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.