Skin it

The corner store where we shot the shit.

She moved to that island thirty years ago without ever having visited. 

I met her at Fish & Chips - the fish and chips food truck down at Ford Cove.

A super cool woman. 

I'd specifically go down to the Cove to chat with her – 

but mainly off-season. 

Because the tourists were too much for me. 

She also worked stocking shelves and doing cash at the corner store. 

I thought that she was psychic. 

So, I sniffed around when I was with her. 

And she was. 

Folks would come into the Cove and have her choose their 

Lotto tickets. 

They'd line up sometimes six or seven deep. 

I watched them. 

Customer after customer came in with winning tickets. 

Myself included. 

She picked the Set for Life tickets for me. 

I started with winning free plays, then cash. 

Each win increased with each ticket. 

My lucky streak broke when I went against my intuition

that she was psychic 

and got my ticket from another gal. 

I haven't won since - and it's been three years. 

Snacks Gallery Art Supplies

We were both at the Nirvana concert at the PNE Forum in '94. 

She was at the front - against the stage and ended up passing out. 

While she was out, she saw seven white horses. 

That's when I knew I was dead. 

Sam had very cool style. 

We'd talk music, vintage, and jerkoff dudes. 

The eras we'd like to put together, 

the cut of the women's silky nylon 70s blouses, 

vintage Lees 

and why the 90s does 70s worked so well. 

She loves shopping at thrift stores. 

Her Dad owned a clothing boutique in Kerrisdale - similar to Hills. 

No kids. 

We lived in Whistler at the same time. 

1990-92. 

She worked at The Boot pub. 

Our paths most certainly crossed at some point. 

I was probably drunk and told her I liked her outfit or something. 

Shoulder-length blond hair – 

I like to keep it like Kurt's. 

She's edgier than her identical twin sister. 

A tough cookie. 

I never used to be like this. 

Old drunk dudes hit on her, and she's had enough. 

I'm tired of being nice. 

 - I can relate - 

The Cove

She found a dead sea lion with a perfect hide 

down at Sandpiper Beach. 

I wanted the hide for a rug. 

So she decided to skin it. 

When she was scoping out the situation, 

an old dude came over and told her he'd found it first. 

You're a woman. You don't have the means to skin it. 

They argued. 

He laughed in her face. 

Go ahead and skin it then. 

She got her knives and started. 

The old dude sat on a log, watched and mocked. 

It took hours. 

She said around the third or fourth hour, 

she'd become so angry at the old dude disrupting 

what was supposed to be a cathartic ritual that 

she lost focus, sliced too hard, and tore through the hide. 

She kept skinning, and the old dude kept mocking. 

You're doing it wrong. 

By the end of the day, she had the hide. 

I didn't think you had it in you. 

She told me that every time she looks at that 

tear in the sea lion's hide, 

hatred boils up inside her, and she takes it out on all men. 

Talking with her down at the Cove 

and with her twin at the pottery shop 

were the high points of my time on that island. 

It's a joy to speak with like-minded women my age. They're hard to find.  

Fireballs

I did that

It's far enough in the past that I can see myself there, at my cabin out in the yard, wrapping myself up in the experience of the changing seasons. 

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I can feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

Stoke the fire, make hot chocolate, snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over a flower on the Oregon grape. 

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand – the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

The Back 40 – was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall Bracken ferns 

Salal 

Huckleberry 

Blackberry 

Dandelion and 

Garter snakes 

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe – whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

My buddy Dave warned me not to pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

And most of the time, I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit

The rocks are under the fir tree to the right.

The Songs Will Linger On

When you're out there on your own

Where your memories can find you

like a circle goes around

You were lost until you found out

What it all comes down to

One by one, the lonely feeling's gone

Day by day, they slowly fade away

Ooh, the look was in her eyes

You never know what might be found there

She was dancing right in time

And the moves she made so fine

Like the music that surrounds her

Should I stay or go?

I really want to know

Would I lose or win

If I try and love again

Gonna try and love again

I'm gonna try and love again

Gonna try and love

Right or wrong, what's done is done

It's only moments that you borrow

But the thoughts will linger on for the lady and her song

When the sun comes up tomorrow

Well it might take years to see through all these tears

Don't let go, when you find it you will know

Songwriter: Randy Meisner

Earth 88

Hidden Beach Summer 2021

Virtually all students of the extinction process agree that biological diversity is in the midst of its sixth great crisis, this time precipitated entirely by man. 

Edward O. Wilson, Harvard University, 1988 

You're already trying to hang on day by day by a mere thread. 

Then, the air thickens, suffocating you; your veins expand, your hands and feet balloon, 

and dizziness engulfs you. 

Yet, you must stay focused, not for yourself but for your dying cat. 

You must ensure she's comfortable and at peace.

Make sure she doesn't have a heart attack -

that would seal her fate. 

If that happens, there's no help. 

No vets and no escape from the island. 

You'll have to end your soul mate's suffering yourself. 

I had so much anxiety during the Heat Dome I thought I was going to collapse. 

When nature turns against you, survival is the only instinct. 

Your mind races, desperately seeking solutions. 

What do I have to do? 

How can I cool down? 

How can I lower my heart rate?

When I found the dead house sparrow on my deck, 

I knew the tide had turned, and I had to leave. 

I buried the little bird, wrapped in a shroud of paper towels, 

on a bed of flowers from my garden. 

The little bird now rests beneath a mound of rocks 

at the foot of the cedar tree on the East side of my property. 

The cedar, whose branch once danced across my yard 

like a wayward broomstick during a winter storm. 

One of two remaining cedars on my property. 

The cedar that stood beside the three Douglas Firs, 

where Flo and I drank morning coffee. 

My yard mainly consisted of conglomerate rock and salal roots, 

which made digging the grave for the little bird difficult. 

I knew Flo would die soon. 

Where would I bury her?

The Raven

Raven at Galleon Beach Feb 2021

A white raven flew in front of my car while I headed up HWY 19 past Qualicum Beach. 

The bird seemed to glide. 

Its wings pressed against its body as it floated past my windshield.

A surreal experience I took as an omen.  

It was the early morning of Friday, August 13th, 2021, and I was on my way back from Vancouver after 

unsuccessfully trying to secure a place to live. 

When I arrived home an hour later, my cat was dying. 

Hwy 19 where I saw the white raven

The monarchs of the island. 

The ravens were a constant fixture on my property, yet I hardly saw them. 

I knew they were there. My silent companions.

Watching me. I could feel them. 

I'd hear their deep gargling call and look into the Firs, yet see nothing. 

I talked to them every day. 

I asked them to give me a hand in the yard, 

asked them questions, 

and expressed my overall exasperation with my situation. 

They often blew by me, just overhead. 

I wouldn't see them coming; they'd just blow by. 

Gone before the sound of the broken air faded. 

In early September, a week before I left the island, a raven came to me in my yard. 

It sat in the grand cedar that guarded the grave of the little bird that died in the heat dome. 

On the tree's lowest branch, it sat unobstructed, watching me. 

It was lunchtime, and I was at the picnic table my dad built for me. 

My heart was heavy with grief. 

Grief over the loss of Flo. 

Grief that I had to sell the home that I loved. 

Grief that my dad was given just a few months to live 

and grief that the pandemic still raged.

The raven sat motionless. 

We looked each other in the eyes 

Hello. It's nice to finally meet you. Would you like to join me for lunch? 

 ~This ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling ~

My dad built me the picnic table and benches. I had to leave them behind.

I'd brought out stuff to make an avocado sandwich, but I'd forgotten my napkin in the kitchen. 

I told the raven not to eat my lunch while I went back inside. 

When I returned - no more than thirty seconds later, 

all that remained of the avocado was the spotless pit. 

The tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, cheese, and bread – all still there. 

I was confused by how fast the theft happened. 

I'd left numerous meals outside unattended, and nothing was ever touched. 

I went to the cabin to get another avocado. 

When I opened the door, the raven landed atop it. 

I'd experienced so many unexplainable things during my time on Hornby that 

nothing shocked me anymore. 

I smiled at the bird. 

Did you fly in from the Night's Plutonian shore? 

I almost expected it to answer, Nevermore to my obvious Poe reference. 

Unafraid, the raven perched on my open door, watching me in the kitchen. 

He didn't flinch as I made my way out back to my lunch.

Facing the bird while I ate, I asked him about his day,

his thoughts and

whether that was the first avocado he'd tried.

He didn't move his eyes from me. 

It'd be a lie if I said I wasn't a bit nervous. 

A sound in the woods made me briefly turn my head from our conversation. 

I turned back, and the raven was gone. 

leaving

During my last few days on the island, 

I looked for my silent companion, 

talked to him, 

and called out to him, 

but there was nothing. 

The day to leave my home had come —my final goodbye. 

Holding back tears, I locked the door the raven had perched on, 

put the key under the mat and 

headed out the side gate. 

The raven landed atop. 

My heart dropped.

Knowingly, we looked into each other's eyes, 

My friend. Thank you. 

I walked over to my car parked at the driveway gate, 

and the raven followed. 

He perched atop the gate. 

I got in my car and backed out of the driveway for the last time.

The raven watched me as I pulled away.

Split

My woodpile

I saw it the moment I stepped into the yard. 

The covered pile of wood in the backyard confirmed this place would be my first home. 

The pile was about 75 by 25 by 8. 

I don’t know how many cords it was, but it was a lot of wood. 

A sixty-forty split of Douglas fir and Western red cedar; 

the firewood came from the trees on my new property. 

The trees fell to make room for the cabin, 

and the good ones were used to build it; 

the remainder put aside to be dealt with later. 

On a perfect day in late July, a few months after I moved into my new home, 

I decided to start chopping the wood. 

Alone amongst the trees, 

I took the first swing with the old axe I’d found 

in the shed behind the cabin. 

The blade lodged - 

the wood didn’t split. 

I tried again, 

but with anger. 

Yes. 

Striking with anger 

felt good. 

And even better

when 

I screamed. 

Wood 

Swing 

Strike

Scream 

Trance-like rhythm. 

Every piece of wood 

a memory. 

Each strike split my heart open – 

again. 

I screamed up to the trees, 

phrases, curses, profanities, 

names. 

The memories were too real. 

I was in it all again. 

But this time, 

I 

took control. 

Some pieces of wood were 

rotten and termite-infested, 

the larvae still moving deep inside. 

Others, when hit with my axe, turned to dust. 

Some smelled so pure

they brought me down from my rage, 

and I could turn away 

- for a moment. 

Some I pulled apart with my hands.

Others were impenetrable— 

knots, 

deep tangled secrets 

that I could only split around. 

Or not at all. 

Trauma. 

The trees. 

I chopped wood for hours on that perfect day in late July. 

It felt like thirty minutes. 

When I decided I was done, 

I walked away. 

A few hours later, I returned. 

Raw but awake. 

Gently, I picked up each piece of split wood, 

each memory, 

and carried it to the back of the covered wood pile

 – the side hidden by trees. 

Private and protected. 

I wanted them kept safe from harm, 

so I could burn them - 

triumphantly. 

My resolved memories 

fueled the flames 

that kept my cat and me warm; 

they heated food that gave us sustenance. 

And then 

they turned 

to ash. 

That first pile of wood I split on that perfect day in late July was 

the first split into myself. 

A Self, close to half a century old - 

knotted branches, 

lichen and moss, 

cracks, 

and stories. 

But in the centre, beneath the drying bark, the first ring—the beginning, prana.

My small wood stove

The woodpile

You're Trying to Kill Me

 

Grassy Point, Hornby Island

She told me about her nightmares. 

Almost every night, she dreamt she was locked in jail. 

Someone was trying to kill her, and she couldn’t get out. 

It’s quite apparent what that dream is indicative of. 

For 40 years, she’s lived on that island. 

A very scared and nervous human. 

Extremely thin. 

Perhaps in her early 70s.

Was a professional ski racer. 

She got a white puppy during the pandemic. 

Her garden is massive, and she’s known for her green thumb. 

She has a Master’s in counselling psychology. 

And went through a particularly nasty divorce twelve years ago. 

He still lives on the island. 

Taunts her. 

Her new partner (who gave me bad vibes) recently moved in with her. 

Apparently, that’s what the men do on the island. 

Unmotivated shleps go there with a purpose – to find lonely women, woo them, move in with them – and freeload while they 

proceed to drink their faces off. 

I was warned many times by the women on the island to 

stay far away from all the men. 

They’ll use you all winter and take off in the Spring. 

Keep your blinds closed - you’re blonde. 

If you date any of these losers, we can’t be friends anymore.

I’m quite sure I heard a story or two about all of them. 

Gossip? 

Perhaps, but at least I was prepared if they approached me. 

In the summer of 2021, she and I were out for a hike up Heliwell, and she asked, You’re vaccinated, right? 

No. 

I shit you not, she ran away from me. 

Crazed, shouting over her shoulder,

You're trying to kill me! 

She started crying. 

Don’t tell so and so (her partner.) He can’t know I was with you! He can’t know! 

She then asked me to tie my jacket

around my face

for the remainder of the hike. 

I didn’t. 

I told her to walk ahead if she was uncomfortable. 

When we were about to get in her car, she said, 

I don’t think you should get in the car. 

Alright. 

Well, it might be okay if you tie the jacket around your face, keep your head out the open window, and don't talk. 

We drove home. 

Me being the asshole with my head sticking out the open window and her wearing three masks. 

I chose not to engage with her again. 

Her comments were ignorant and unstable.

The day I left, she came to say an awkward goodbye. 

But no apology. 

I gave her some puzzles and said farewell. 

It was sad because I thought she was level-headed – and a friend

Milky Way Orgasms

 

Darren asked me, 

Were you ever scared? 

It was the first time anyone asked me that question, and I had to think about it. 

I certainly had to be scared a few times – but I couldn't remember them. 

I did, however, remember the moment I realized that fear is an illusion. 

It was about 3 in the morning. I woke up and decided I wanted to sit outside. 

I'd sat on my deck at night but never further than my wifi would allow. 

Because I like using the Sky Guide app 

That night, I woke with an urge to sit on the cold, 

late September ground in the back 40. 

The Milky Way usually 

hung above my yard like a mobile, 

its purply blue halo dripping trails of twinkling silver, 

but tonight, it was absent.

I gazed up beyond the layers of stars to infinite black dust.

In the depths of the forest's exhilarating darkness, I peered into the night.

From the corners of my eyes, I noticed shadows of various depths of black brush by me.

I focused, and they were all around me - 

moving like pedestrians on a noon-hour sidewalk.

Rhythms of various degrees of warmth moved the cold air, 

and I fought the urge to get up and run. 

I thought about orgasms, 

the exhilaration of waiting and the pure ecstasy of release. 

I fingered my memory for a quote from Poe but only came up with Shakespeare. 

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

I pushed myself to stay – to wait and see what would happen. 

I sat in the night as the shadows moved over and around me. 

I didn't exist. 

I envisioned my heavily treed property in the daylight. 

I rationalized - these aren't bears or rapists or cougars because 

there are no predators on the island. 

I hypothesized the viability of shadows thrown on a moonless night. 

I concluded that what I was experiencing was the unknown. 

How could I fear it if I didn't know what it was? 

Fear, therefore, was irrational, an illusion.

To quote Roosevelt, There's nothing to fear but fear itself. 

Instead of running, I waited, embraced the unknown and released the fear. 

I was overcome with emotion and an ecstasy of the purest form. 

I thought I had seen the full depth of darkness until I saw shadows dancing within it. 

My friend came to stay with me for some October 31st shenanigans. 

We sat around the fire in the backyard until the last ember burned 

and the treetops melted into the night sky. 

On our way back to the cabin, the shadows emerged. 

I didn't say anything. 

Dude, what the fuck is that? Seriously, what the fuck! 

I still smile thinking about that night. 

That's the unknown. Just welcome it in and ride it out.

bunkie at night

Serrano 911

the rig

Dave was the first person I met on the island. 

My confidant and protection. 

If anyone even looks at you wrong, tell me. 

Drills wells, but his rig constantly breaks down. 

Uses a dousing rod to find water. 

Apparently, there’s an anger management problem, but I never noticed.  

Norwegian and Metis. 

Dave and me and Roy, standin’ around shootin' the shit. 

The three of us would talk about the imaginary Viking crusades we went on. 

Dave was quite adamant they were real. 

Sperm donor

Personally escorts the unwanted from the island. 

No one wanted them here. It was time for them to go. 

Told me a thousand and five hilarious stories, such as: 

This one time, I picked serrano peppers in my neighbour’s garden. 

Then I picked my nose and got a bad nosebleed. I had to go to the hospital. 

Now, I have a deviated septum because I picked my nose. 

We spoke in the language of crude. 

Occasionally, trying to out-crude each other. 

He has a few daughters. 

All of them have it together and are beautiful, accomplished humans. 

When I’d tell him about a guy I was interested in 9/10 times, he’d say, 

So, he has no skills. 

There was some sort of dude animosity between him 

and a particular gentleman friend. 

It was fascinating to witness. 

He’s a large man, maybe 6’4” and 300 lbs. 

Loves animals. And has a new kitten. 

His girlfriend is compassionate, kind and friendly. 

She swims back and forth to Denman to raise money for island charities. 

Sometimes, I’d go help him out on gigs he had. 

Passing wrenches and scrap wood around. 

But usually, it was just to give my opinion. 

Does this look like shit? Good enough. 

His girlfriend would bring lunch.

 

He wears a dirty head scarf, and his long blond hair‘s always in a ponytail. 

His sweatshirts are filthy and always too short. 

He drilled the well on my property and tried to convince me to drink the water. 

You won’t get beaver fever. Just try it. It tastes like rotten eggs with bubbles. 

Psychic. 

It sucks most of the time. Doesn’t it, Stace? 

He used to work up North in the oil patch. 

Drinks a lot. 

I have it under control. 

Favours Jamaican rum. 

He was born on the island. 

His Dad, Pops, recently passed away. 

His mom still lives in the house where he was born. 

He had four brothers, but two died. 

A good friend to me. 

He’d drop by every so often just to make sure I was ok. 

You went silent, Stace. 

He made a moving crate for my 40-year-old Ficus 

He helps people in the community, but most are standoffish 

They’d ask me, Can you talk to Dave about…? 

An absolute slob but a good guy with a heart of gold. 

We sat on the hood of his pickup and drank a goodbye toast, 

a two-six of Jamaican rum.

Power Outages, a Wig and Some Snow

 

Hidden Beach, Hornby Island

I was bored that first February on the island. 

I made my first dating profile. 

Then the power went out for two days and I forgot about the profile.

That first February, when it snowed nine inches, 

the pump for my cistern broke and 

I had no water for a week. 

No way on or off the island. 

It was a long weekend, and the ferries broke down. 

OUT OF ORDER. 

That time I slipped down the entire flight of stairs from the loft. 

That time I bought a long brown wig and thought about changing my identity.

The first time I saw a river otter in my yard, I thought it was a pheasant. 

That time Joan ran from me after she accused me of trying to kill her. 

That time at the depot when Jason asked me if I smoked weed, gave me an empty Costco cashew container and 

directed me to the two contractor bags full of fresh bud in 

the back seat of his beat-up pickup. 

I gave the weed to friends on the Coast. 

Those times at night, crying myself to sleep in a king-size bed that wasn’t mine. 

Mornings with Flo. 

Her meowing when the coffee was ready. Asking me to come downstairs. 

“Mommy, coffee’s ready!” 

She gave me a reason to get out of bed. 

The cat with the toupee and Hitler moustache that would spy on me from the absent neighbour’s yard. 

The blind old man in his mobility scooter with his fat, smiling, yellow lab 

That yellow dog always made me smile. 

He reminded me of my childhood dog Gus. 

That time I asked my neighbour to come sit with me for a while. 

That first time, the power went out for fifteen hours. 

I was not prepared—no water, food or means of cooking. 

That first time I sat by the campfire in my backyard, eating popcorn and drinking hot chocolate- it started to snow. 

The time backing out of my driveway, hitting a tree and knocking the driver’s side mirror off my car - 

six months of a bread bag duct taped around the dangling remnants of mirror and wires. 

And the other time the power went out, I had to melt snow in a bucket by the fire, 

but the fire melted the bucket. 

That day you can tell winter is finally over.

So Long, Marianne

My bunkie on Hornby

I could hold your hands in the dark and show you how it felt. 

I listened to The Songs of Leonard Cohen 171,936 times in 796 days. 

I knew my cat would die while So Long, Marianne played. 

And she did – on day 796. 

1032 days later, I played it again, for the first time. 

I got as far as Come over to the window, my little darling. 

Transcendent. 

Nobody knows. Nobody knew. Nobody’ll know. 

My cat and I watched each other die. 

Now, so long, Marianne. It’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

Flo and Leonard Cohen

Expectations vs Reality

 

Tribune Bay, Oct. 2019, Hornby Island

Expect to tell the time by the speed of the internet. 

Eat a lot of leftover frozen chilli. 

Exceed the number of days not washing your hair. 

Search out other humans to make sure you're not the last person on Earth.

Mumble. 

Swear a lot.

Piss in a bucket beside your bed. 

Complain, suck it up, do it again. 

Ask yourself questions like, 

“I believe in ghosts. Why don’t I believe in aliens?” 

Be friendly even though you’re in the worst mood of your entire life. 

Expect not to see or speak to anyone for days and then

try to remember how to have a conversation. 

Identify irrational fear. 

Motivate yourself by asking, 

“What are you going to do, just lay there and die?” 

Deal with incompetence. 

Allow insults to roll off your back.

The Satanic Majesty's Request

My one-room cabin on Hornby

He looked down at me every morning with a side-eye smirk.

Satan, with his bug-eyed hellhound always by his side. 

I reached out to him, my hand touched the pine ceiling, 

and he faded into the dark knots of the wood slats above me. 

I tried to sit up. 

My head smacked the low ceiling, and I collapsed down. 

Rolling onto my side, 

a mattress spring dug into my hip. 

A garbage bag tacked over an open window 

blew softly in and out. 

A sliver of light sliced through the forced darkness, 

throwing a spotlight on a spiral of floating dust. 

I watched the dust swirl 

while my breath aligned with the movement of the garbage bag. 

Inhale in the dark, exhale in the light - 

in for four, out for four.

My eyes dropped to a red plastic bucket under the window, 

a scream from downstairs shattered the air, 

and I shot out of bed.

The morning scream came daily and belonged to 

my deaf twenty-one-year-old cat Flo. 

It was my reminder to get out of bed and move on from 

my fixation with smirking demons 

casting judgment from above. 

Careful not to fling its contents, 

I grabbed the bucket and crouched along 

the wall to the stairs. 

The loft stairs were a hazard. 

They floated, didn’t have a railing and were too steep. 

Tilley and the stairs from hell 2019

Flo had watched me and her sister Tilley (now deceased)

fall from the loft and decided a downstairs bedroom was more her speed. 

On one of my first nights in my place, 

I took a late-night slip-and-slide tumble down the stairs. 

I crashed on a wicker chair, 

tipped it over onto a side table, 

knocked that over, 

and broke a ceramic lamp against the wood-burning stove. 

From that night on, 

the red plastic piss bucket 

took up permanent residency 

under the garbage bag window 

beside the mattress on the floor. 

Stair by stair, I sat my way down. 

I remembered the morning prior when 

I'd leaned too heavily on the bucket, 

spilling the contents. 

I watched 

my night's piss 

flow down 

the steps 

and 

seep into 

the grains of 

the unfinished pine stairs. 

It made me think of fish ladders at the Capilano River Hatchery. 

In three hundred and fifteen days, I'd tell my realtor that the piss stain

was Lemon Balm and Chamomile tea, 

a gift given upon Flo's death from the philosophy prof 

turned red seal electrician.

my bedroom - with evil pine knots in the ceiling