00.000-08:002022-12-17T22:48:14.794-08:00Making wavesThere are waves of fatigue, and waves of fear.<div><br /></div><div>The Resident Fan Boy was awash in a tide of terror in the wake of a too-close-for-comfort encounter in the park. </div><div><br /></div><div>While I was mixing flour and lard for <i>tourtières</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Swearing vociferously and continually, he observed the Resident Fan Boy looking anxiously at younger daughter, and spat, "Don't look at <u>her</u>; that won't protect you!"</div><div><br /></div><div>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!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Her father and sister gently hushed her, and she protested: "But he shouldn't be using those bad words!"</div><div><br /></div><div>The deranged bellower was now walking away, but with each of younger daughter's comments, stopped, turned, and glared.</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>"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.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-28959852014957677992022-12-15T20:25:00.001-08:002022-12-15T20:25:45.861-08:00Love the Guest is on the wayThe 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.
<iframe width="400" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Vwel-dlLSAY?controls=0&start=136" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-36901547296710950472022-12-14T22:12:00.001-08:002022-12-14T22:12:17.588-08:00Fading Elder daughter shows up tomorrow. <div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hadn't factored in the possibility of a <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2022/11/o-you-tireless-watcher.html">fall</a>, 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 <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2008/12/canadian-christmas-traditions-part-two.html">tourtières</a>, and cleaning the damn house.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.)</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess that, along with everything else, our diaphragms are atrophying from not having to talk boisterously to one another out of doors.</div><div><br /></div><div>No wonder I find the <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2021/08/rich-in-irony-and-full-of-vitamins.html">cyclists at the coffee shop</a> so loud and obnoxious.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-64932430540361366872022-12-13T19:23:00.004-08:002022-12-13T19:23:33.171-08:00I'm dreaming - oh gawd, I'm dreaming...<p> Struggled awake from one of my "failure dreams" in which I've failed to prepare for something, my injured arm aching dully.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Among the things I <i>have</i> 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.</p><p>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 <a href="https://www.joshuaheld.com">Joshua Held</a> online. I gather that he is an animator, film-maker, and writer. He was born in 1967 in Tuscany.</p><p>I leave you with this, as I've got a lot more procrastinating to do. (I'm sure you've already seen this anyway.)</p><iframe width="400" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ooc5eJc5SHA" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen></iframe>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-8989960093368596882022-12-12T16:45:00.005-08:002022-12-13T19:28:19.163-08:00What's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for meSo, 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.)
<blockquote class="twitter-tweet"><p dir="ltr" lang="en">Wowza!! I just saw this incredible interpretation of SWEET DREAMS… <br />Gentlemen..You’re AMAZING!!! <br />Thanks for choosing our song!<br />ps.. Who ARE you???? <a href="https://t.co/uQFLUYZ5iI">pic.twitter.com/uQFLUYZ5iI</a></p>— Annie Lennox (@AnnieLennox) <a href="https://twitter.com/AnnieLennox/status/1601612756998062080?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">December 10, 2022</a></blockquote> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>
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.<div><br /></div><div>They call themselves <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@Funkanometryduo/videos">Funkanometry</a>, 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rvZP-3ZU_Qs" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe>
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 <i>she</i> is.)<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I particularly like <a href="https://youtube.com/shorts/a5S6-RXVKZc?feature=share">this one</a>, mainly because, being a dinosaur, I know who Roland Orzabal is.</div> (Update: Apparently Tears for Fears also responded promptly to this video.)Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-71963528310376307032022-12-11T18:40:00.001-08:002022-12-13T21:54:22.442-08:00WomansplainingI posted <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2012/07/they-never-met.html">this song years ago</a>, but I've come across a much cleaner, clearer copy, and more information about it. <div><br /></div><div>In the intro, included in the better defined edition posted below, Michael Nesmith mentions in passing that Martin Mull is performing with "Mrs Mull". </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>HBO is currently running a documentary about <a href="https://www.fannythemovie.com/">Fanny</a>, 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.) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpczTBh6q6Hi4YxIROm_10o5t2Iko6kr4IFJ-d7YrFcIwpZxL63c2k0EgsEzy2gogBgC9UjMaBY0TlnCsDn7Wu12SVCn9O9FC4PZ0U6-S2BGCp6pl14xII72RNRHWeBiodXrrs0AdJvbi1BRxLeN0Gp0VefT-tt4kEFawVQ2RFSrcvDOOyZBdu5dJ2g/s635/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-11%20at%206.14.51%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="635" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpczTBh6q6Hi4YxIROm_10o5t2Iko6kr4IFJ-d7YrFcIwpZxL63c2k0EgsEzy2gogBgC9UjMaBY0TlnCsDn7Wu12SVCn9O9FC4PZ0U6-S2BGCp6pl14xII72RNRHWeBiodXrrs0AdJvbi1BRxLeN0Gp0VefT-tt4kEFawVQ2RFSrcvDOOyZBdu5dJ2g/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-11%20at%206.14.51%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Anyway, Wendy Haas was in the band before it morphed into Fanny, and has also performed with the likes of Santana and Melissa Manchester. </div><div><br /></div><div>This song appears in Martin Mull's 1977 album I<i>'m Everyone I Ever Loved</i>, where the backup vocals for "They Never Met" were supplied by Melissa Manchester. The following version appeared on <i>Television Parts</i> in the summer of 1985:
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0QHVoF_8J2w" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe>
<i>The boy was almost forty-eight years old. </i><div><div><i>All he'd ever gone to bed with, was a cold. </i></div><div><i>And he said to his mama,
"Mama, I'm afraid it's true; </i></div><div><i>Th'only woman that could love me is you." </i></div><div><i>The girl could almost drink her age in beer-- </i></div><div><i>Couple cases, give or take a year. </i></div><div><i>She worked at the hospital - h</i><i>ey, lots of people do. </i></div><div><i>That's where they fell in love </i></div><div><i>(Oh God, I wish that that was true).</i></div><div><i> </i></div><div><i>But they never met, </i></div><div><i>Not even briefly. </i></div><div><i>I know what you thought, </i></div><div><i>You thought that they might. </i></div><div><i>Now, what was the problem? </i></div><div><i>The problem was, chiefly, </i></div><div><i>She worked the day shift </i></div><div><i>And he worked the night. </i></div><div><i>They never met, </i><i>not even inform'ly-- </i></div><div><i>I know you thought things like this work out right. </i></div><div><i>No, no, they never met, n</i><i>ot even abnorm'ly. </i></div><div><i>She worked the day shift </i></div><div><i>And he worked the night. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Now the boy is almost fifty-nine. </i></div><div><i>You ask him, "How's it goin', Frank?" </i><i>and he says, "Fine." </i></div><div><i>"And what's become of Mama?"
"Well, Mama's in a better place." </i></div><div><i>And he points his finger right straight out in space. </i></div><div><i>The girl is finally chief admitting nurse; </i></div><div><i>Considering what she had for brains, it could be worse. </i></div><div><i>She could have been a victim of the dreaded Asian Flu; </i></div><div><i>She could have had to live with you-know-who-- </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Now the boy's gone to meet his mom-- </i></div><div><i>Natural causes: the bottle, not the bomb. </i></div><div><i>They found him in the dining room; his face was in a stew. </i></div><div><i>They dressed him in a suit of shiny blue. </i></div><div><i>That same year, the girl gave up the ghost. </i></div><div><i>The minister said she'd be missed the most. </i></div><div><i>Her patients cried a tear, </i><i>recalling how she signed their casts. </i></div><div><i>The nurses said she'd find a man at last. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>They never met, </i></div><div><i>Not even in spirit-- </i></div><div><i>I know you thought things like this work out right! </i></div><div><i>No, no, she went to Heaven... </i></div><div><i>But he's nowhere near it. </i></div><div><i>She works the day shift </i></div><div><i>And he works the night.</i></div></div></div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-34159462228749937362022-12-10T23:09:00.000-08:002022-12-10T23:09:02.160-08:00Peeping Mom<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQUcuBsPpKtc5BIDcBM6PMvMjN98vhXUqT1Tj2R_ZxGbKb6Nj5ka2tL7v1foGf37T-pjrZgqzOK_7zQKHyJVL4OokZF56hfiI0uRgseBHJS0siJJSalfCBry8yNU5gVq_2c7MD-9EaKieR2JkyHqE-DnxT4VAP18e0PckBwPnZtT4JPYfedEjwWG4rQ/s1856/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2010.57.23%20PM.png"><img border="0" data-original-height="1430" data-original-width="1856" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQUcuBsPpKtc5BIDcBM6PMvMjN98vhXUqT1Tj2R_ZxGbKb6Nj5ka2tL7v1foGf37T-pjrZgqzOK_7zQKHyJVL4OokZF56hfiI0uRgseBHJS0siJJSalfCBry8yNU5gVq_2c7MD-9EaKieR2JkyHqE-DnxT4VAP18e0PckBwPnZtT4JPYfedEjwWG4rQ/w400-h310/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2010.57.23%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /> 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.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLG04lB0xjIerqjXICekixbiEeNqSF1dWdsKIorHzr2PkLKqQXbCmFPxxQdvf3COuAGfIFI6hndsIw5esN3DA5P9NsUcNBZRvy4YHIvO_HjbaaSleM-iXevX6KTw7RzU0abrUfuGbkeccstRO1H7YAR9eKR1HY3l6kANf9Mu9VTLyZBQjY1tWivhgUig/s1440/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2011.02.08%20PM.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1082" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLG04lB0xjIerqjXICekixbiEeNqSF1dWdsKIorHzr2PkLKqQXbCmFPxxQdvf3COuAGfIFI6hndsIw5esN3DA5P9NsUcNBZRvy4YHIvO_HjbaaSleM-iXevX6KTw7RzU0abrUfuGbkeccstRO1H7YAR9eKR1HY3l6kANf9Mu9VTLyZBQjY1tWivhgUig/s320/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2011.02.08%20PM.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd7mHOF-5uBkReQKspaZ7VYlqK3NwWqoY32qMaBfWxnt93y1jYXYNv5BtlpzLbUsH4-ym7PANSxiVXDIrIax8Al-gNLIpS_vCKEO48OB82H4AzfPD2v6ZyGodW0EfwQrwNYkGWWijIJ8vdcMm7n8wsVrL8I6WF3BMMJviMjlTgmc1Ctm4IVDtN76m5g/s1430/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2011.02.53%20PM.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1430" data-original-width="1066" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd7mHOF-5uBkReQKspaZ7VYlqK3NwWqoY32qMaBfWxnt93y1jYXYNv5BtlpzLbUsH4-ym7PANSxiVXDIrIax8Al-gNLIpS_vCKEO48OB82H4AzfPD2v6ZyGodW0EfwQrwNYkGWWijIJ8vdcMm7n8wsVrL8I6WF3BMMJviMjlTgmc1Ctm4IVDtN76m5g/s320/Screenshot%202022-12-10%20at%2011.02.53%20PM.png" /></a></div> Or else something has changed.<div><br /></div><div>I still love it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good night.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-15589795740078464392022-12-09T21:44:00.000-08:002022-12-09T21:44:28.684-08:00Music therapyAn impossible day. Well, clearly not impossible - I got through it.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>I realised it was <i>The Story of Celeste</i>, something I hadn't heard since I was quite a little girl. It was written and performed by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Tripp">Paul Tripp</a> 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 <i>Tubby the Tuba</i>, but as a little girl, I thought Celeste's waltz tune was just the most beautiful thing ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, perhaps it's wiser not to look too deeply into this story, but the music is lovely.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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:<br /><div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bAtrj1N7Si0" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe></div></div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-17346990619105248432022-12-08T16:30:00.002-08:002022-12-08T16:30:58.356-08:00Dieu veille<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTMKF_C-8wQRU9onfPNFYaYxPeWNokgBPiE0eiQwOsDDUdUT1Ngazh72Lj1YauBLtfX4aYcYYBSibUti2IFXuuHnJsfusDTfBQiKWYhKmHxl8--Y5fDGPumX_X42QQy-_BxBMZAnXOned3cqTbLpI-Lb50vqjscb0iVDMmnMrgQdedAgASERb5BG_2A/s670/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-08%20at%2011.42.25%20AM.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="601" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTMKF_C-8wQRU9onfPNFYaYxPeWNokgBPiE0eiQwOsDDUdUT1Ngazh72Lj1YauBLtfX4aYcYYBSibUti2IFXuuHnJsfusDTfBQiKWYhKmHxl8--Y5fDGPumX_X42QQy-_BxBMZAnXOned3cqTbLpI-Lb50vqjscb0iVDMmnMrgQdedAgASERb5BG_2A/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-08%20at%2011.42.25%20AM.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><br />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.
<div><br /></div><div>The Resident Fan Boy didn't seem to have much use for his, so I commandeered it, and draw three blessings each day.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Among them is a treasure from Mary Helen, the friend who died three weeks, but the <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2022/12/quo-vadis.html">news only reached me yesterday</a>.<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiY0tVpAeUBpNJ9lwGf2tPaLyysmg25Nurl0IU_pWzSQbJsIDcMON9Ti_VpL7qiC0OgXv7NHoBYP9M5jhs6OcOxoqQb8zW8rVoWgfQ54hGy69Z0_9Mod_QFyr0av84fBK_LpJFRjF7lBaDD6e0dhDpKpGVQFeREF_igMcmPW0F3uHMcC7pqv9MuD85aw/s1151/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-08%20at%2011.41.49%20AM.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="1151" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiY0tVpAeUBpNJ9lwGf2tPaLyysmg25Nurl0IU_pWzSQbJsIDcMON9Ti_VpL7qiC0OgXv7NHoBYP9M5jhs6OcOxoqQb8zW8rVoWgfQ54hGy69Z0_9Mod_QFyr0av84fBK_LpJFRjF7lBaDD6e0dhDpKpGVQFeREF_igMcmPW0F3uHMcC7pqv9MuD85aw/w400-h305/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-08%20at%2011.41.49%20AM.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>(<i>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. </i>- from an 1841 letter written to Savinien Lapointe, a cobbler and a poet, whom Victor Hugo encouraged.)<div><br /></div><div>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 "<a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2015/11/just-as-long-as-i-dont-get-two-in-row.html">used years</a>". 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a message from her, on repeat, every few months. It's a comfort to know that this will continue.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-90701896853174045492022-12-07T21:53:00.001-08:002022-12-07T21:53:48.713-08:00Quo vadis<p>I feel slapped. </p><p>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.</p><p>Demeter looked up from her book. "Did you know that Mary Helen died on November 13th?"</p><p>I froze, gaping at her. </p><p>Mary Helen was diagnosed with ovarian cancer something like five years ago. <a href="https://www.cancerresearch.org/what-is-immunotherapy">Immunotherapy</a>, 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 "<a href="https://www.gofundme.com/en-ca/c/crowdfunding">Go-Fund-Me</a>" was set up to pay for the astronomical cost of bringing her back to Victoria via air ambulance. (Demeter and I sent modest donations.)</p><p>The last report I'd heard, via Demeter's church, indicated that she was doing well in hospital and regaining some independence.</p><p>Then I had eye surgery.</p><p>Then I fell.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-19505653512219972022022-12-06T17:47:00.005-08:002022-12-12T12:47:22.486-08:00I spy with my little eye<p>Today would have been my second eye operation, but my tumble to the pavement ten days ago has pushed the procedure into late January.</p><p>Never mind. Having just one eye done has made a significant difference.</p><p>I was just reading my journal entry from six weeks ago. It sounds euphoric, to say the least:</p><p><i>Oh. My. God. I CAN SEE.</i></p><p><i>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.</i></p><p><i>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></p><p><i>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.</i></p><p><i>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.</i></p><p>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.</p><p>"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.</p><p>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 <i>2001: A Space Odyssey</i>.</p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JY-ajPNQMh0?start=217" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe> 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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was a short procedure which seemed to take forever.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>On another bus, which <u>was</u> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div>"They always were, " said the Resident Fan Boy.</div><div>"Shut up," I told him.</div><div><br /></div><div>By bedtime, I realized I could read books again. I could make out what I'd written in my journals.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>My mocha is topped with bubbles edged in brown,</i> I noted in my current journal, my first morning back in the coffeeshop. <i>The croissant is made up of crisp crumbs and flakes. I can see.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>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.</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-51259190128601964582022-12-05T18:48:00.000-08:002022-12-05T18:48:45.052-08:00This is vastly more entertaining than it soundsOkay, <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2022/10/get-lost.html">I've spoken about Jay Foreman's videos before</a>, 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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: </div><div><i>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.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jaEhvWXmLyk" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe> I'll be showing this to the Resident Fan Boy next. (But not on my blog; I'm not that crazy.)</div>Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3215926314312539949.post-71815455526573944742022-12-04T22:16:00.002-08:002022-12-05T09:11:06.539-08:00The abyss of Christmas<p>Look, I love Christmas.</p><p>I really do.</p><p>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.</p><p>This means my deadline for getting Christmas ready has moved up sharply. It also means a Christmas of <a href="https://postitnotesfromhades.blogspot.com/2016/08/the-summer-of-fire-signs.html">fire signs</a>, 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.</p><p>It'll be lovely to see them. My daughters will be thrilled. </p><p>And I'll be looking forward to Boxing Day, which is, after all, the second day of Christmas. Americans don't observe either.</p><p>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.</p>
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Persephonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15560178981320189795noreply@blogger.com0