Sour Cherries

This past week the masses descended upon High Park for the annual Cherry Blossoms. Like so many traditions something has got lost in translation. No longer an immersion into the magnificence of nature but an event to be captured.

     Anticipating the high from Instagram, the throngs, excitable with their phones and selfie-sticks, swarmed the trees, dangled from the trees and struck unnatural poses with the trees. Propelled by the insatiable need for cyber belonging, multitudes of photos were taken, filtered, seemingly perfected and furiously posted with thumbs on crack.
     What I didn’t see was anyone actually looking at the trees.

Inspired by A Brief Survey. Photo by Wendy Whelan.

A Brief Survey

There’s the hill down to Grenadier Pond, where the signs prohibit tobogganing, but really stop no one at all. There’s the smaller one north that pulls in the sakura crowds. Hawk Hill, by the restaurant, is for the birders; and east is where I caught the last of the park’s soapbox derbies. Vomit Hill is Julie’s name for the end of Spring Road and the effect it has on some runners, and that stretch past the zoo was once called Half-mile Hill, though it’s barely a fraction that long. But, hey . . . you did ask why they call it High Park.

Inspired by hill in The Parallel Eclipse. Photo of another hill in High Park from the City of Toronto Archives.

The Parallel Eclipse

The sky grew dusky as the eclipse approached, though we would not experience total blackness. To the south, a seething dark mass indicated the path of totality. It blossomed into pitch and the light where we were dimmed ominously—at which everyone gasped as one.

     I wonder about that moment of shared uncertainty, our collective vulnerability to forces beyond rational perception. An eclipse of sanity is upon us, a global psychosis embodied by neo-cZars, by autocrats, quislings, anti-truth denialists, and bulbous ballcaps. All eclipses pass, and so will this—unless we close our eyes.  Unless we blink into their madness.

Inspired by Moony Monday, our other eclipse pieces, and the zeitgeist of our times. Photo by the author.

Old Cardigan

Near the end, she was always cold. Her body fought so hard to keep her breathing; it had no energy left to keep her warm. Her last days were spent wearing her favourite cardigan and under mountains of blankets. A cold rot had taken root inside her, she told us. And with blinds open, she chased the sun around the room with her eyes, turning her face toward it. We would have moved her bed into its warmth if we could have. Now, as I write this, her cardigan is draped over my chair just in case the weather turns.

Inspired by Be In the Sun. Image by Bing.

To Be In Sun

Her afternoon was nearly done
Now on the chair
Comfort there
To be in sun
To be in sun
Remembering when
She was young
And just begun
As if this world
Were new again
As if the truth
Were years away
Almost there
Though alone
She was taken
Almost home

Remembering when
She was young
She had a plan
There was a woman
She was trying to be
There was a place
She was trying to see
But too far away
Too far alone
To be in sun
To be in sun
As if this world
Could be good again

Inspired by Moony Monday. Photograph by Fred Ni.

Moony Monday

So often, I talk myself out of doing things. It’s too far, too expensive, too much effort. But on Monday, we spontaneously found ourselves riding our bikes to Billy Bishop chasing a flight to Montreal for the path of totality.

When the bright moon entirely eclipsed the sun in the dark sky, what we beheld left us utterly speechless and humbled. We sat frozen, agape.

We had to jog back to the airport to make our flight home. Out of breath, we cantered along Boulevard Bouchard. 

We felt young and full of life, holding hands, and laughing about our adventure. 

Inspired by this week’s Corpses’ reflections. Image from Google Maps.

Forget Déjà Vu

Want proof that we’re living in an elaborate simulation? Look no further than the Moon.

     For a start, if it really did form at the same time as our planet, it’s much bigger than it has any right to be. Furthermore, they say, it once orbited way closer than it does today, and is moving away at a rate of 3.78cm per year. And yet, here we all are, living in that thin slice of time where twice every year, the Moon precisely eclipses the Sun and, this is the important part . . .

     They tell us not to look too closely.

Inspire by 100% FOMO. Image from The Matrix.

100% FOMO

My astronomer-pal Steve tells me that viewing the eclipse in Toronto will be underwhelming, even at 99.8% coverage, but we choose to stay home. Because we like to stay home. Instead, we will find a quiet place to witness odd shadows and the weirdness of discombobulated animals, and watch the sun disappear over us. Will it be total twilight? No. Is missing the Big Event just another step in the slow march of my B+ life? Possibly. Will we be happy to just listen to the birds and frogs, rather than marinate on the QEW with the others? You betcha.

Image courtesy of Xavier Jubier.

The CanLit Premise Generator

Yes, there’s such a thing, which produces such surefire Giller-winning plotlines as:

• A group of writers learn to salt cod despite an absent father.
• Two dogs cannot finish their novel after an awkwardly verbose prologue.
• One of the Eatons tersely contemplates their provincial identity, after being blinded by wildfire smoke.
• An old woman tries acid at a concert but in a Little Mosque on the Prairie kind of way.
• A lonely widower smuggles rum in an RV, barely escaping the weather.
• A wife journeys to the center of Algonquin Park despite an absent father.

Perhaps we are a too-predictable nation.

Inspired (or frightened) by the rollout of AI. Image (and generator) at the CanLit Premise Generator site.