The cage it called

This is another song sent to me by Spotify. 

 I don't remember hearing it eight years ago, when it first came out, and the original rock version probably would not have caught my attention. 

 However, this stripped-down piano version had me listening. 

 And the final line stops me cold.

Taking things "litterally"

I really want to make this clear. I've been fortunate, in the aftermath of Demeter's fall last January, that the Resident Fan Boy has taken up a number of my chores.  

In the early days, that was nearly all of them, because I stayed with Demeter during the first week, and went in four times a day after that, to assist with rising and breakfast, lunch, supper, and the bedtime routine.  

One evening in early February, I came home through the dark streets, thinking dark thoughts.  In our apartment, the main bathroom door was closed, and younger daughter's bedroom door wide open, the signal that she was taking her evening bath.

But where was the Resident Fan Boy? The living room was silent and deserted.  I turned right and entered our bedroom to take off my coat, still not seeing my husband.  I started to get a little alarmed.

Around the corner, there he was, on all fours, in the small dark passageway that serves as a walk-in closet, and leads to the ensuite toilet.

My heart nearly stopped.  It was less than two weeks after Demeter's accident, and I thought:  He's hurt; he's collapsing in pain or illness; he's ----- cleaning the kitty litter box....

On all fours.  Having scooped poop onto sheets of toilet paper he'd laid out on the floor.

"What on earth???" I shrilled.

I realized, in a slightly horrified flash, that, in all our years of owning pets - two of which have been cats -- the RFB had never actually sifted kitty litter. (How is that possible?)

Brushing this epiphany aside, I did a quick demo of how I balance the cat-box on the sink, and transfer the flushables with a trowel into the toilet, before sweeping out the cubby, where, judging from the amount of spilled litter, our cat evidently rehearses the burial of our lifeless corpses.

"I wondered how you managed every night," remarked the RFB.

Y'know, he could have asked.

A sucker for a sunset

We've been praying for rain.  However, it's August in Victoria.  It's unlikely to rain much before the end of the month.

And even less likely after a sunset like this, brief as it was.

 

Do not post gentle into that good night

Just this past weekend, something happened that hasn't happened in a long time. A member of Demeter's church died -- and they held an in-person memorial service. 

Imagine that. Someone dies, and family and friends gather together to mourn, remember, and comfort each other. 

I was imagining this last March, when I attended my first online funeral. 

It was for a cousin I'd never met, except online. We got in touch about 15 years ago, because she and I were researching similar branches of Demeter's ancestors in Carmarthenshire. We'd been in regular contact ever since, and I followed her posts on Facebook -- until they became more impersonal, veering into the "inspirational" memes that have become so wearisome on social media. In between these postings, I gathered that doctor appointments and hospital stays were taking up more of her time. 

Finally, one February morning, I awoke to a message from her son, posted on her account, to let her "Facebook friends" know she was gone. She had posted memes and prayers up until a day or so before her death. I contacted her son with the usual inadequate words, and a few weeks later, received the link for her funeral. 

So it was that I found myself rising before dawn, to attend a funeral that, Google Maps showed me, was taking place in a crematorium set off a lonely road near Llanelli. 

Our computer is sluggish, and it took some while to log on. They were in the middle of the first hymn, when I made it, viewing the proceedings as if tucked up into the right corner of the back wall. 

The priest was that most unfortunate of creatures, a Welshman unable to sing on key. Of course, he was the one person who was miked, so it was his voice I heard, accompanied by a pre-recorded choir. 

From my virtual perch in the back corner, I couldn't see if the congregation was singing. There were about a dozen mourners in well-spaced clumps, all masked, all dressed in grey or black, with the backs of their black or grey heads facing toward me. 

It was an antiseptic room with a grey carpet. The windows behind the priests looked out over dull green hills rising to a grey sky. 

I was startled to see a coffin (also grey), because my cousin had died over a month before. Towards the end of the service, held in English and Welsh, a semi-circular gauzy curtain was drawn about the stand where the coffin lay, followed shortly by a taupe-coloured opaque curtain. 

I hope there was some comfort in the hymns and readings, clearly chosen by a family familiar with the Anglican liturgy - my cousin's widower is a Church-in-Wales priest. Bowed and huddled, he was supported out of the room by his two sons as the other mourners followed, and my view into the scene was snapped off. 

I thought about the service my cousin would have wanted: in the accustomed surroundings of her parish church, candles, a real choir, pews filled with family and friends. 

So bleak. So grey. 

Michael Sheen is just finishing a run at the National Theatre in a production of Dylan Thomas' Under Milkwood, which, normally, does not feature the poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night". It seems an appropriate tribute to my cousin, however, whose life had more colour than her muted send-off would imply.

        

Barefaced guys

It was only last weekend that I first started noticing that people were entering my local coffee shop un-masked. After more than a year, it was a startling sight - and I also noticed that, with one exception, the maskless ones were male, and on the younger side. (The exception, of course, was a young female, clearly in the company of her boyfriend.) 

The same weekend, Amanda Vickery, the host of several documentaries on social history, was tweeting angrily about the men - she made it clear these were men - who were riding without masks on the trains in London. Elder daughter, who is in the first few weeks of her job in Greenwich, has similar concerns.

Meanwhile, Demeter was taken for lunch in Sidney yesterday (seventeen miles north of Victoria for those not familiar with our area), a lovely outing, but she was taken aback to see that the staff at the restaurant had uncovered faces.  I haven't yet encountered a single Victorian restaurant or shop, for that matter, which has taken that step.

In Cook Street Village, a few blocks from my doorstep, the tiny plant shop is taking a stand.  Literally.

Seasons Bleetings

As the dog days of summer draw to a close, I suppose we could say this is Lammastide. 

Lammas Day itself was August 1st, but like Christmastide, Lammastide must surely mean the time around Lammas Day, right? 

I think about quarter days and cross-quarter days quite a bit, partially because any family historian with British roots needs to know when Lady Day is. (It's March 25th, and before 1752, it was the beginning of the new year, which makes a difference if you're looking up christening, marriage and burial dates in pre-1752 church registers.) 

However, lately, I've been thinking about Midsummer Day (June 24th). It's probably a mark of how geeky I am, that I think: Well, the middle of summer is surely early August, right? Halfway between the soltice and the equinox? Why isn't Lammas Day called Midsummer Day? This is probably why I shouldn't play Sudoku. 

Last spring, when the plague that has enveloped our planet was just getting started, the National Theatre made about a dozen of its filmed stage productions available online for about a week each. I watched each one, even the ones I'd seen in cinemas, and eagerly awaited one I'd missed -- the Bridge Theatre production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, which the NT released on or about June 24th (Midsummertide?) 

In this scene, the Rude Mechanicals are about to rehearse their fractured take on Pyramus and Thisbe, but they need to check if the moon will shine on the following evening. If you've watched this excerpt (and you should), you'll know that the evening they're checking is June 24th. (You might recognize "Mistress Quince", who directs the play-within-a-play, as Felicity Montagu, who plays "Perpetua" in Bridget Jones' Diary among other things.)

While this scene gives a taste of the humour, improvisation, and audience involvement of this production, it doesn't show half the magic of the show.  The fairies, for example, are aerial artists, or have trained extensively for the show.  The music is arranged by Grant Olding, who wrote the songs for One Man, Two Guv'nors (another National Theatre hit). Olding's delightful arrangements of the lullaby to soothe Oberon (yes - Oberon - in this production it's Titania [Gwendoline Christie] who puts her Fairy King [Chris Oliver] under the love spell) is sung by fairy Rachel Tolzman, who describes herself on social media as a trained opera singer and a champion pole dancer.  (Believe me, it explains a lot.)  The lullaby reappears later as a soulful variation, sung by a sultry torch singer  -- who turns out to be one of the most formidable of the Rude Mechanicals, as played by Jamie-Rose Monk.

Most astonishing of all is the beginning of the play, set in a dystopian "Handmaid's Tale" version of Greece, where the Amazonian Hippolyta is encased in a glass cage, facing a forced marriage to the triumphant Theseus.

I, as someone who has loved and watched MND so many times, wondered how on earth they would make the transition from fear and oppression to the light-hearted comedy, how Hippolyta and Theseus would transform into Titania and Oberon. To see how - and it really is remarkable - you can subscribe to National Theatre at Home for a reasonable rate to see this play (until, I believe, Midsummer Day 2022), and a couple of dozen other National Theatre productions.  Different recordings are added each month, and the beauty of the service is that you can return to productions time and time again - which is how I made most of my realisations about this MND, including the key to transitioning out of the rather terrifying and wildly creepy first scene: consent.

I believe the word "consent" is only mentioned in the first scene where Hermia refuses to marry Demetrius.  However the reason, we can relax and laugh is that, time and time again, there is a act of consent.  My favourite is the rather adorable moment when Bottom (Hammad Animashaun) agrees to go off with Oberon, but it needs to be seen to be appreciated.  See it.  See the other National Theatre productions available online.  (They do need to make more comedies available; we're still in the midst of a ruddy pandemic.)

Meanwhile, I may ruminate on "In the Bleak Midwinter", and how I think we really should sing it at Candlemas, which actually is the middle of winter.

I won't burden you with that, I promise.

Fast falls the eventide

I'm realizing that, with the extra to-ing and fro-ing to keep Demeter fed, and her blood-sugar levels reasonable, extra stuff like accompanying younger daughter to art lessons is wiping me out, so I really need to get the blog post in earlier in the day.

This didn't happen today, so I'm cheating.  Again.

Being brought up a Unitarian, this hymn actually reminds me of summer.  Summer band, to be exact.  Our director would put us through three or four hymns, for the harmonies.  The harmonies in "Abide With Me" are distinctive, and I was delighted that the King's Singers keep them perfectly intact.

You might want to ignore the lyrics.  They're a little too close for comfort, these days.

But I suppose they always were.

Burning our reserves of courage

Here's something Spotify sent me recently. I really like it. Not sure how comforting it is, but I think that's rather the point. Everybody's saying 

That it's gonna be alright 

But I can't help but wonder 

If it's gonna be on my dime 

We are the powers 

Throwing up against the tide 

Burning our reserves of courage 

And working just to make it alright 

When we know it isn't 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't 

We know it isn't, it ain't gonna turn out right 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't, oh no 

We know it isn't, that's why we gots to fight 

You and I are trying 

But we don't get to decide 

When the man comes for our paycheques 

Don't you tell me it'll be alright 

We aren't the rich ones 

Some of us will barely get by 

They buy diamond studded shoes with our taxes 

Anything to keep us divided 

You know it isn't 

We know it isn't, we know it isn't 

 

For the life and soul of the world we love 

Fight, 'cause the promise is never gonna be enough 

Watching and waiting for answers 

Hoping we might see the light 

You beat it into us like a hammer 

So don't you tell me it'll be alright 

When we know it isn't

Do I belong there?

The long months of pandemic have us reaching for comfort in familiar movies and television shows. This is particularly true for younger daughter, whose burden of autism and anxiety is a bad match with the threat of a global virus. 

We invite younger daughter to view DVDs (yes, we still use DVDs) in the living room. It's an effective way of chivvying her out of her bedroom. 

This means we've seen all the Harry Potter films in order and reverse order, all ten seasons of Friends (reminding me how rubbishy the final four seasons were), and the various Muppets films. 

I've learnt that I still rather like The Great Muppet Caper, and that I truly loathe The Muppets Take Manhatten. The original Muppet Movie is okay; it doesn't drive me into the bedroom, or out of the house entirely. 

So, one late afternoon, I'm sitting on the couch doing Sudoku, while younger daughter is perched on the Resident Fan Boy's raised seat cushion (originally made by Demeter for the RFB's late father).  She's watching the scene where Gonzo is singing wistfully in the desert, dreaming of earlier in the day, when he was hoisted skyward by a bunch of helium balloons.

Sun rises; night falls/ Sometimes, the sky calls/ Is that a song there?/ And do I belong there?/ I've never been there, but I know the way/ I'm going to go back there some day.

I'm thinking of when I originally saw the movie in a cinema, long before the advent of my daughters.  I remember the dreaminess of it -- had I nodded off?

Then I realize that younger daughter is softly singing along.  Part heaven, part space/ Or have I found my place?/ You can just visit, but I plan to stay/ I'm going to go back there some day.

And my heart is breaking, but I manage not to cry.  I hold very still, hardly daring to breathe.

As the crow flies

 

Why is it that the months with the least number of days seem to be the longest?

Yesterday, I made my way back from preparing lunch for Demeter.  I was within a few yards of our building, when I heard the familiar raucous call of a crow in springtime.  My heart sank.

This happens most years, in varying intensity.  It's nesting time for the black critters, and they become convinced that passersby are after their young 'uns.  This usually takes the form of threatening swoops.  I've had the occasional one graze the top of my head.  I've found the best defence is proceeding calmly, eyes front, which takes a tad of self-discipline as one hears the loud approaching CAW.

Having seen Hitchcock films doesn't help. (Incidentally, years ago, I spent a week in the Bodega Schoolhouse, where that famous scene was filmed.  Lots of redwing blackbirds.  No crows.)

Last spring was our first in this building, and we learned that corvid thuggery was a time-honoured neighbourhood event; the ancient trees lining the lawn fronting our apartment contain at least one crow's nest every year.  The angry birds went mainly after joggers and dog-walkers, and being neither, we didn't worry unduly about it.

I should have known this year would be different.

As early as April, I was mildly startled when, walking up the pathway to the entrance, a crow silently glided to the ground over my left shoulder, brushing me with its feathers.  A week ago, I returned home at sunset and a full block away from home, heard harsh foreshadowing squawkings from the foliage that curves over the sidewalk.

Which brings us to yesterday.

As I approached the driveway, I realized I was dealing with one belligerent customer.  After a couple of charges, he (she?) swooped from behind with a strident cry out of hell, striking me on the area just above the space between my shoulder blades and just below the nape of my neck: "CAW --- thunk"

Heading for the entrance seemed a bad idea, so I veered into the parking lot, protesting, "I'm not after your babies!"  The fowl refused to listen to reason.

CAW --- thunk....CAW --- thunk

It hit me twice more, a total of five times in precisely the same place,  before I ducked under the over-hang that protects the cars parked next to the wall.  It didn't hurt; it didn't even knock me off balance.  It felt something like being struck with the flat side of a broom.

Shaken, I reached the side door unmolested, and forgetting to put on my mask, stumbled into the shelter of the stairwell.

Since then, I've been re-routing my departures and arrivals out the lower entrance at the south end of the building, feeling somewhat like a schoolchild scuttling through side-streets in hope of evading a dreaded bully.  

The trouble is, there's a sentinel crow on this quiet backstreet, as well.  I keep my eyes front, and walk briskly, but calmly, feeling those beady bird eyes following me.  

I resist the temptation to sing, even under my breath:  Risselty rossety/Hey bombosity/Knickety knockety/Retrical quality/Willaby wallaby/ Now-now-now....

Occasionally, he coasts through the air from across the street and emits one loud CAW.  

I manage not to jump out of my skin. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.

It's going to be a long month.