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. 

the first pile of wood I split

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 - my beginning.

My small wood stove

The woodpile

The Return to Hornby

my home on Hornby 

At the fork in the road, I veered left. The slash pile at the base of the hill slapped the reality back into me that’d disappeared somewhere in the water between Buckley Bay and Denman Island. I knew what was ahead. 

Hornby and Denman Islands

I hadn’t planned on ever going back to that island. Yet there I was, driving across Denman to catch the Hornby Island ferry. 

It was late May, thirty days since my Dad died, six months since my cat and constant companion Flo passed and a season since I left the island and my dreams behind. My friend had called and asked for my help. Her husband was palliative, and it was time to pack up and leave their island home.

 

Jane's house

My facade of happiness and contentment weighed heavy on me. My mind wandered a handful of years back to the first time I drove up that hill past the slash pile and into the darkness. It was February, and it was snowing. I’d rented a cabin on the waterfront for a few weeks - Jane’s house. 

I don’t know why I chose Hornby to come to grips with the end of my sixteen-year marriage. I don’t think I’d even heard of it until a few weeks prior, and I never thought I’d end up living there. 

Gravelly Bay, Denman Island

Quick! Like a Band-Aid – my Mom’s voice coached from the past. I pushed the gas pedal of my old Volvo to the floor, kicking it into turbo. I shot past the slash pile and up the mossy incline into the imminent darkness. 

At the summit, the road was fogged by tears I refused to cry and whimpers I didn’t want to hear. I shoved each one down - traded for hiccups, gasps, and choking breaths. I threw my car into neutral and flew down the hill to Gravely Bay. My memory leaned into the sharp curves, cattle guards and obligatory dread of hitting a wayward family of deer. 

BC Ferries 

Just past the sheep farm, the road narrowed to the coldest, darkest part of the journey. I shifted back into gear, and my memory flipped to the first time I’d reached this dank spot on the island. I huffed at my previous joy and naivety. 

I’d reached Gravely Bay – and the Hornby ferry. 

On the ferry, as I had multiple times before, I sat in my car and meditated on the depths of grey in the low-hanging clouds and the break of the iridescent crest on only the blackest of waves. Twice a month, I’d take that six-hour trip and never for pleasure - laundry, groceries, vet, and the occasional personal moment of anguish when I’d end up in the Comox Hospital Emergency department. 

Sometimes, out of sheer mental exhaustion, I couldn’t do it. I’d let my laundry pile up for months, buy my food at the gas station, and hoped my cat Flo and I would pull ourselves out of whatever angst had befallen us. 

Buckley Bay

En route, the memories of the BC Ferries crew surfaced. The ones who ordered me to put on a mask while I sat alone in my car on the outdoor deck of a half-century-old ferry. And the condescending crew member on the Baynes Sound Connector, who belittled me at the height of the Heat Dome while my cat Flo lay on my lap, taking her life’s last breaths. She approached my car, looked at my lap, smirked and shrugged, ‘That’s not my problem. Turn off your car!’ I ignored both her and the anger I’d quieted within me for many months. Two hours later, I returned alone, Flo’s lifeless body left at a vet in Cumberland.

Shingle Spit, Hornby Island

The usual line of vehicles waited to leave the island when the ferry bounced against the Hornby dock. Beat-up pickups with barefoot drivers taking goats and hay to God only knows where, rusted-out Subarus, Mercedes SUVs, and Finn the Plumber’s orange work van. The line of cars that once meant nothing to me now resembled a funeral parade. 

My Dad at my cabin with the picnic table he made me. He was so proud - of me - and the picnic table.

The familiar rhythm of tires rolling off the ferry - rubber to metal, to wood, to asphalt coaxed me out of my anger. I round the shaded curve at the first telephone pole, and I’m reminded of island folklore played out in hand-painted signs. 

Don’t Burn Down the Island!!!! 

Be Kind! 

Cloud Water Delivery 

Scott and Bailey’s Wedding 

I drove past the abandoned housing development and the boarded-up thatch-roof pub - the pub my parents and I visited the first time they came to the island, just two years prior. My Dad was happy and loving, which was rare, while I was detached and self-absorbed. The memory of my selfishness on one of the last days I’d spent with him made me nauseous. 

North side of Hornby Island

The island’s first line of mailboxes welcomed me to pull over and puke. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up a robin sang as I leaned out of my car door. A dam of saliva burst in my mouth; I instinctively plugged my nose and rhythmically heaved up nothing. Drenched in sweat, I wiped the back of my trembling hand across my forehead and pushed my pupils to release the pressure from the tears I refused to cry. 

With a quivering grip on my steering wheel, I took a left at Carmichael, landmarked by the massive cherry tree now in full bloom. A moment of beauty forgotten in the blink of an eye. This was the road to my house. 

But I wouldn’t drive by.

Hornby Island

I'm flooded with memories. I'd wander the pathless forest amongst the Western redcedars and Douglas firs for hours. I’d walk around The Loop, exposed and smacked by the wind, the heavy scent of rot, the deep cry of ravens and my circle of confused thoughts - the what ifs, what now, and whys. The angry and frustrated, What the actual fuck? And the desperate, Please, someone, help me. 

my everyday path off Jan's Trail

My heart bottomed out when I remembered the daily feeling of unending loneliness, the pleading for it all to end and the absolute stillness of death. 

Brigantine Crescent. That's where I lived.

Avoiding a pothole the size of a small child, I turned right on Canon Road. My friend’s place was just a few more holes away. I loved riding my bike on the island’s worn-out, pothole-infested roads. In the evening, I’d weave figure eights past the farms and tourist cabins hidden deep in the trees. From sunset into the depths of night, I’d meditatively ride to the sound of gravel popping beneath my tires. Riding at night, I felt free, invisible and safe. My Dad sent me a light for my bike, but I never opened the package.

My backyard beach

Lured by the sound of crashing waves, I’d often end my night rides at Grassy Point. I felt nothing but peace sitting on the moon-scape rock - tiny crabs and centipedes scurrying around me doing their business, unbothered by my presence. Alone on the beach, I questioned my lack of fear in such a remote place and found my answer. No one was watching; no one was lurking. I could drop my guard and lose myself undeterred in the shadows cast by the mountain range across the Salish Sea. I could transport myself to constellations beyond their peaks and ride the black ombre cast by the twinkling stars. 

I felt solace when I sat alone those evenings. Comforted by the realization that I wasn’t alone, there were others like me gazing at the same sky while floating on their thoughts - and finding comfort in the darkness.

my bike and some mud on a much-loved trail

The loneliness and hurt that once accompanied me on my rides eventually lifted. 

I chose to open my heart to my own experience instead of languishing in painful thoughts of nostalgia. 

My car at Ford Cove

studio

My car dodged a lap-sized pothole while I shot a glance at the red metal dog sculpture to my left. My friend’s place was on my right. I relaxed and was happy to see her. 

‘What are you doing here? We’re super busy.’ 

‘Hello, Friend! I’m here to help you.’ 

‘Where are you going to stay?’ 

'I’m staying at the lodge.’ 

‘Ok, have a great time.’ 

 Confused, ‘Can I leave the boxes you asked for?’ 

 ‘I don’t have room. Enough people are helping. You'll get in the way.' 

Seabreeze cat friend

I told myself to keep it together when I didn’t know if I’d puke, cry or lose my cool. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get off the island. The proverbial drawbridge was up. There was no escape. The last ferry for the day had left. I smiled, waved, and inadvertently reversed too fast into a pothole, spinning up gravel and mud. 

Frustrated, I went to the lodge, where I'd booked a cabin for three nights. The lodge was familiar to me. I’d stayed there for a few days while the deal on my first home went through. I’d bought my dream home on that remote island – a place of solace that now only held painful memories.

Seabreeze Lodge pussycat

I slopped through a path of mud to the one-room cabin. The door was open; it smelled of rotten eggs, sulphur water and mildew. Two black cats I’d met years prior lay on the bed and welcomed me to join them. I placed my hands on the cats; their purrs comforted me, and our three hearts beat as one. I left the following morning. 

Mt Geoffrey, Hornby Island

I bypassed the potholes and flew straight down Central. The island’s last line of mailboxes welcomed me to pullover. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up, a robin demanded, and I put my old Volvo in park. 

The break wasn’t gentle. My grief roared. It swelled, and it crashed. Tiny pieces of me trailed after it, seeking comfort under its weight. Only to be pushed back and thrown down again. 

Until 

we ebbed 

and flowed. 

A raven screamed. Go. 

I boarded the Hornby ferry for the last time, sat in my car and meditated on the break of the iridescent crest of only the blackest of waves.

leaving Hornby Island

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 any. 

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.

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

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.

My 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.