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Sunday 22 October 2023
Piecrust promise
Monday 16 October 2023
Fingernail shadows
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A tsunami of sickles on a street near us |
It was the only indication that anything was different about the afternoon. The sun continued to shine brightly -- except that I noticed the shadows made the sidewalk appear to be paved with cloudy cobblestones.
It wasn't until I was a parent myself, on a bitterly cold and cloudless Christmas Day, my first in Hades, that I realized what I had been seeing hadn't been a childish fancy. The midday light reflected through the latticework of our porch on to the pitiless smooth snow, a strange cluster of half-discs.
Not long before we finally escaped from Hades, another partial eclipse swung by us on a summer's afternoon. I tried a colander, to no avail, but wandered to the front of our house, where tiny crescents were scattered amid the shadows of the leaves on our front walk.
So, on Saturday, I set the timer on my phone, and wandered home from the coffee shop, scanning the ground for sickles. About two minutes before the eclipse was scheduled, I spotted what I was seeking in the centre of a quiet street, and frantically gestured to an older lady strolling up the sidewalk. She told me, in an accent faintly tinged with Eastern Europe, that a neighbour from her building had already shown her the view through a "screen" - I didn't dare ask - and that it was "once in a lifetime" for her; she'd never seen an eclipse.
Next, a family with two young boys meandered by, but the kids were too young to be impressed, and their parents, though polite, were reserved, when I pointed out the odd shadows on the grass.
Undaunted, I headed back home, following a trail of sun-bows, and, ahead of me, a young woman was holding up her camera to the sun. A friend had just alerted her to the event via text. I pointed to the shadows behind her, and she exclaimed in astonishment, and starting snapping pictures.
Stopping at the path leading to the entrance of our building, I used my phone as well - to phone the Resident Fan Boy, telling him only to "come out --- now".
By this time, a matter of less than ten minutes, the fingernails were rapidly thickening into something less delicate, more ordinary.
Tuesday 12 September 2023
Pescatorean precipitation
Monday 11 September 2023
Wild horses
On the morning of the Resident Fan Boy's birthday, I pack away my journals after taking my coffee cup to the baristas' sink. I swing my packsack on to my back and step out into the shade of the coffee shop patio. The early September morning is cool, but the sunshine bounces off the trees and buildings across the street on to the naked body of a tall, thin young man, prancing and rearing like a mustang as two police officers attempt to handcuff his hands behind his back.
It is an arresting scene, in every sense of the word, surreal and silent, except for the sound of his bare feet beating against the side walk, as he jogs on the spot, tossing his shaved head. I hear his expelled breath each time he falls to his side in vain resistance. His forearm is bleeding.
Not one person behind me speaks. They sit transfixed at the patio tables with their untouched lattes. I am also rooted to the spot, not knowing where to look, my way blocked.
The officers get him as far as their car, parked in the middle of the north-bound lane; he's dropped down on his side again, and I hurry down the block to pick up a prescription for Demeter. The lights on the squad car flash red and blue behind me, and I pass more people, some becoming aware of the drama.
I say nothing about this to the pharmacist, and, making my way back, I see more police vehicles, and about a dozen officers gathered in the decks that the coffee shop erected for more outdoor seating during the pandemic. The naked man is now in the back seat of the police SUV; someone is leaning to speak to him through the window.
A young woman, who had been further down the sidewalk when I started out, now stands quietly by the curb, gazing intently with the air of one bearing witness.
I continue up the hill, as people appear in shop doorways, murmuring to one another. There's a corn cob in the centre of the sidewalk, with two of its fronds scattered to the edges. I pick it up and place it on a bench, not knowing what else to do.
It's not until I get home and sit on my couch, gazing out into the street, that I realize how upset and miserable I feel.
Thursday 3 August 2023
Be careful what you wish for
Monday 1 May 2023
And if you saw him now
Tuesday 31 January 2023
Not a happy morning for worms or white elephants
On a rainy January weekend, scores of robins swooped and scattered along the streets of our neighbourhood, all male, their red breasts flashing as they spiralled down to the grass before soaring again.