A Most Useless Rain

When it is boiling hot, you don't really expect steam, until you do. The temperatures in Toronto have been at a steady roast for the last week. My thermometer outside my home office window is in the shade and has been stuck around 33ºC, with humidity at gross percent, the "feels like" numbers are more like 40-42º (around 105ºF). There hadn't been rain in a dog's age, but even a faint possibility was full of promise.

I stepped out onto Bay Street into a haze that had me sweating only seconds after leaving the confines of the atmospherically controlled office tower. I was desperate for a chocolate soft serve (custard cone to Newfoundlanders), which a van parked across the street sold. Side note: how has the cost of a small soft serve cone doubled in four years? Has ice cream pricing started to parallel real estate prices? It had been quietly raining, but the drops seemed to steam off upon touching the radiant asphalt. The streets were wet for perhaps a minute before they simply went dry. It was a bit strange to see wet pavement dry before your eyes, as though the wet was being sucked through the street. In reality, it was floating off, not soaking through. The rain hadn't made a dent in the temperature. If anything, the air felt thicker. In Newfoundland, a warm, but damp day, when it's humid yet foggy, is referred to as "mauzy". I can't say it was something you'd get every year in St. John's. Because everyone seemed to refer to August as the dog days of summer, as a kid, I assumed it had something to do with its closeness, its humidity, like the smell of a warm, wet dog. Humidity always seemed surprising to me in St. John's, as though a place so near the North Atlantic was caught off guard by it. In Toronto, humidity is effectively a default setting. Most of the city feels like a dank basement for weeks at a time. In this current heat wall (a heat wave sounds too pleasant. A heat wall slams you the second you step into it), the rain has no impact on temperature. There is no relief. It's like stepping from a sauna into a hot shower. This combination of heat, humidity and drizzle is the closest I've had to that mauzy feeling half-remembered from summers in my youth.

By the time I had ascended back up the 28 floors to my desk, what was a drizzle had become a squall, with rain streaking sideways and splattering against the windows of the office. Briefly, colours popped back to life. Greens were dark and fresh as produce, while reds shone out and yellows practically glowed. Then the rain stopped. The temperature was unchanged. The humidity had no doubt risen, and the city returned to its sallow grey.

Advice from a shoebox

Embrace the rain.

“To embrace melancholy is essentially to embrace the rain.”

I won’t say I’ve experienced serious depression but like most people who live in the northern hemisphere I’ve felt the sadness of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). This winter in Toronto has been greyer than grey. We haven’t even had fifty shades of grey. Three shades, tops. Three shades of grey is at least 94% less sexy than fifty. A lot of times you don't know what you have until you miss it, including blue skies and sun on your face, but I'd say most people know they're missing out on sunshine. I guess what I've never understood is the desire to address this through artificial means, such as hyper-dosing vitamin D, spray tans or lying on a tanning bed. There's also the danger of too much sun, which seems almost absurd given that most of us in the north are suffering from lack of it. Of course, surfers and retirees in Australia are the world's leaders in melanoma, but here above the 49th, we are leaders in vitamin D deficiency. Though, to be honest, I'm not even thinking about the actual health implications of too much or too little sun. I just miss it.

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Not So Fast

How many clothes do you really need? Image by Midjourney.

On another chilly minus-umpteen centigrade February morning I donned a thin, red fleece that is one of my most worn and cherished items of clothing. It cost $19 USD. That was 25 years ago. That means it has cost me about 76¢ per year or put another way, about less than a fifth of a penny per day. It is from "fast fashion empire" H&M. I bought it in New York City before the brand had any presence in Canada.

This isn't the only item I have from retailers like Uniqlo, Old Navy etc. Many of them over a decade old. Mind you, I have on a occasion purchased some items from shops that are either long gone, or should be. A summery short-sleeved cotton shirt from "Jean Machine" comes to mind. As I recall, it was dirt cheap, I wore it about a half dozen times and on one sunny day, the back of the shirt went from dark gray to a bleached out pale colour. Additionally, the fabric had become closer to dust than fibre. The cloth was even too weak to be used as a rag. It had to be tossed. I have never been back to a Jean Machine location, and am now even wondering if such a place actually existed. Is it a machine that made jeans or one made from denim? So yes, I have bought super cheap clothing that couldn't withstand a single washing, but most items I have purchased, outlasted my interest rather than their usefulness.

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Not Good in a (Fake) Crisis

City of Toronto Archives. Snow storm, King Street West at John Street. Photographer: Alexandra Studio 1961

Toronto has been absolutely sacked by two or three large snowfalls. 10cm of snow here or there never hurt anyone, but follow that with 20cm or more, followed by 15cm, another 20cm of snow and you will quickly bring a city like Toronto to its knees. Which, if I'm being honest, is fine with me. The first of these onslaughts had the noticeable effect of quietude. The heavy snow was like a weighted blanket that calmed the city and dampened the sound of traffic. Yet it wasn't a sweet silence but more of an eery one. Similarly, the snowpack filtered light through the skylights of the house and gave a sort of igloo effect as if the snow had actually piled up three stories high, blocking us inside. It was on days like this in my youth, that my father would essentially sound the alarm and command his sons to man a shovel and get digging. I always wondered what the rush was? When I would ask about the sense of urgency, his answer lacked what I would refer to as logic. "What if there's an emergency? We'll need to be able to get out of the driveway." he would say as if it made perfect sense. I still wondered what my father was imagining. If there was a medical emergency, how would being able to get to the end of the driveway suddenly clear many kilometres of highway to the nearest hospital? Those first few metres would be a dream of clear asphalt, but unfortunately, the following 10-15 kilometres would be passable only by snowmobile or dog team.

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Malingerance

Remember me when I'm almost gone.

I naively thought the archaic term "malingering" meant that a sickness, a malady or something malignant was lingering. It does not mean that. In fact, it means something different altogether. It's basically a term meaning faking an illness or feigning sickness as much worse than it is to get out of some obligation, usually work. I haven't done that sort of thing since I was about eight years old. I recall complaining my stomach hurt, which I thought, "How would you know if I was fibbing?" In those days, your mother might call the local physician who would just pop by (Dr. Natashan? I think? I remember his daughter was in my class and was quite pretty. I knew the doctor had left town when she didn't show up to school). I hid under the covers, which made me quite hot and after when he saw me, I remember hearing him say to my mother, "He seems fine but he's a bit hot, probably nothing serious." Then mom made me eat two bananas to "glue my insides together" (a common way she would refer to stomach troubles), and told me to stay in bed, which went down in history as the biggest waste of a day off school that I ever experienced.

From then on, the fear of getting caught "faking sickness" seemed like too big of a risk. Our mother wasn't much of a poker player and would always call your bluff or entirely ignore you. If you skinned your knee, "psh, that's nothing." followed by some ancient and incredibly burning antiseptic, Mercurochrome (no longer in use due to alleged toxicity). If you twisted an arm or knee, my mother would ask if you could move your fingers or toes, and when you did the reply was, "Nothing broken. If it's a sprain, it'll heal well enough." It got to the point where you pretty much had to have a bone sticking out of a limb to get noticed. Even then I imagine my mother saying, "Oh stop making such a fuss, stick it back in and get a band-aid."
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Be Fallen

Landscapes, Zhang Feng - Chinese artist, dated 1644.

We lingered in the warm winds and sunshine for too long. Summer persisted despite the date on the calendar. The moon foretold us that autumn was here, but the Earth did not listen, until suddenly, we fell into fall like a comedic turn out of a hammock. We should have seen it coming, clearer than the morning mist. We were warned of the arrival of the coming season, but were distracted by the departure of another. Following Summer's reign, the sun did wane, with withering skies came cold rain, until Autumn's footsteps could be heard. The omens of fall were evident, abundant and all around us just as we know from aphorisms of old, here the signs of autumn were foretold:

The Basil Harvest.

Each year as summer ends and autumn creeps, we wonder how much more the basil bush can bear. Should we allow a night-shivered herb to bask and warm in the day or should we shed the plant of its herbal leaves to be mashed with oils, nuts and cheese, to be frozen and used as we please? Or let it stand another day?

When the donning of the socks and cardigans has occurred.

The morning, brisk and breezy, suggests another layer or three-zy. Socks are a must unless you just, would like to suggest to us, how, without a fuss, we might from the cold keep our toes?

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War on Torpor 

One way to stay warm as generated by MidJourney.

With the weirdly up, down, wet, cool, not cold December we had, this blast of winter we're having right now feels particularly nasty. The thing is, it's not even that cold (here in Toronto at any rate), in relative terms. It's not Alberta-cold. It's not Saskatchewan-cold. It's not Ottawa or Montreal-cold. Yet it's still cold-cold.

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Put a sock on it. 

Sock Day declaration.

On the Autumnal Equinox (technically at 9PM on September 21) I donned socks. Of course, when hiking through parts of Gros Morne or in the sub-arctic trails of the Northern Peninsula in August, I also wore socks. Yet in Toronto, I haven't had to or wanted to wear socks since early May. I prefer my feet to be free and unfettered for as much of the year as possible. I’ve learned to rotate a summer collection of shoes to avoid foot funk and inside the house, while I often wear my beloved Birken-crocs (a suitably accurate portmanteau of Birkenstocks + Crocs), I do love to pat around bare footed. while many times in history or in places throughout the world, being shoeless is certainly a sign of poverty, yet it still feels deliciously decadent to decide to bear one’s feet by choice.

The cold-warm-cold sandwich of fall days can be trying times for sartorial choices. Chilly mornings easily become high noon heat only to turn off the burners the second the sun gets low. There were some days I wanted to wear socks, AKA sweaters for your feet, but I pushed through until that afternoon warmth arrived. On the equinoctial morning, despite the sunny sky, the temperature hit the single digit mark and I knew it was time. Time for socks.

It is by this logic that I feel confident to declare that September 21 not only by marked by our Earth’s celestial orbit, or by a certain Earth, Wind & Fire classic but also by the presence of socks. Let’s call it what it is. Sock Day. Or at least I will call it that and honour it in song, good food, fellowship and of course, by wearing a comfortable pair of socks.

Summer Shorts 

"Summer breeze, makes me feel fine… blowing in the jasmine in my mind."

The smell of fresh cut grass or roasting corn on the BBQ. The sound of rainfall on broad leaves or of a zipper of a nylon tent. Long lingering dusk light or harsh shadows. The smell of fresh basil on your hands after picking it. Of all the things that send my mind into summer, one of the most evocative for me is the sight of a single towel and swimsuit hanging on the line in the afternoon sun.

I’ve started swimming regularly again. I could’ve started earlier in the year but anxiety around my skin and the sensation of hives, eczema and just the chill of spring all kept me from the pool. Now I’m back and loving it. There are so many unpleasant obstacles to a swim: finding a nice pool, the required pre-swim and post swim showers, the uncomfortable flip-flops that are a must on any pool deck, the vulnerability of walking around in public in hardly more fabric than a handkerchief — all of it slowed my roll to swimming. Yet none of it is enough to take away the thrill of cool submersion in that pale blue world and the sweet emptying of stress and worry and complete loosening of every muscle fiber in my body. The after swim glow is real and the sleep it brings at night is summer’s version of aprés ski (or hyyge if you like). I noticed recently looking at my phone's Health app, that since I've started swimming again, my average resting heart rate has dropped from 79 Bpm to 64 Bbm. That's a 20% drop after just over a month. I expected only marginal gains but I was feeling significant ones.

Then suddenly, by a nose, it was cut short. A congested, runny, sneezing nose. What I thought was just a bad allergy day turned out to be a lot worse. By the next morning, I was feeling awful. Headache, congestion, trouble breathing, exhaustion, muscle aches and joint pain. Maybe it had been so long since I had a cold, I forgot what they were like, but I thought I might as well check to see if it was COVID or not. It wasn't even a question. Two solid red lines showed me something I hadn't seen before. A positive test. I went back to bed and by the next day, of course, J. had it too. Misery loves company I guess. The next few days were a blur of wakefulness and obliteration.

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Fumifigium 

The famous London Fog of 1948.

I've been reading about the history of London, England and the smoke we’ve seen from wildfires this summer has evoked a time when cities such as 13th or 17th century London were shrouded in smoke. On a recent hot day, even without the wildfire smoke, the city stank as though it was cooking cauliflower and cabbage in its armpit. If you enjoy the smell of steamed cabbage and cauliflower, then perhaps I'm not explaining myself well. Think of a locker room full of flatulent old men and their companions, who are wet dogs. Now add a soupçon of backed up toilet and we may be closing in on Toronto's particular perfume.

The density that urbanists crave and encourage is a fine idea, as long as everyone is on the same page. If you want to solve the housing crisis with more towers, then you really should tell the waste removal people to expect more waste, the electricity provider to provide more power, the transit system to add more capacity and the water and sewage departments to expect more flushing. It isn't that Toronto has reached its capacity, it's just that there are parts that feel over-capacity and the smell and the smoke, which are less than amiable, are evidence of that.

The problem isn't new -

As early as 1257 Eleanor of Provence, wife of Henry III, complained about the smoke and pollution of London and, in the sixteenth century, Elizabeth I was reported to have been 'herself greatly grieved and annoyed with the taste and smoke of sea-coals'. By the sixteenth century a pall of smoke hung over the capital, and the interiors of the more affluent London houses were dark with soot.”

Also, “John Evelyn, in his treatise entitled Fumifigium, or The inconvenience of the Air and the Smoak of London (1661), lamented the condition of a city covered by 'a Hellish and dismal Cloud of SEA-COAL'.”
– Peter Ackroyd, London: The Biography

As a boy, when we visited London, it seemed as though the city ran only on diesel. The place reeked of it, and the sooty residue of pollution was on every building, railing, and shirt collar. When you blew your nose, your tissue was black. The filth of a city, any city, can often be overlooked by its inhabitants, but some days, it is all that I see.


The famous London Fog, now everywhere.

While I devotedly recycle and compost and ride a bike rather than drive a car, there’s only so much I can do to change the grime of the city. Yet what I can do is reimagine the way I see the detritus as a city’s natural texture. Think of the soot sprites of Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away. The film's hero Chihiro befriends the soot sprites, in return they bring her shoes to her. They are also endearingly cute. Miyazaki reimagined those balls of soot as helpful spirits. Maybe I should do the same.

That might be overly optimistic but there are less ugly parts of the city to seek out. Like the green in local parks or even the man made “green” like the Leslie Spit, which was pile of rubble built out into the Lake intended as flood protection but slowly naturalized to become a park, home to migrating birds, turtles, snakes, rabbits, coyotes and more. I can take the less travelled side streets with their leafy canopies. I can ride the trails rather than the mean streets. I can escape in artificial nature like swimming in pools and soak up the mechanical breezes of air conditioning. Finally, taking in what only a city can offer, restaurants, live entertainment, markets, museums and all its conveniences might lift me above the sediment of the city.

The Dinge 

Technically spring, but without the bounce.

I always wondered if the word dingy meant the same to other people as it meant to our family. While others used it to mean dirty or grimy, we more often used to describe a dimly lit room. My mother might find you reading in the living room and say, “It’s so dingy in here! Turn on some lights.” Then she would flip on the lights whether you wanted them on or not. On one occasion, Mom found me reading on the couch, then announced the room was too dingy, then turned on the lights. I continued reading. A few minutes later Dad popped his head in, turned off the lights obviously not seeing me there and thinking of all the wasted hydro used illuminating an empty room.

One word I was sure my mother invented was “dinge”. She would often say, “I don’t like the dinge.” (rhymes with hinge), after turning on a light. “Dinge” being the “dimness” itself. This being the noun form of dingy, not a word for the darkness itself but for the discoloured grey light that cast a pallor over a place. The eery black and white world during an eclipse makes me think of the dinge. When I moved away from home, I rarely heard anyone describe a dim room or a grey day as dingy. That is until I was in the UK and a weather report described a forecast of overcast skies as dingy, with the dinge continuing into the weekend. Is British weather so bleak as to be described as dingy? Yes it is. Was dinge a meteorological term? In England, apparently it is.

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Skating Through Winter 

A little downtown skate.

For most of my life skating meant only one thing: hockey. As an adult I've moved on from late night shinny and pickup games that required an hour of driving for 45 minutes of ice time and a following day of barely being able to lift my feet, to more leisurely skates. Skating now is that more civil activity of circularly striding around a rink or trail until the cold has taken hold and your body has told you it's time to move on. Still, the glide, the breeze and especially the sounds are very nice. That scraping of blades on the ice reverberating and echoing around you is so evocative of childhood winters. The skating in circles, while repetitive, does remind me of those occasional school trips where a busload of us would be driven to the rink and told to skate dutifully around while perhaps the worst speaker system in the world blared some fuzzy Bay City Rollers. For those of us who played hockey it was a fun moment to skate circles around school bullies who inexplicably didn't play hockey (most likely due to some economic disadvantage). Even better for me, as I, for reasons still unknown, could skate backwards almost better than forwards, now had a chance to impress the most unimpressionable prettiest girls in our class. Oh yes reader, I played it cool. I would stride around letting my teammates whiz by, then with the simplest of spins, cruise easily around the bend, building speed with every crossover, then overtake Alison, Kim, Gina or Tina, and looking back at them say with an easy grin and head tilt, "hi, I think you're skating the wrong way." before hearing a resolute teacher yell, "Mister Rogers! Please, turn around!", "Yes, miss" I'd say and swoop past that one girl who'd falsely protest, "Hey, watch it, show-off!" then in a gentlemanly and quiet manner offer, "oh I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." At which point I would pick up enough speed to lap my clumsier classmates and glide along side her and say, "You again, didn't I just see you here?" I think I could elicit a giggle. Here, on the ice I was as confident and pithy as any Jane Austin paramour. Off the ice, I had nothing and would return to doodling in the back of my Hilroy notebook. Innocent times. I still take pleasure in some, though not as much, love of the ice. I see it in others too. We're not the brash ones. We're the ones holding back and making space for kiddos that might fall, who then decide to lie there looking up at the clouds. Trust me, we want to break free but we'll put our hands behind our backs and slip into an easy floating pace.

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Time Rift

aestas canadensis (Canadian Summer)

I always have this nostalgic vision of summer: lazy, sunny mornings, padding around the house barefoot, where I linger over coffee, pastries and seasonal fruit. Reading in the shade while listening to new music or podcasts. Countless swims and bike rides and plentiful stops for ice cream. Restaurant hangs with friends. Movies in cooled theatres. Music in parks. Slow shopping in markets to get ingredients for a great meal made over a grill under a salmon coloured evening sky. None of that is exceptional or difficult but you need time such that none of it is rushed. You need a special kind of time. You need summertime.

Yet, what is a summertime? It's really just a dozen weekends, and if you really think about how many weekends others ask you to join them in their summer endeavours or that you have to use for all the chores and errands you were leaving for a warm, dry day, that number is probably closer to half of that. You also need summer weather. We now have summers of crushing, searing heat, oppressive humidity, raging forest fires, overwhelming droughts or deadly flooding and mudslides. Not a time for simple pleasures.

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Vernal 

I'm not sure what the Rites of Spring are but I'm sure this woman does.

The World Health Organization declared the outbreak of COVID-19 a Public Health Emergency of International Concern on January 30, 2020, and on March 11, 2020, declared it a pandemic.

On March 13, 2020, my company ordered working from home as mandatory.

The 2022 Spring Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere occurred at 11:33 a.m. on Sunday, March 20.

As of March 21, 2022, but only until April 27, 2022, masking will continue to be mandatory in the following settings:

• Public transit;
• Health care settings;
• Retirement homes;
• Long-term care homes; and
• Congregate care and living settings.

It seems almost poetic that the lifting of pandemic restrictions, just over two years after it began, happened very near the Vernal Equinox, the first day of spring in the northern hemisphere. Like a new beginning. Here in Toronto, we've seen a pretty mixed winter with mostly crummy weather but also some surprisingly sunny days. Recently, on a sunny Sunday morning, the air had that febrile mix of wetness, warmness, freshness and mildew like a sweaty animal on a breezy day. This was followed by a freezing northwesterly wind that brought rain, snow and ice pellets, which dashed all of our hopes and dreams.

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Simulacrum of Nature

We ate breakfast al fresco. Then we took to our bikes and rode over warm asphalt, under a bright sun, up a long rising hill. We navigated side streets and a dark, dank, urine soaked tunnel to emerge into a neighbourhood of wealth and leisure. We found a hidden trail and slipped beneath a canopy of trees down into the cool pocket of river valley air. Amongst some touristic ruins we abandoned two wheels to amble in chlorophyll green light. As the sun rose higher, we felt its heat press down upon us. We had striven to save ourselves from the sun’s power. We used creams to block the sun from our skin. We donned sunlight blocking glasses to protect our eyes and hats to shield our heads. Yet as the day wore on, the day wore us down. We sought nature and now we felt nature’s rebuke.

We retreated from our forest bath wearied and hot, sweaty and tired. Apparently we need nature more than it needs us. Our withdrawal from the out of doors meant that we found comfort from within doors. In a bright, sunny room, air conditioning breathed coastal breezes while we streamed a playlist of song birds. Our simulacrum of nature complete, we could finally lay our heads and dream our dreams.

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23.5˚C 

Planet Earth, hot mess. Image via The Guardian

Siberia is burning with unheard of temperatures over 38˚C. Baghdad is scorching, hitting 52˚C during a heatwave this year. Phoenix is steaming, at almost 46˚C. California is on fire, including a recent record 49.5˚C in Los Angeles. Toronto has had at least one heatwave but lately has had temperate weekdays pockmarked with cooling rain. I’m not here to make the case that incredibly hot summers are proof of climate change, mostly because weather isn’t climate, but you have to admit, Siberian fires are pretty weird. The climate crisis is happening but I’m not sure I’m up to convince anyone who denies it. I’m here to talk about temperature.

Once the summer arrived, I was reminded how different the reported temperature is to the experienced temperature. Environment Canada reports the temperature recorded in the shade. In the shade is so lovely. In the sun, our life giving star could scorch you. On some of our hot days, there wasn’t even a rumour of a cloud in the sky. Living in the city core, surrounded by tall buildings, the air can be still and stagnant while heat radiates off the brick, concrete and asphalt like hot embers. On those days I could barely survive the fifteen or less minutes of putting laundry on the line. I thought I would become like a vampire, waiting for the dark of night to emerge. Then we’d have an equally hot day, with clouds and a breeze, and the experience was entirely different.

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Some Starry Night 

Sometimes the Universe doesn't care for your plans.

As Toronto finally joins the rest of Ontario in “Stage Three”, which sounds more like a cancer diagnosis than a pandemic economic recovery plan, we’re trying to return to normal except we really aren’t. We’ve had almost 40,000 cases of COVID-19 with almost 2800 deaths, so there’s really nothing normal here, new normal or otherwise. Whether it’s all the restaurants that can’t fully re-open or the closure of movie theatres or the fact that travelling somewhere, anywhere, now feels unnecessarily risky, the pandemic has sucked a good deal of fun from the summer. More than the pandemic however is my own skin which won’t quite heal from the urticaria that has plagued me for the last eighteen months. Fun in the sun is a no-go. Stepping out in the searing bright sunshine almost immediately leads to painful hives. I’d love to go for a paddle but sitting in kayak sweating would be my undoing. A cool swim might be the perfect summer treat until I have to shower and soap up which may turn my skin into a living version of kimchi.

Instead, I’m trying to focus on the stuff I can enjoy this summer instead of all the stuff I’ll miss due to either the Pandemic or Urticaria. I might not get the long rides, kayaking or swims but there will be hammock hangs, grilled meats, home made ice cream, and movies on a shiny, new TV beneath the chill of the A/C.

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I Traded Scrapers 

This is so cute, it must be fun!

I knew it was a bad sign. I knew it was disrespectful to the gods. I did it anyway. I left my barbecue scraper hanging by the grill, as if I’d use it again in no time. Now, “no time” is in the past. On the very day I travelled to sunny, fiery, burning California, Toronto had somewhere between 10 and 15 Cm of snow. A wet sticky snow that stuck around. Usually November is like winter’s flirt. Oh, it can be cold. Or not. Maybe? Shy November just looks away coyly curling her hair about a manicured finger. Such a tease. Is that a snowflake that kissed my cheek? No? Just light fluffy rain that clings to your coat. Is it rain? Is it freezing rain? It could be. What seemed like the odd early snowfall and cold spell has stayed around like unwanted company, like the last drunk at the bar. Why? All because I left my barbecue scraper hanging above the grill, taunting nature’s eye. I’m pretty sure that’s why it snowed and I would like to apologize for that.
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In Between Moons 

"What’s happening with you?" He asked.

Such a loaded question!

So much can happen in a month, in between new moons, waxing and waning, in between tides, like all that water sloshing and pulled between the Earth and the Moon that it can all be a bit overwhelming.

“In between moons
I was the spring, I was the spring

In between moons
I was the sea, I was the sea”
– Eleanor Friedberger’s In Between Stars

Here’s a rundown:
Last year’s tax refund literally got lost in the mail, and I was unable to register to file online this year’s taxes until very recently (they had my home address wrong due to a mistake my accountant made when filing last year. It has since been corrected).

Work is completely unfulfilling which I guess is why they call it “work” and not “happy fun playtime”.

I spent all my secret squirrel savings on new windows.

It continues to be the worst wet and cold spring in years.

I’m still overweight AF (sure Mom, that means “as fudge” what else would it mean?)

Yet, on the bright side:
Raps win by a buzzer beater and despite the strangely sexual tinge of that expression, it was a good thing… and with four bounces off the rim and a ball going straight in the hole, it actually was the best sex I’ve had in years. It was definitely the best sex Toronto has had since the famous “bat flip” (no bats were harmed in said flipping). Though now they find themselves back on the ropes.

Working from home a lot = restorative napping at work.

Due to last year’s tax filing mix-up, I will hopefully get a windfall of two years of tax refunds in the next month or so which may put a dent in “window debt ceiling” and restore the secret squirrel funds.

New windows are “fire*” as the kids say (*yes Mom, that’s a good thing!)

At least it’s not winter. It isn’t even raining this morning.

Enjoying Game of Thrones and Veep finales unlike others who started a petition to rewrite this season of Game of Thrones and think you can rewrite another person’s art if you get enough signatures.
This long weekend is as vital to my current health as any penicillin to a dying man.

Champions league final should be a cracker.

Writing it all down makes it seem less overwhelming. I wouldn’t go as far to say underwhelming but maybe an even whelmed. Yes. I’m back on an even whelm which is not the sort of thing they write songs about (ooo Baby, I’m back! Back on an even whelm!) but it’ll do.

Auf Wiedersehen Fimbulwinter und Der Struwwelpeter 

Classic Shockheaded Pete. Image via Washington University Library

Last weekend, many a media concern heralded the arrival of the cherry blossoms, a sure sign that not only had spring arrived but that the shackles of a monstrous winter, Fimbulwinter in Old Norse, had been broken. I like to think of winter’s chains as a chastity belt repressing the natural world from doing its thang. Yet it was not to be. Despite a warm sunny Sunday the buds of cherry trees were still shuttered closed, pregnant with blossomy colour indeed but still closed in their husk. The excitement around the cherry blossoms has reached such a fever in recent years perhaps due to social media that the City worried that the crush of visitors would need to be curtailed. In a brief shining moment of the rarest form of bureaucratic wisdom the city took the measures of banning cars from High Park for the duration of the flowering trees (with 2000 cherry trees donated from Japan it has the highest concentration in Toronto) and publishing an online map of other significant locations of cherry trees in the city.

I, thinking myself a very clever boy, took it upon myself to visit what looked like the most unlikely spot to view nature of any kind. Apparently there is a stand of cheery cherry trees to be found at the junction of Cherry Street and Villiers Street, which is one of the few truly industrial areas left in the City of Toronto. There are film “studios” here (also known as faceless warehouses) along with a nearby large concrete facility that maintains silos of slurry to fill the thousands of concrete trucks feeding Toronto’s construction frenzy. There is a small mountain of surplus road salt covered with tarps weighed down by old truck tires which is kept by the Ministry of Transportation and Destruction of Water Tables. There is a canal where large tankers can turn around when delivering salt, sand and sugar, three of the four main ingredients of modernity (fat being the fourth of course). This is a place movie productions film dystopian futures, because it is a place of dirt, broken roads, garbage and the shadows provided by the falling Eastern Gardiner Expressway. The air is full of heavy metal particulate, dust, sewage, the sounds of wild dogs barking, the droning din of highway traffic, overhead helicopters and ascending and descending aircraft. It is not a place easily brightened by a few colour tree buds. It is even less brightened by naked branches of trees looking for all the world like they were dead.


Toronto's most uninspiring view.

The buds of these trees were still in hiding, and who could blame them, but my own blooming spring look had already taken place. For months I’ve adorned a beard best described as a bundle of twigs dusted with icing sugar (because I’m so sweet). With aplomb I trimmed, pruned and decimated the winter beard. So long Struwwelpeter. Sayonara Shock-headed Pete! It felt freeing and terrific to cast off my castaway look. Yet, I missed it. Or my face missed it. Suddenly my chin looked pale, small and doughy. How was my face so small? I hardly recognized myself without my cloak of hair. Bald faced and shivering, how could I go out into the world?

I immediately started growing it back like the darling buds of May. The beard is dead, long live the beard! Vivat barba!