Hurricane Stacey

So I nipped into Demeter's apartment to drop off her litre of milk, having forgotten that her cleaner would be there.  It's been a while since her last visit - Stacey was prone to not feeling well long before the pandemic reared its ugly head.  Still, she's capable of giving Demeter's place the kind of cleaning that would wipe my elderly mother out, and I prefer not to get in the path of the whirlwind.

Stacey, it seems, has been bored and she tells me that she's been educating herself about China.

"Yay," I say, in a bid to be supportive, although something deep down stirs uneasily.  Stacey is a bit out there -- even by British Columbia standards.

The conclusion Stacey has reached, based on her "research", is that Canada is heading the same way as China.  Communism, she clarifies.  She's searching out protest groups, to join in demonstrations against the measures the government has been implementing.

Demeter, whose hearing hasn't been the best for the past couple of decades, looks blankly at her.

"The Canadian government," Stacey emphasizes, for Demeter's benefit.

She tells us she phoned the Unitarians - our church, as it happens (not hers; she's Church of Truth) - in search of fellow protesters, and was displeased by their response.

"I thought the Unitarians were in favour of human rights," she tells us angrily.

Standing next to Demeter, I can't help myself.

"They are. In the human right to live."

She narrows her eyes.  "Oh. You're on that side."

She continues:  "That big flu epidemic a hundred years ago, we got through that without restrictions."

She's talking to the wrong person.  There certainly were restrictions, but I go for the jugular.

"Millions died, Stacey.  We had family die in the Spanish Flu Epidemic."

"I guess you won't be protesting."

Damn right.

I avoid her for a while, shaken.  I'm not a fan of confrontation.  The next time I see her, we discuss the weather.  We don't discuss hurricanes.

Vancouver - October 2020 - Darryl Dick photo

Ghost of Christmas cats

A few months ago, a large lithe tabby joined our household.  Like Rum Tum Tugger, he's a curious cat.

Early morning, pre-dawn,  I'm standing by the bedside table, engaged in my morning routine. I'm applying lip balm, when I hear a strange noise.

The cat is crouched by the bedroom door, gazing out into the dark hall that leads into the living room.  He's giving that rising and falling growl that cats emit when threatened.

I peer out into the direction in which he's glaring.  Nothing, but it's dark.  I venture into the hall, turning on lights, and feeling rather creeped out.  Nothing.

I return to the bedroom, and the cat has vanished, except for irregular intervals, when I hear that growl.  I lie across our large bed, and hang my head over the edge to see underneath, where the cat is crouched, dead centre.  He's never hidden under the bed before.

I decide the wisest thing is to dress quickly, and get my shoes on.  All sorts of unpleasant possibilities race through my brain: an intruder, or some sort of feral animal - cats can see ghosts, can't they - and don't they sense imminent earthquakes?

I hastily insert my contact lenses and check the apartment again.  The Resident Fan Boy is bathing; younger daughter is in bed, reading her phone.  I retreat, and set to applying my makeup.

As I pull on my jacket, the cat emerges from under the bed by inches, slowly, slowly.  His ears are back, his spine is in a high arc, and his striped tail is like a bottle brush.  He creeps to the door, pauses, then crawls into the hall, smelling the floor and baseboards.  He continues in this fashion out to the living room, then returns through the kitchen, back to the hall, where he pauses by younger daughter's slightly ajar door to sniff some more.  I return to the master bedroom to collect my things.

By the time I depart to the coffee shop, the cat's body has relaxed, and I feel confident enough to stroke him.

Unnerving.

Fade to black

When I began my days in Hades, there were three cinemas remaining in downtown Ottawa: the rather drafty and smelly triplex in the Rideau Centre, the cluster of screens of varying sizes at the World Exchange Centre, and the Bytowne Cinema, the local seat of art films, which was housed in an old-fashion movie house which had blinked on Rideau Street for well over half a century.

After a decade of seemingly endless Ottawa winters, the downtown cinemas disappeared, chilled out by Netflix, I guess.  I've never seen the appeal of Netflix, and I rather like my films on a large screen, hearing the reactions of those around me.  The big-box cinemas were an eighty-to-ninety-minute round-trip by bus, so I purchased the yearly membership to Bytowne, which was a thirty-minute walk from my house, and near two bus-routes, if I didn't feel like the hike.

It offered a wide range of films:  Canadian, foreign-language, animation, classics.  It also featured a rather eccentric clientele at times, but a seat in the large darkened auditorium was a trip back in time.

It was one of my lifelines in a city that never became home to me.  Yesterday, they announced it was closing down.  The second COVID lockdown was the final straw.  A particular pity, since, as far as I can see, cinemas are not a source of spreading, super or otherwise.

Even though I don't have to live in Hades anymore, and have absolutely no reason to return, my heart is breaking.  Surely I wasn't the only person clinging on to the Bytowne for dear life.

Let the world turn without you

 In an up-Island hospital, Double Leo Sister was ministering to her best friend in all the world, smoothing the cracked skin of her hands and feet with lotion, while singing softly from Jesus Christ Superstar:  

Try not to get worried/ Try not to turn on to problems that upset you/ Don't you know everything's alright, yes, everything's fine?/ And we want you to sleep well tonight/ Let the world turn without you tonight/  If we try, we'll get by, so forget all about us tonight.

Sleep and I shall soothe you, calm you and anoint you/ Myrrh for your hot forehead/ And you'll feel everything's alright, yes, everything's fine/ And it's cool and the ointment's sweet/ For the fire in your head and feet/ Close your eyes, close your eyes, and relax; think of nothing tonight.

It was a song from their shared late childhood, a song as old as their friendship, begun when they were both twelve, continuing through adolescence, marriages, children.  Four weddings between them, one for each decade.  For each ceremony, one served as the chief attendant for the other.  Their lives were spent mostly in distant communities, the connection unbroken.

The Best Friend, always suspicious of mainstream medicine, finally was drawn to her local hospital by the belief she had COVID.  It turned out to be late-stage lymphoma.  Best Friend quickly deteriorated, as Double Leo Sister drove the 500 miles to be with her.  Well, her husband the Jolly Not-so-green Giant did the driving.  DLS was far too distraught.

DLS stroked on the lotion, singing, and was startled when her best friend burst out, with surprising force and energy (and on-key):

Woman, your fine ointment, brand-new and expensive/ Could have been saved for the poor/ Why has it been wasted? We could have raised maybe three hundred silver pieces or more! /People who are hungry, people who are starving/ Matter more than your feet and hair!

A few weeks later, the world turned without her.

Here's the song, as performed in the 2012 "Arena Tour" revival, by Mel C., Ben Forster, and Tim Minchin:

A few heartbeats away

 

A few blocks from home, taking the scenic route, I look beyond one of the myriad "free little libraries" that are so popular in Victoria - you can glimpse it in the lower right hand corner of this photo, and see something else popular in the neighbourhood - red hearts. 

Since the pandemic started, red hearts are everywhere in Victoria: in the letterhead of local paper, painted on the manhole covers in Cook Street Village.

With the leaves blasted off the branches of the ancient twisted trees, these hearts pop, like living things against sleeping branches.

Seeing spots

To someone whose perception of time differs from most, this pandemic has been even more of a challenge. Earlier this year, as I removed laundry from younger daughter's room, I saw that she had filled in each and every square of her calendar, clear through to December: "VIRUS - VIRUS - VIRUS . . . ."  Like a flashing alarm, blinking repeatedly, world without end, amen.

At the same time, a friend posted this equally alarming animation on Facebook.  It covers the period between January 1st and June 30th, 2020, and it uses visuals and sound effects in a simple but unsettling way.

We start, seemingly drifting somewhere in space above China (which is unnerving in itself, to tell you the truth). One screen corner shows the date, the other the number of deaths -- not case numbers, deaths; that's important. It starts at 0, of course, but once the numbers appear, it will change every four seconds.

For the first few seconds, we have silence, until the first death, sometime in January.  A beep sounds, and a red dot ripples out, like a pebble hitting calm water.

The beeps come closer together, as the circle morphs into what looks like an angry scarlet pustule -- as the Philippines, with a beep in a different tone, joins in, and we float backwards and outwards, so our view takes in all of Europe, as Iran, Italy, France, and Spain become inflamed rippling spots, all beeping on different notes.

By March 11th, the day the pandemic was declared (and the last day I shook anybody's hand), we're viewing a flat world map. European countries are obscured by red welts. 

On March 16th, Canada gets a scarlet circle. That was the day that Sophie Gregoire Trudeau was confirmed as a COVID case, and things began shutting down in Canada like a row of falling dominos. 

By April 12th, the day elder daughter came from Hades to shelter with us in Victoria, the Canadian circle is large, and the United States is pulsing angrily. 

And so it goes to June 30th, spreading and spreading, the mingled beeps becoming a cacophony, as I compare my own personal timeline - I've kept one while all this has been happening. 

I understand there will be an update covering July 1st to December 31st. 

 I can hardly wait. 

Will younger daughter fill in her 2021 calendar with anguished repeating words, flashing like an alarm clock?  To her, it seems it will never end.  I can't convince her otherwise.

Some walk in the hollow

Back in the days when I had very small children and no computer, I'd huddle next to the radio speakers on cold Saturday evenings - our house was over a century old and very difficult to heat - and listen to A Prairie Home Companion, beaming over the border from the PBS feed at the University of Washington.    

One of the guests was a folk guitarist named Martin Simpson, singing a lyrical elegy on the tragedy of Icarus. I was in the habit of taping the show, and I listened and listened to this heartbreakingly beautiful song. 

Not long afterward, Martin Simpson himself was scheduled to give a concert at Camosun College, but it would be a long, dark bus ride there and back, with the complications of arranging child-care, and I lost heart. 

I also forgot, over the years, how the song went, and who the musician was, and even after I acquired a computer, I was unable to retrieve the memory. 

A few weeks ago, Spotify sent me its weekly offerings of algorithmic suggestions, and while listening to it, I recognized Martin Simpson's unmistakeable voice. Spotify also offers playlists of individual artists, so I checked the one for him. 

And there it was. Not only that, I found a YouTube recording, something that has eluded me for years. 

The song itself is the work of Welsh songwriter Anne Lister.  

I never wanted to fly high. 

I was too fond of walking 

So when you said you'd touch the sky 

I thought it was your way of talking 

And then you said you'd build some wings 

You'd found out how it could be done 

But I was doubtful of everything 

I never thought you'd reach the sun 

You were so clever with your hands 

I'd watch you for hours 

With the glue and rubber bands 

The feathers and the lace and flowers 

And the finished wings glowed so bright 

Like some bird of glory  

I began to envy you your flight 

Like some old hero's story 

You tried to get me to go with you 

You tried all ways to dare me 

But I looked at the sky so blue 

I thought the height would scare me 

But I carried your wings for you 

Up the path and to the cliff face 

Kissed you goodbye and watched your eyes 

Already bright with sunlight 

It was so grand at the start 

To watch you soaring higher 

There was a pain deep in my heart 

Your wings seemed tipped with fire 

Like some seagull or a lark 

Soaring forever 

Or some ember or a spark 

Drifting from Earth to Heaven 

Then I believed all that you'd said 

I believed all that you'd told me 

You'd do a thing no man had ever done 

You'd touch the stars to please me 

And then I saw your wide wings fail 

Saw your feathers falter 

And watched you drop like a ball of gold 

Into the wide green water 

Now some are born to fly high 

Some are born to follow 

Some are born to touch the sky 

And some walk in the hollow 

But as I watched your body fall 

I knew that really you had won 

For your grave was not the earth 

But the reflection of the sun

Don't hold your breath

When Donald Trump got hired four years ago, I trudged out to my favourite neighbourhood Hades coffee shop to numb myself with chocolate and caffeine. 

Four years later, I was sitting in my favourite coffee shop in Victoria about 8:30 on a November Saturday morning. I needed to check something on my phone, and was ambushed by my FaceBook feed. 

I texted elder daughter in England: BBC is saying that Biden got it. She confirmed that CNN was saying the same thing, and I staggered over to the counter to gasp at the barista: "BBC and CNN are saying that Joe Biden has won the American election." 

She said something like "Thank goodness!", and outside, a car flew down Cook Street, honking like a wedding day.

I found myself fighting back tears; it's like I've been braced and tensed since November 2016, and could finally breathe. 

Of course, this doesn't solve everything. However, this latest Randy Rainbow offering is fiendishly clever, and parodies one of the most fiendishly difficult Sondheim songs. Which is saying something. And here is the song on which the parody is based, sung, in this instance, by the late great Madeleine Kahn. Don't hold your breath.

Hey? (Nay!)

 I went to the drug store, as is my custom, on October 31st, to cut down on the possibility that I might consume all the Hallowe'en candy before the little goblins show up.

This year, however, it's unlikely. Across the country, provincial premiers and health officers are declaring a moratorium on trick-or-treating.  Even our prime minister, an avid Hallowe'en dresser-upper (sometimes with disastrous results) has declared to the children of Canada that the pandemic "sucks".

We've carved our jack o' lanterns, nevertheless, and, with three or four families with young children in our building, we're prepared to shell out.  Perhaps in baggies.  Delivered by reacher/grabber.

To fully understand the joke behind this rather wonderful "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" parody, it helps to have: a) been in French Core or French Immersion in the primary grades at a Canadian elementary school within the past forty or so years; or: b) had children in French Core or French Immersion in the primary grades at a Canadian elementary school within the past forty or so years.

Here's the original:

No rules

Actually, there are plenty of rules.  The structure's harder to see.  The past seven months remind me of the nine months the Resident Fan Boy languished between jobs, a few years before we became parents. 

I found my comfort then, as I do now, in a mixture of the new and the familiar.  

This is one of my favourite scenes from the 2001 British comedy/drama series Bob and Rose.  Written by Russell T Davies, it was a major reason I started watching Doctor Who -- aside from David Tennant, of course.  Davies based his story on something that actually happened to a couple of his friends:  a gay man who, to his astonishment, fell in love with a straight woman.

This is about halfway through the drama.  Bob and Rose, seeing no future in their relationship have broken up about twice, and we overhear their inner thoughts while watching the dancers in their respective favoured nightclubs in Manchester.

Aside from the wit and the acting, I'm very enamoured of the music, which seems to be a dreamy mixture of Pachelbel and Orff.