Catherine Crockett’s glorious nimbus of hair, as she rose from a chair to greet me at YYZ last night, was among the more welcome sights I can recollect in the last little while. She conveyed me, borne upon a lovely packet of antifa news, in comfort and safety – much, awesome, safety – to The Tower of Books, where I am enjoying Antonin Artaud and Radiohead and Eno and re-establishing with Dave, as old friends do, the profound bonds that allow us to see our lives in loving perspective. Or to put it another way, there was beer in the fridge when I got here and I slept like a newborn kitten. The cats here – Mookie and Pippin – are alternately bemused, skittery and curious; Pippin, as I’ve noted Siamese kitties tend to do, likes tapping you with a forepaw to get your attention. Mookie is pissed but silent.
The worst of the bureaucratic nightmare that is dealing with a partner’s death is mostly behind Dave. Now he’s trying to separate grief from cognitive decline (a feeling I’m all too familiar with, although not with this dreadful keenness and recency) and to establish a new normal, when nothing is. The cats help, of course. I managed to Make Dave Laugh Out Loud at least a couple of times, which was on my list of things to do.
Paul was not able to get me out of town on passes. I flew WestJet on my own dime (Dave’s making noises about a subsidy and I will not be foolish enough to cavil) and it was a better experience than I’m used to in steerage, that’s for sure. Haven’t booked passage home. In my current mood of expansive calm I don’t have to.
I should call people. I won’t be in town for long and while Dave’s getting his morning routine sorted is a perfect time to do that.
BrO informs me that we have a new (used) washer. Yay!
