The COVIDteen (Easter) Rabbit

It was bound to happen. By day, Dan works with electrical contractors and plays in a band at night. Rich teaches tiny little Petrie Dishes karate. I’m not out much but I’m kissy-huggy. So, Rich on Ash Wednesday, me and Dan on Good Friday. Anticipating my own fall, I did all my Easter shopping on Thursday, including spending a small fortune on chocolate. COVID time is different, it’s slower and the illness has its own feeling-shitty-feeling-good-feeling shitty again cadence. It’s perpetually 2:00 P.M. and I’m in this guilt free cycle of Read-Knit-Snooze-Pee. But I won’t die. Because science. Because vaccines.

Inspired by We’ll always have Downsview. Image “Easter Surprize” by L. Leclair.

The All-In Simulation

We used to live in the Base Case. Our birthright was peace, prosperity, and sanity in governance and public discourse. Now I wonder if someone’s running what-if scenarios. “Let’s see how they react to a cascade of catastrophic ‘natural’ events.” “Let’s make a sociopathic narcissist their most powerful leader.” “Let’s see how they deal with a pandemic.” “Let’s have a nuclear-armed megalomaniac go batshit rogue and launch a war.” 

     “Now let’s combine them all.” 

     Maybe we’re characters in a simulated reality, where real people run worse case scenarios on us virtuals. Hopefully they’ll get things right by watching us fail.

Inspired by 2022. Image from a poster for 20th Century Studios’s 2021 film Free Guy.

2022

Somewhere a child skips in a field of sunflowers, 

Beneath blue sky, with yellow sun.

Somewhere a child twirls a sunflower

Toward a blue butterfly.

Somewhere a woman bakes bread,

From the wheat growing beside sunflowers,

And makes jam from blue berries.

Somewhere a man joins friends in a cafe,

With yellow curtains and blue napkins.

Somewhere lovers embrace beside blue water,

And beneath yellow sun.

Somewhere a teacher shows students

The twirls of petals in a sunflower.

Somewhere a boy looks up at blue sky,

While letting his fishing rod lie still.

Somewhere, but not in Kyiv. 

Not today.

Inspired by Nyet Nyet, Mad Putin. Photo by alain01789 on Flickr.

The Last Shopping Trip

We need bread and eggs. Mom won’t wait in the car, but drags herself with her walker across the parking lot. Inside she stops to catch her breath—pneumonic tendrils even then claiming her lungs, though we don’t know it. In Baked Goods she tosses in our cart cinnamon swirls, lemon tarts and pecan coffee cake—diabetes be damned. I lose her, like a kindergartener, to the dollar-store aisle, where she emerges smiling, with pink paper streamers, four green-checkered placemats, batteries and a hand mixer. The cashier rings us up—$350. “That’s with the seniors’ discount,” I scold. She giggles.

Slightly inspired by We’ll always have Downsview. Photo of Mom (left) and me goofing around, about a month before she died.

We’ll always have Downsview…

Toronto’s been through this all before: Spring 2003, when SARS-Cov-1 appeared out of nowhere and started killing people. Almost entirely in hospitals, granted, but I had a friend who worked in one and told me of the morning screenings and the mandatory masks. He was appalled by the fearmongering he’d heard on the news, and he laughed at the minuscule chance the average person had of catching this new disease.
     I told him I agreed with him, but I told him through the glass of my front door, and I pointed to where I’d left his stuff on the lawn.

The story was inspired by One Copes; the title by this. The image is from the CDC.

Nyet Nyet, Mad Putin

There is a crooked man, holding sway in Rus today
He’s a hate-filled snake, and he wants Ukraine to pay
World leaders look at him with fear and outright shock
But to Moscow oligarchs he has such a giant [CENSORED]

Da-da, Vlad Putin
Tyrant on the Russian scene
Nobody dared to tangle with him

So he figured he would win
With his Spetsnaz and his tanks
But he didn’t factor in
The corruption in his ranks

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, oops

F-you, Vlad Putin
Little man and would-be Czar
You’ll rue the day you started a [CENSORED-IN-RUSSIA]

Sung to the tune of Bony M’s 1978 hit Rasputin. Inspired by Black Swans and 2012’s Dead Dictator, half of my “World Dictators in Poetry” series. It is illegal in Russia to call Putin’s war in Ukraine a “war.” Image from the President of Russia website press service.

Black Swan II

It was happy hour at the Black Swan and the masks had come off. Mark pressed Flora against the wall, crushing her overheated body. He mumbled in her ear — no doubt vaingloriously extolling his attributes, but she was too busy avoiding his foul breath to listen. She was parched and was reaching for her glass on the ledge, when someone knocked it over, flooding them both with beer and making a sticky situation even stickier. She was wriggling out of his grasp, when the fire alarm went off. Smoke was coming from the kitchen. And in the corner, someone coughed.

Inspired by Black Swans. Photo by Primal Frog.

Black Swans

    “May you live in interesting times.”
     This is a curse, purported to be of Chinese origin, although that, like everything on the internet, is debatable. Let’s at least agree that these are interesting times. Within the last two years we have experienced, in biblical proportions, droughts, floods, fires and pestilence. Now there is a bloody war, started by a man intent on reconstituting a fallen, unlamented empire and threatening nuclear war to get his way.

An unexpected event with massive, catastrophic consequences is called a “black swan.” They used to be rare as hen’s teeth. Now they come in flocks.

This post hearkens back to the days of Close Encounters of the Bird Kind, when avian conflict (and avian flu) were all we had to worry about. The photo is by Dorothe Wouters.

My Mixed Metafort

Furnishing my first apartment was a bit like assembling a puzzle with no box, a bunch of missing pieces, and the vaguest idea of how it should look. Particularly hard was the living room with its three doors leading in and two windows looking out; but in the end it all came together, a perfect picture I can still conjure up when I need it. Hey, I still have most of the pieces, and every few years, when the family’s out of town, I’ll pull them together like a pillow fort and spend the week living my best bachelor life.

Inspired by Inca Hoots and This Bit of Innocent Play. Image by Orbon Alija on iStock.

Inca Hoots

Studying anthropology was the best part about early adulthood. Everything I learned was an exotic one-eighty from my daily ration of Bambi bread. But initially, I jumped into it with the same cray-cray-chutzpah that my younger self reserved for piracy. Just as my seamstress mom enabled my swashbuckling wardrobe, Windsor’s Casa Chavela transformed my tiny bedroom into a Rider Haggard-Indiana Jones-Nabob Coffee Commercial pastiche of serapes, wind chimes, carved figurines and not-safe-for-food decorative ceramics. Thankfully, my limited disposable income and nagging sense of cultural appropriation put a stop to it, as I was one El Condor Pasa away from loco.

Inspired by Transit Life List. Photo, All that's Left, by L. Leclair.

Transit Life List

The subway brims with exotica—though you must be vigilant as a birder in a wetland to find it. Once, at rush hour, I spotted George Chuvalo on my car. He stood swaying, clutching a thin strap in a fist like a ham. He’d gone the distance with Ali, and nobody recognized him. Another time, early evening, few around, former PM John Turner sat down across from me at King, nodded agreeably, and opened his paper. No security, nada. Then there was the famous theatre actress who looked up, met my eye, and smiled. Fan-boy that I was, I blushed.

Inspired by The escalators at Henri-Bourassa. Image by Graeme Roy, The Canadian Press.

The escalators at Henri-Bourassa

Early ’70s, two little girls, Lianne and I, gleefully take the Metro downtown to La Ronde. Mom has no car. Heart skips a beat when I jump the gap to land on the first step of the long escalator at Henri-Bourassa station, taking us down and down and down. At the bottom, we press the button on the machine too many times, watch the paper transfers spew out, collect them, stuff them in our pockets, wait for Mom still riding the escalator, look up and see her—cat’s eye glasses, dark curls around her shoulders. How young she was.

Inspired by Dundas. Image of the Henri-Bourassa Station escalators by André Querry.

Dundas

On the subway back to kindergarten, I’m reminded of Mrs. Sévigny teaching us a new way to draw. Black was the “magic” crayon, and she wanted us to use it to outline our pictures and colour in later. This worked well enough with darker colours, but not so much with yellow, which mixed with the smears and speckles of black to create an unpleasant mess and just a hint of bile. And you’d think if even five year-old me could see this and remember it all these years later, why not the guy who designed the tiles for Dundas station?

Inspired by Boggle Boy. Photo by Chung Ho Leung.

Boggle Boy

Having a carless childhood, Dan got very good at the subway game: Reworking the station names into smaller words and counting how many we could get out before the car left the station. The fun started at Dundas West: Sad, wad, wads, sweat, sunset. Lansdowne Station…land, down, downs, dew, swan. The trip to Scarborough a pedagogical feast until Castle Frank. A knit eyebrow and a bouncing foot telegraphing an internal, imaginary struggle between Professor Calculus and Captain Underpants. Then a gamy smile: Stank, Fart, Farts!!! Proving once again that you can lead an arse to Warden but you can’t make it think.

Inspired by High Roller. Photo by Roy.

High Roller

I’d been living the good life but things turned quickly. Property, that’s what did me in. I was inexorably drawn to high-end real estate, and now all I had left was a tux, a silver roadster and a thousand dollars in crinkled small bills. Nothing for it but to roll the dice.

     A burst of mocking laughter. “Vroom, vroom . . . ” My eyes scanned ahead and I saw where I was headed. I counted it out, crossed the railway, missed a final Chance and slammed into destiny. The grin on Victor’s face was insufferable. “Boardwalk, one hotel. That’ll be two thousand bucks.”

Image from Cool Material. Inspired by This Bit of Innocent Play.

This Bit of Innocent Play

My cardboard doll house with its miniature kitchen with its miniature rag rug, where everything is imperfect and definitely not square or even to proper scale and who cares anyways, sits in a corner of my home office. Started and then abandoned (for now). Covered in dust, lopsided and forlorn, it is chewed on occasionally by the cat—but even she gets bored of it. I will not throw it out—this bit of innocent play. It’s hopeful. It speaks to me of life devoid of the mundane worries and existential global crises that crush me incrementally each day. 

Inspired by the playhouse in Four Very Short Stories about William Shatner.

Four Very Short Stories about William Shatner

Considering she’d never met the man, my mother certainly had her share of William Shatner stories. There’s the one where they’d both gone to the same high school in Montréal, even if they were seven years apart. There’s another where she first saw him perform at the Mountain Playhouse; and then maybe the early years in Stratford, but she’d lost all her programmes to a basement flood and couldn’t be sure. Oh, and one more about how she had to convince 11-year-old me it really was Captain Kirk in those Loblaw’s commercials, because he looked so weird out of uniform.

Inspired by Winter Whiteouts and Memory Blizzards. The 1950 photo of the Mountain Playhouse is from the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, where I also found one of the Playhouse programmes from 1952, which lists Mr. Shatner in two roles: “Richard Stanley” in The Man Who Came to Dinner and as the Assistant Manager of the Playhouse itself.

Winter Whiteouts and Memory Blizzards

The theme is music and I’m supposed to follow the lead and the cursor’s blinking and I’m stewing over whiteouts and car rentals and another trip to the frozen prairie to move a loved one into long term care. I made the fateful decision and now must see it through—and I’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing for the blog.
     Suddenly I overhear a snippet of an old song on seasonal rotation and the memories come flooding. Lost and out of reach to her, suddenly vivid and alive to me. Yes, I‘ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

Sheet music by Melrose Music Corp., ca. 1943. Author’s note: To accommodate travel requirements, I wrote this contribution before Nancy posted her delightful ode to summer flowers. On the day this appears on the blog I will be in Saskatchewan, where in December there are no snowdrops but those falling from the sky.

Momentary Sunshine

In the big backyard of her parents’ suburban house, Zinnia chases after her older sisters Hyacinth and Magnolia, but they are mean and refuse to be caught and they laugh at her.
     “Maggie, wait!“ Zinnia whines. “Cinth, slow down!”
     But they're already gone out the side gate, locking it behind them. Zinnia falls on the grass and rips off the sunhat her mother insisted on. She closes her eyes, tilts her head up, and in the warmth of the summer afternoon sun, forgets for a moment her constantly teasing sisters and how she loves and hates them at the same time.

Inspired by You Are My Sunshine.

You Are My Sunshine

There’s this young guy, spends way too much time downtown and way too much money at Funland, and he sees this old guy, night after night, begging in a doorway off Yonge, strumming his ukulele, singing the same sad song to a little stuffed dog, just trying to make change for a meal. And it works for a while, until the strings start breaking—no money for strings—even after some punk steals his uke, he sits there still, strumming those invisible strings, still singing that same sad song to his little stuffed dog: “ . . . please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Inspired first by Your Report on the Subway, a Toronto moment Kathy captured back in January 2016. Now, almost six years later, Laurie’s It’s Raining Mensches got me to finally write down this very old and very sad memory of mine. The photo is by Ciatus, who has an album on Fickr that perfectly captures the Yonge Street on which this story unfolds.