Bed-making music

I was changing Demeter's bed linens the other day, and taking off the edge of the task by playing my "Liked Songs" from Spotify on "shuffle". I have over 2000 "liked" songs now, which means I don't always recognise the tunes that turn up.

So this one came on, and when I looked it up, I discovered it's a Bob Dylan composition that's almost 30 years old.  This cover is about eight years old.  I never was much for being on top of things.

 

Shadows are falling, and I've been here all day.  It's too hot to sleep; time is running away.

Feel like my soul has turned into steel; I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal.

There's not even room enough to be anywhere.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain. Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain.

She wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind. She put down in writing what was in her mind.

I just don't see why I should even care.  It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

Well, I've been to London, and I've been to gay Paree.

I've followed the river, and I got to the sea.

I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies.

I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.

Sometimes, my burden seems more than I can bear.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there. 

I was born here, and I'll die here, against my will.

I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still.

Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb,

I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from.

Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer.

It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

- Bob Dylan - 1997

Waiting in the wings

 While "dead-heading" the plants on Demeter's balcony yesterday morning, I couldn't bear to clip this blossom quite yet.  It looked for all the world like a falling angel, supported, however briefly, by four cherubs.

(Yes, there are four.)

If I take the wings of morning

Someone is catching up behind me; I can see his long early-morning shadow overtaking mine.

He's waving his arms above his head, presumably to catch the attention of a friend not quite within hailing distance.  He's done this before, always in this section of the block, and I've never caught sight of whomever he's greeting.

He makes my shadow look as if it has sprouted grey ghostly wings.

Corvid and COVID

This is not the crow.

I've just crossed the quiet street in the early morning, on my usual way to the coffee shop, when I feel a light tap to the back of my head, on the right side. Looking around in bewilderment, I spot a crow on my left, standing quietly on the sidewalk, beady eyes fixed on me.

Oh dear.

The last spring this kind of thing happened, two or three years ago, the crows were aggressive for a chunk of the summer.

Two or three years ago - it was three, actually - the Resident Fan Boy caught COVID.

From the Resident Fan Boy, Friday morning

I guess these things go in cycles.

Perhaps it is time to look

A couple of years ago, Spotify sent me a song that seemed to emanate the best things about a summer evening.  Spotify sends me rather more Scandinavian music than I really asked for, so I assumed this song was Swedish.  

About a year later, I noticed it wasn't Swedish.  (I'm so observant.) It's Estonian, and performed by a folksy band called Rüüt. 

It's fair to say that what I know about Estonia could probably be scribbled in the palm of my tiny hand.  It's south of Finland and north of -- Latvia? However, a couple of King Singers' concerts alerted me to the fact that Estonia is known for song.  They have a major Song and Dance Festival in the capital city of Talinn every five summers - this year, for example - and in the intervening years, they hold Youth Song and Dance Festivals, also huge.  

So here's the song, "Mina Ja Meri", sung by a lot of very young, very blond people in 2023.  I'm following it with a translation of one of the verses; the other verses are in much the same vein.  

Perhaps it is time to look at one another

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Tired from storms, but warmer than warm,

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

Like flowers, we turn towards the light

Me and the sea, the sky and the earth

I give my heart's song into your care....

So, not so much about summer.  But it feels like summer.

Flushed with triumph

 

This amused me.

Camera-shy

 

Yesterday's urban wildlife encounter reminds me of an incident last fall, when I was on my way to set up breakfast for Demeter.

It's a short walk, and I caught the eye of a very young buck deer having a nosh in the plantations of a neighbouring apartment building.

"Don't worry," I told him.  "I'm not coming anywhere near you."

I'm pretty sure he didn't understand me, but he didn't challenge me, so I continued to the corner where I usually cross.  I got held up by what I call "funeral corteges", long lines of cars heading down Fairfield Road after being held up themselves by traffic signals further east.

While I waited, a young woman in grey sweats barrelled across the road from the other side, seemingly undeterred by the cars bearing down on her.  She was clutching her phone, and evidently intent on filming four or five deer that had now joined the buck, including a couple of young fawns.

I called to her, from where I stood:  "They have young with them; they might charge you!"  There have been reports of people being hurt by frightened urban deer over the years since they started appearing in Victoria, about twenty years ago; some dogs have had to be euthanised.

The woman, predictably, ignored me, gesturing uselessly as one deer came alarmingly close to her, although I don't think she understood the danger, then stretching out her arms to the sides, and pleading with them not to bolt -- as they were doing.

Did she really think they understood her words and gestures?  Did she believe she was in a Disney film?

A doe fled across the busy street, leaving her fawn behind, which eventually ventured after her.

None of them were run down -- including the clueless woman, still brandishing her phone, still calling after them to stay, to come back.

Breaking breakfast

In the midst of a stressful time, I skipped my usual route to the coffee shop, which takes me down a two-block arch of plane trees, and instead, took the narrow stairs to the basement level of our building, which, via a grim hall, takes me to the lower parking lot, where I strode into the full morning sunshine, crossed the street -- and stopped in my tracks.

Ahead of me (much farther ahead than it appears in this image), stood a young doe with the tiniest fawn I've ever seen.

I know enough about urban wildlife to never approach an animal with young, especially deer, which have been known to charge.  She may look like Faline, but those hoofs are sharp.

After taking my snaps, I took a generous half-circle path around the pair, keeping my distance and walking at a moderate pace.  The little fellow bolted into the bushes anyway, and Mum, after a lengthy wary stare, turned and followed her offspring.

It was only when I examined my shots on the phone while sipping my mocha that I realised I'd interrupted breakfast.

It's never what you think it's for

Not the most auspicious beginning of the month for me, I'm afraid.  I'll spare you the sordid details.

Life is.

It's never what you think it's for, and I can't seem to set it off,

And lately I've been insecure.

The chances of a lifetime might be hiding their tricks up my sleeve.

Used to be the greatest,

Now I see

Time is time, and time and time again

(And what would you say if you can't get out of here?)

Time is time, and time and time again,

To make your escape, you've captured the captor's fear.

'Cause I can feel my luck has turned it all around, 

And when you've fallen out, get both feet on the ground.

The curses you keep won't follow you now.

And so I try to be myself.

It's the same as always, I get tripped up.

And each and every time, it takes me away.

I'm often living on, just to be outside these walls again.

It's the age of what's to come, and, baby, you're on.

-Jessica Pratt

Going for Late Baroque

Gotta love this Rococo hopscotch that was meandering around the corner from us, courtesy of the young sidewalk artists residing on Chester Avenue.

Caught it before the spring rains washed it away.