safe ‘every house has a name and the name of this house is Home’

I’m happily and weirdly ensconced in the Tower of Books. In some ways the Aerie feels like another wing of it. Here we are facing East instead of West; here we are full of books instead of toys; both support immense swathes of indoor greenery and perch atop a landscape full of trees. Deciduous here, coniferous there.

I am sleeping enough (possibly too much, if that’s a thing) and today I am asking for an expedition, so we’re going to go downtown and go to a bookstore.

I haven’t bought a return ticket. Honest to Christ, I don’t want to.

LATER. I should be back in Vancouver 5ish on Saturday.

seeing Tammy tomorrow. I resent you time but you don’t treat everyone the same either. Want more Catherine and definitely Jan.

Pippin is pawing at me.

Doing Lines (poem for an actor)

It starts with an audition
Gone backwards
Start as a demon and up you go
As an angel

The angel is portrayed by a human

a mechanism
runs on money
to make the lines possible

But that’s not the important part
And we all know it

The story would want to be told, and will be told
Again and again
About family, love and forgiveness
About where you keep your treasure
How your treasure is never made of gold

It stays within these lines
Within the limits of this culture

Had the story been born too early
these lines would be incomprehensible
Too late and nobody would care
All of its novelties spilled and broken
Into other forms

It stays within these lines
Within the magic you make with your yoke-mates

Within the lines of this frame
This armature of grace
There is a blurring
The angel and the human get to toy with the story
Crosshatch and infill to make this playful form

Speak the lines
They spill into the love the fans pour into drawings
Speak the lines
They break into infinite regresses of fractal meaning
Speak the lines
And we thank the director for lighting you properly
Speak the lines
And we imagine a love that can’t die
Speak the lines
And we want to hear your own voice in your true life
Speak the lines
And we rise up like eager fools and fight one more day

YYZ arrival

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!

writing lines

So I’m in full bore fanfic mode, again, and my senses are completely scraped raw by anything with even a hint of a sexual flavour.

Get on the bus, and a black woman in her twenties with a triangular face and a nimbus of glorious dense brown curls blows onto the bus a couple of stops later, like a spring zephyr with a saucy bounce and a big round lollipop. She proceeds to sit behind me, like 18 inches behind me, and suck, and I mean suck with intent and fervour, on that lollipop the entire way down to the Skytrain. The two guys sitting at the front of the bus, where they could see her, starting looking kind of haunted. They literally looked everywhere but at her.

Then she follows me onto the elevator, and she’s breathing this sweet vanilla clove scent on me, and I’m like STAAAAHP.

Get on the Skytrain, running like the hammers from the elevator, laden with my gear for the Victoria trip, and the first thing I see is a tall, dark, bespectacled and pasty young man with a forelock that is either supposed to be a unicorn horn, or possibly something else, and he’s chewing on his lower lip and pulling his forelock to its full and locked position, possibly, for the sake of argument, around six inches, and I nearly burst with the effort of keeping my resting bitchface intact and run like the hammers to the front of the train and sit down.


time off

I feel like I am counting off the hours to my vacation (which won’t exactly be a vacation, but at least I won’t have to work) with agonizing slowness.

It was a good weekend, but too short, and now I am back at work. Just 4 more days to go heavy sigh.

A quick roundup plus my song for July 1 2017

Called or spoke to a remarkable percentage of the people I love today and am feeling better for it. Got news out of Katie that, independent of the blast of sunlight us poor benighted and bedrenched Vancouverites received at sunset, was THE BEST. Last night was INSANELY UGLY BUSY and there’s a definite uptick of serious illness right now which I believe corresponds to having a thunderstorm during allergy season. Yeah, it’s not good.
There was a thunderstorm the other day. I’m used to thunderstorms in Vancouver – they consist of one crack of thunder, either during February (weird, hug) or late summer, not now.
Toronto trip is on.
I am feelin’ the love.

Oh yes I’m a member of the working poor
and I’ve walked the windy corridor at Yonge and Bloor
There’s always someone wealthier with more to say
And I’m just trying to get through another day

Oh yes I’m a member of the working class
and I think about Vancouver before Jack got gas
Before they took the timber out of Stanley Park
and it was still safe to be native after dark

Go ahead and mock me as a working slob
a bus ride away from a demeaning job
who gets to see exactly how the poor folks do
But I don’t expect understanding, not from you

On facebook and twitter I have found a voice
You’re the one who thinks that I should have no choice
Who wants me to be marginal who wants me to stay poor
calls me race traitor, calls me ugly whore

See my dayglo banner that says “eat the rich”
You’ll run me down cause I’m a social justice bitch
But thank you for clarifying where I stand
Every inch of Canada is someone else’s land
It’s all bound together, it will not go away
Not feeling like celebrating, not today

work eat sleep rinse repeat

Actually, there was some new ScandiNoir in there. But seriously folks, what with allergy season starting I’m pretty much flattened in the brains department. BrO was shaking his head at my frequently loser points – lost my phone, misplaced my glasses, misplaced my phone aGAIN.

And still it feels like….

I have gotten to the halfway point editing Sweep Off Those Waves. The writing’s picked up thank god it’s no longer quite as lugubrious.

Here’s some amusing film news for Jeff.

In less than salubrious news, the hopelessly racist source material of Hugh Lofting’s Doolittle books is going to make Robert Downey Jr. even richer than he already is. Yeah I know Eddie Murphy was involved in remakes, and it doesn’t take the stink off the source material.

it is still dark

and the birds are singing wildly, as if they don’t know a nuclear war is brewing. I don’t think it will happen; the Chinese, god bless ’em, are pragmatists, and I suspect they’ll squash NK like a rhino on a honey badger if it comes to it. One can expect tourism to slow to a rich man’s trickle, and a few other things.

One can always be sorry for bringing children into a world where that kind of war was possible, but that means there’s three generations of us in our family that have done that. The end of the world has always been nigh. Reading family journals in translation of having to flee various places with little money and no goods has settled me somewhat. A member of the family will survive; it may not be me.

My Scythian ancestors would tell me to buy horses and head for the plains.

I’m at the eyrie. Think I’ll go write fanfic, it’s cheaper than Xanax.

A perfect little monkey

Alex was so adorable at supper last night I nearly died. The baby at the next table said AHHHH and Alex, imitating tone, volume and duration of the AHHHH imitated the baby perfectly. He used chopsticks as a catapult for pho noodles. We were a happy family eating together and we walked there and back, so we got some exercise too. Then I went home and crashed. Paul came by at 10:30 and gave me a lift to work. I feel surrounded by love and light.

This morning Katie posts that Alex made poopy in the toidy today for the first time. Such are the joys of parenting, we take our jollies where we can. I messaged Katie to have her tell Alex I loved him and was proud of him and his response was HIGH FIVE oh god I love Katie’s perfect monkey.

Edith was repaired beautifully, very happy with Westcoast Guitars.

Busy shift.

Fanfic now totals 105K words.

I’m really happy, and now it’s time to sleep.

Phone calls

Edith is still in the shop. I’ll go fetch her on Tuesday.

I’m feeling a trifle under the weather, which is no surprise since the weather has out and out sucked these last few days.

Editing is stalled. I’m just going to take it easy today, finish my laundry. Make some phone calls. Get my working clothes ready for next week.

Edith’s coming home

Westcoast Guitars says the baby mandolin repair is done – I’ll be collecting Edith this weekend, Saturday likely.

I am up to page 106 in the edits for Sweep Off Those Waves. I’m adding a little, taking out more, and cursing my sentence construction rather more often than I should. It’s holding up okay, but it’s not as funny as I’d like. Oh god, the terrible urge to be taken SERIOUSLY doncha know?

Still writing almost 1500 words a day on the goddamned fanfic, posting as I hit chapter length. Still trying to understand this almost biological urge to keep doing it; I actually shared the term ‘graphomania’ with a fellow writer on twitter; she hadn’t been aware that such a mental state existed and told me she was doing the same thing, writing fanfic instead of producing chapters on a non-fiction work. You should have heard me howl with laughter when I read that.

The Canada 150 celebration pisses me off. We have nothing to celebrate until the T&R for the people of the First Nations is done. This is not marching with banners stuff, it’s processing centuries of repression and regulation and slow motion genocide and trying to find a way forward.

Music to my ears

You know how in real life you wait and wait to hear something from somebody and when you finally do it’s so astonishing and amazing.

I do.

It’s my own little Supernatural moment.

“You’ve had my back longer than anyone who’s currently in my life.”

YES, BECAUSE YOU ARE AWESOME. Best of all, I have no interest in owning you or telling you what to do, although I did get a little testy talking about resumes last night. If the end of your employment appears that near, it should be ready….

Which reminds me. Who knows how long I’ll be employed? I should update my own and quit yipping at others.

83K on the fanfic and no signs of slowing down.

Yes mOm I am working on the draft for Sweep off those Waves. It is going well, I’m up to page 26.

My Thursday is my Friday

Short but bracing chat with Katie yesterday morning. She’s very much being practical about the breakup, and has explained why she’s not planning on coming to live with either her father or me, although personally I think she’s a fool not to. She is apparently giving notice on the apartment and since her s/o is not on the lease that will likely end their three year experiment in cohabitation with the father of her child. We shall see.
I am rather glum; I was hoping she’d be able to tame him, but he’s too self-destructive, and while he loves Alex as a reflection of himself, he certainly doesn’t love him for his own sake, and is continually bitching Katie out for ‘raising a wimp’ which considering what her father, brother and uncles are like (caregiving in many ways without being the slightest bit wimpy) is just plain absurdity garnish for the shit sandwich he’s making of his domestic life these days.
Tonight has been insanely busy, but not with discharges, just every other kind of hell. I’m working on a migraine again; the barometer has been hopping about like it’s got St. Vitus’ Dance. I’m having a bracing cuppa to cope. Posted some more smut, since I finally got all the caveats and quid pro quos in there. I literally just posted it and it has 13 hits already, heya.