Summer Breeze

My Kitchen in Kits 2018

I feared falling into depression again. 

It'd been almost a decade since my last episode. 

I avoided everything that might trigger one. 

I stepped around it, turned my back, and disassociated. 

And then it hit. 

It was a beautiful late afternoon in July, around dinner time. 

I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my dilapidated yet perfect Kitsilano rental.

My outstretched arms were warm from the gentle breeze 

that danced through 

the pink sequined fabric 

I'd hung over the window above the sink. 

It was my favourite time of day.

That time of day, my two cats watched me disappear while 

I'd transport myself into the lyrics of Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. 

Love is Patient; my kitchen rock. Kitsilano 2018

The sunlight shone perfectly through 

the horizontal window beside the hundred-year-old back door, 

throwing sunbeams on my giant philodendron, 

bouncing off the copper pots that hung on a rack from the ceiling and 

landing on stacks of pottery I'd just retrieved from the kiln – all inspired by him.  

Kitsilano 2018

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my body gave in, and 

I collapsed to my knees on the floor beside the stove. 

The sunlight disappeared. 

The needle dragged heavily across the song playing in my head, 

and everything stopped. 

My reflection grabbed me through the baked-on grease of the oven door, 

I looked myself in the eyes and listened as 

the song's lyrics were thrown in my face. 

Solarium, Kitsilano 2018

He's not going to see the newspaper layin' on the sidewalk 

while a little music plays from the house next door; 

he's not going to walk on up to the doorstep 

through the screen and across the floor. 

He won't come home from a hard day's work - because he doesn't work. 

And his arms definitely won't reach out to hold me when the day's through. 

This is make-believe. 

Nannie's Guitar, Kitsilano 2018

This is reality. 

You let him in the front door late at night 

on Thursdays and Sundays, 

you share a few puffs in the solarium,

you go for a walk on a star-filled beach,

you talk about things only you two can talk about,

you both do all you can to remain detached,

you come home,

you fuck -

like only you two can fuck,

and he leaves. 

Stop living in a fantasy. 

Jared, Kitsilano 2018

And with that, I curled into a fetal position amongst 

the crumbs and random sticky stuff on the old pine floor 

and wailed. 

I know my neighbours heard me because their BBQ chatter went quiet. 

I respect that they allowed me my privacy -

they knew what I was going through. 

The kitchen floor, me, Tilley and Flo

Tilley and Flo - my two cats

Not deterred by my sobs and hiccups, 

my cats came over to the sack of me on the floor and 

stuck their noses in my wet eyes. 

They snapped me out of my mindlessness and 

I conjured up enough strength to crawl to the washroom and puke. 

Exhausted. 

My forehead pressed against the cold base of the toilet. 

My cheek cooled by the tile floor. 

My eyes focused on dust bunnies under the claw foot tub I loved so much. 

My thoughts twinkled like birthday sparklers, then exploded amongst epiphanies. 

I didn't cry during the depressive episodes of my past because 

my brain was stuck in a sludge of darkness. 

I was too numb to move. 

A broken soul covered with a shell of a human. 

A vase I made and a sandpiper skull, Kits 2018

Although I felt like a shell of myself lying there on the cold floor, 

I found solace in the realization I wasn't depressed. 

I was living a moment in time. 

An experience, 

a situation. 

A moment that one day would be over, and 

far enough in the past that I could 

see it as a distant memory. 

me in the wildfire pollution Summer 2018 Kitsilano

That beautiful late afternoon in July, when I was 

washing dishes in a warm summer breeze is a memory now. 

I can watch it like a movie in my mind, and 

I can write about it. 

Not all shit experiences are lessons. 

They're simply shit experiences. They aren't meant for anything. 

There's no need to be bitter. To get drunk, high or angry. 

But there are a lot of reasons to be strong.  

I crawled through my soul's darkest nights until I had the strength to stand.

Sometimes, I lay collapsed on my stomach 

between the thresholds of darkness and light, 

convinced it was the end. 

But then something inside me would flicker—and I'd get up again - 

and again. 

The realization I'd been living in a fantasy was the start of my healing. 

Little did I know that fully healing meant metaphorically dying.

Voodoo

We got together at Dave’s Halloween party, and he died in an avalanche in Whistler in March. 

I was briefly living in Kelowna. 

He was living in Whistler. 

We knew each other for years. We were in the same scene if you will. 

Steep runs, 

deep powder 

and 

adrenaline. 

Both of us painfully shy and awkward, 

too timid for anything beyond a nod and a “Hey.” 

The Halloween party was loud – 

there was some thrash band – 

and clumps of people I’d never seen before. 

I stood against the back wall, 

fur-clad with leather pants and a crotched bikini top. 

He approached me from out of the shadows. 

“We’re supposed to be together,” he motioned his hand at us. 

He was fur-clad, with tight leather pants and shirtless. 

Rock and roll wallflowers guarding the nearest exit. 

Shortly thereafter, we were at my place making “rock star nachos.” 

And shortly after that, I was stopped short by a huge Hendrix tattoo on his right shoulder. 

He stayed with me for a few days. 

We listened to music, 

played air guitar to Hendrix, 

laughed nonstop 

and had a glorious time. 

He was tender, corny, polite and beautiful. 

We made plans for Spring when I’d move back to Van. 

But he died before it could happen. 

I often think of that Hendrix tattoo; the first time I saw it, 

his beautiful smile, 

and our Spring that never happened. 

Last night, I dreamt of him. 

We were riding bikes and had stopped at a crossing. 

He leaned over to me and whispered, 

“I’m going to die soon.” 

But I already knew.

Interdimensional Morning Coffee

morning coffee with Flo - Hornby, 2020

I had a relationship with every tree in my yard. 

We shared stories and learned each other’s touch. 

They were my constant companions, my confidants, and my protectors. 

the East Firs Winter 2021

Every morning, I was greeted by three seven-story-tall Coastal Douglas Firs along my east side fence, 

straight outside my French doors. 

They were always there, arms outstretched to me.

My cat, Flo, and I joined the trees for our morning coffee on the deck. Around 8-10 a.m. in late Spring, the sun broke through the branches that’d held on during the winter storms, casting an amber glow on everything it touched. 

me and morning coffee at my cabin on Hornby 2020

I welcomed the sun's warmth on my cheeks as I slumped against the cedar wall of my cabin. 

Still in my pyjamas, yet adorned with gum boots and multiple layers of old wool sweaters, I closed my eyes. 

I allowed the sun to paint a kaleidoscope of shapes on the canvas of my subconscious while 

my palms cradled a handmade mug full of fresh coffee. 

The mug’s glaze, inspired by the dark winter rain at Locarno Beach, where I'd sat alone so many times.  

Flo taking in the morning air with the trees, sunbeams, some dew and life

The trees watched as the sun combed Flo's dark fur, stirring up dusty dander that sparkled in a cloud around her. 

The sun blanketed her in warmth as she sat on the dewy grass, breathing in the coastal morning air. 

Her little nostrils flit open and closed, barely keeping up with all the new morning scents. 

The sea floor at low tide, 

the warming soil, 

textured salty air and 

the consistent depths of cedar. 

The trees twinkled with fairy lights as the sun touched 

the syrupy morning dew that hung heavy on the tips of their needles. 

Mornings sunbeams in my yard, Hornby

As the sun moved south, it dropped a ladder of sunbeams 

between the two cedars at my front gate. 

The arms of the trees held strong as I climbed the glowing steps to the opaque pale blue sky. 

I climbed past the dew-jewelled crowns of the tree tops 

to seek answers to questions that had no words. 

I had faith in my existence and allowed myself to break apart. 

I scattered myself amongst the palest blue with the hope of being found and 

put back together

— with answers to questions that had no words. 

morning deck

I felt the essence of the trees and my cat's love reach out to me. I climbed back down the ladder of sunbeams before it disappeared, curious about what would happen if I chose not to. 

Returning to the consistency of unconditional love and the comfort of the trees' embrace, it was time for my 

second cup of coffee.

Flo on the dewy morning grass, Hornby 2020

The Wind

Helliwell 2019

The winds show us how close to the edge we are. 

Joan Didion 

The wind was unrelenting during my time on Hornby, 

ramming into my thoughts and morphing into metaphors. 

When the hurricane-force winds started, my entire being was on edge. 

They began in the darkness of November and continued until late March, 

the windy season. 

Galleon Beach Hornby Island 2020

The maddening roar of the ocean 

the piercing howl of a spectral wind - 

and the prolonged shriek of a tree as it snaps. 

Terrorizing me night and day. 

I covered my ears and sang to make it stop. 

And then my house shook. 

It'd start with a low tremble under the floor and 

proceed to vigorously shake the walls. 

Flo was deaf. She loved to watch the storms

More often than not, 

a violent gust would come out of nowhere 

and blast us. 

No trembling of the floor, no shaking, 

just a direct hit. 

And then my mind raced with images burned into my teenage mind: 

The Day After 

Threads

Dancing with Tears in My Eyes 

Flo and me

When the 96km/h winds hit, I looked to my cat for reassurance and 

found comfort in her presence. 

I set up a bed for us on the floor under the stairs, 

thinking it'd be a safe place if a tree crashed through the house. 

mattress ready to sleep under the stairs, Flo watching some hot Viking show

Naively, I thought the winds would stop during the night, 

but they persisted. 

In the morning, they'd drop to around 50km/h, and 

I'd step outside only to have my face stung by 

bits of trees 

sand

dirt 

and who knows what else. 

Fallout.

piles of winter storm debris from my yard

I could only survey the aftermath from my windows. 

Trees, once proud and strong, now broken pieces of themselves 

scattered across my yard, 

branches six inches thick and seven feet long, 

cedar boughs

pine cones 

seedlings

bits and pieces of 

this 

that

and 

the other thing. 

An abandoned battlefield.

A Lover

Galleon Beach Winter 2020

He drew me in with

his words 

his song 

his touch. 

His playfulness and laughter. 

When he went dark and quiet 

I sat with him until 

I felt like I wasn’t enough. 

And then I left. 

He drew me back with 

the comfort of words I wanted to hear

his familiar songs 

the soft touch of his hand.

And then he went 

dark, 

violent 

and 

destructive 

and I hid my very being. 

The wind is like an abusive lover.

Suspect

 

The Gas Station, Fall 2019

The French guy who works at the Hornby gas station – 

We were suspicious of each other 

and shot side-eye glances. 

Uncannily familiar. 

I knew him. 

Were we foolish in a field thirty years ago? 

Did he live in Whistler? 

Maybe Nelson? 

Lollapalooza 92? 

Super grunge – can’t tell if he’s stuck in the 90s or bringing it back. 

Probably both. 

Late 40s, maybe. 

Long salt and peppery hair – always in a low pony. 

High cheekbones 

Strong features 

Slim and fit 

Wore white waffle long-john shirts under t-shirts

 - usually some death metal band. 

I know this because I asked him about his shirts

 – and then I ran out the door. 

His garbage dump green ten-speed 

leaned against the brown tile wall  

beside the front door. 

He drove an old blue Volvo wagon – last washed in 1994. 

Coexist noncompliant.

The one time I saw him outside of working hours, 

he got out of his car with bare feet so dirty they were black. 

It was Fall, and he was wearing jeans. 

Had a partner.

He built a little farm. 

Super hot. 

One day, when I bought an ice cream sandwich out of boredom, 

he asked me if I was Danish. 

Our only attempt at prolonged conversation

other than 4.25. 

I told him I was Norwegian and French, 

and asked him why. 

He said I seemed very familiar. 

With a mouth of rocks and cotton

 - You too. 

We threw around some locales where 

we could’ve met, 

but there were none. 

And there we have it. 

I knew that guy from somewhere, and he knew me. 

And that was that.

Maybe we met at a gig? 

Oh well

C 

Ya

Misnomers

 

It was a late July afternoon when I met him. 

Out of boredom, I often poked around in the heaps of crap up at the recycling depot, 

daydreaming of uncovering some acclaimed BC potter's discarded wares

or a fixed-gear bike I could resell to a particular genre if and when I ever made it back to Vancouver. 

On this particular summer day, my foot was meditatively flipping broken plates over when a scruffy orange cat sashayed out from the bushes beside me. 

We greeted each other, and my eyes followed a smear of black grease down its back that ended at 

a gargantuan ball sack swaying between its legs. 

You've got some pretty big balls there, pussycat. 

A raspy voice belonging to someone who drank too much the night before 

piped up from somewhere behind me. 

That guy's responsible for 90% of the feral colony on the island. 

Embarrassed by my uncouth observation of the feline's anatomy and 

taken aback because I was being watched, I turned to see a 

fuzzy-haired, 

shirtless, 

overly tanned, 

leather-skinned dude

in his mid-40s 

leaning against a sheet of corrugated metal. 

This guy absolutely spent his formative years loitering outside a corner store in a

mesh number 83 half-top and nut huggers on his stolen BMX, trying to sell smokes to minors. 

He smiled a plaque-toothed grin and nodded in the cat's direction. 

His name's Göring. You know who Göring is? 

Armed with a useless history degree with a major in Nazi Germany, 

I knew who Göring was - but for the sake of any in-depth conversation, 

I played dumb. 

After a long mansplanation of the Luftwaffe's strategy, he introduced himself as Bishop. 

But I go by Bish. 

Oh fuck. 

My two best dude friends had sternly warned me about this guy. 

My female friends simply stated, 

Stay far away from Bish. 

Don't talk to him. 

Don't even look in his direction. 

He's not a good person. 

Which, of course, explains his cat's unfortunate misnomer. 

While making small talk, I slowly backed away.

It's super to meet you, Bish; enjoy your day with Göring! 

When I was far enough away, I turned my back to him. 

Hey, what's your name? Who are you with? 

I played deaf. 

He organized a beach party to celebrate Derek's death a year later.

Ask Around

morning coffee on my deck - one of the best things in life

 
Ask around. 

That's the answer you'd get on the Island when asking a question, discussing a challenge in your yard, or inquiring where to find a particular tool and the like.

When you live in a remote small community, a Google search for near me is futile. 

You have to ask around. 

Asking around means:  

knocking on your neighbours’ doors, 

chit-chatting, 

presenting situations and 

problem-solving. 

If the problem can’t be solved with a tete-a-tete with your neighbour, ask around branches out.

The neighbour asks their contacts, and you ask around some more. 

You ask around at:  

the hardware store 

the gas station

the corner store and 

the coffee wagon. 

It's a process that requires patience and persistence, 

standing around and asking around until a solution is found. 

Nine times out of ten, you’re given a name and a vague description of someone’s house. 

Lyel might know. Go ask him. He lives off Solans in the school bus with the house built on top. 

Now you have to go knock on a strange man’s door. Who's also probably drunk.

Word starts to get around that you're asking around. 

In a few weeks, there’s a ten-out-of-ten chance someone will knock on your door and help you solve the problem 

—no strings attached. 

That’s what community is all about

—helping your neighbour and, in turn, being helped by them. 

I remember a time I was working in my yard, and I heard the brass bird bell on my gate clang. 

It was an awkward and embarrassed dude I’d never seen before, 

Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Jean's house. I was given a brief description of what it looked like and was told it was over this way. I couldn't find it, and they told me to ask around, but no one was home anywhere. 

I empathized completely with the poor soul. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t know Jean. 

I pointed him toward my neighbours Scott and Bailey’s place and told him to ask around there.

After I sold my house on Hornby, I moved to another unfamiliar city. 

I tried to have conversations with folks and get to know people. 

I asked around about amenities, restaurants, and where to get plants for my garden

 – that kind of thing. 

 Nine out of ten times, the reply was, 

Just do a search. 

I flipped them off and walked away. 

No, I didn't. But I wanted to.

Stand Again

 

Me, Flo, and snap peas from my garden Hornby July 1, 2021

All I had left to love, to live for, was myself - and I’d never done that before. 

My life, as I had known it, was over. 

I’d lost everything.

But it was the loss of a future that I’d envisioned 

that hurt the most. 

You can't hurry grief. 

You have to sit with it. 

You sit with it until faith shows you you’re strong enough to stand again.

And you will.