Category Archives: love and relationships

Not celebrating International Women’s Day


Photo by Polina Tankilevitch on Pexels.com

I just can’t. I am too close to rage about the state of women’s rights in the world today. It’s all cheery to say “Yay, Women!”, but hey, why are we still not being paid the correct rate? Why do republican candidates in the US think it’s okay to play Stepford Wives and talk in mealy-mouthed voices and fight reproductive choice? Why do women and men both seem to feel that women belong in the kitchen, preferably pregnant and docile? Why is the Christ I learned about being touted as someone who wanted women to bow and scrape to men? (I don’t remember that lesson). Why are we still overwhelmingly likely to suffer violence, even from those who purport to love us?

It’s enraging, as someone who grew up in the long long fight of trying to be treated as an equal.

And year by year, month by month, day by day, I am seeing women’s rights being eroded everywhere. Even here in my beloved Canada, things are slipping. Not that we’ve ever been allowed to be equals, no. But at least the effort used to be there.

I’ve led a fairly quiet life, and yet I have had to suffer multiple instances of sexual assault, had to endure being paid much less than someone doing my exact job, had to fight to be seen despite accruing qualifications and expertise. It’s annoying, and dangerous. And I’m living in a “democracy”, as vs. a place where I would be required not to be seen at all.

There are many many places like that. I’m grateful not to live in any of those places, but on the other hand, I’ve been raised to believe in equality of opportunity. It feels bad to lose it. And I worry about our kids and grandkids who have to try to push their way forward. It feels so redundant to fight for rights again, to fight for women and the2SLGBTQ+ community, to worry about anyone who isn’t a white male being the object of hatred. And I worry about the white males, too. It must be terrifying to lose privilege. Perhaps they could use this understanding and apply it to the treatment of everyone else? And don’t they wish they could have a broader definition of their roles than the standard one?

So that’s why I don’t celebrate International Women’s Day. It feels like wearing a pink t-shirt against bullying. Pretty but ultimately meaningless.

In my recent book, Spit & Polish, I write about a time where women had very limited opportunities. The war was over, and the men coming back took back all the jobs that women did so well while they were off fighting. Women were back to being nurses, secretaries, teachers — if they were allowed out of the house at all. Ruth Maclean, my main character, is part of a new change in nursing. Nurses were working to become less of a drudge, more of an educated professional, and being fought all the way.

It’s a process that still continues. Even with the professional nursing corps, male nurses are often paid more than female ones. Why? And nurses, particularly female ones, are victims of assault way too often. It needs to stop. We need to take women seriously, stop squashing them, stop trying to shove them back into the kitchen unless they want to be there. Stop killing them.

Then we can truly celebrate International Women’s Day.

Spit & Polish is now available on book sites in ebook and paperback format, and through your local bookstore. It also can be ordered through Somewhat Grumpy Press directly. Why not also check out the other books published through Somewhat Grumpy Press? Lots of good reading to be found…

Stretching umbilical cords, or the joy/sorrow of letting kids go


I woke this morning thinking about how my kids, the hearts of my heart, are about as far away from me and each other that they can be, geographically. One is in Europe, one in Australia, one back in Kingston while I am in Vancouver. It reminded me of the imagery I tried to share with them (but of course they found repellent, because, kids) that I can almost feel the leftover umbilical threads tugging at times, especially when I am worrying about them, or when I know life is being challenging for them. It’s a weird thing.

I raised them to be independent, to question the status quo, to be unafraid of trying new things. This has resulted in them being all over the world. I miss them, still find such joy in their contact with me. I have fantasies of them all being together, chatting and laughing with each other again. I used to love listening to them talk amongst themselves. This is unlikely to happen anytime soon.

But that’s the thing – you’ve got to let those kids go. Let them vanish and like that old tiresome quote: If you love something, set it free. If it is yours, it will come back to you. It’s risky, though. They may never come back. One of mine hasn’t. Still have that psychic umbilical attachment, though, even if these days it is more of an ache.

In my upcoming book, Spit & Polish, my main character, Ruth, is dying to leave her small town and move to the slightly bigger city of Kingston, ON. She’s bored, the local boys are mean, and she dreads having nothing to do but wash diapers for her always increasing brood of siblings.

In that time period, the years after WW2, choices for single women were few. All the jobs that had opened up for women during the war were closed with a snap. Men needed the jobs, everyone thought. Women should get married and have babies. And endlessly support their husbands, no matter how unfulfilling that might be. Ruth, at her young age of 18, didn’t love that option. She wanted an alternative.

Cloyne in the 1930’s

But her parents wanted her nearby, of course. At least until she got married. Which is why Ruth was so surprised to find her mother supporting her to go away to nursing school. It meant a very real increase of work for her mother, and Ruth is frequently guilty about her escape. (Not so much that she wants to go home, though…)

While nursing might seem a stereotypical choice for women now (I beg to differ, having had a very varied and exciting career as a nurse myself), it certainly wasn’t then. Nursing was just becoming respectable, and nurses were continually being portrayed as being easy, loose, a bit tawdry. Nursing schools were incredibly strict to help control this image, and students were held to a very high standard for behaviour. Of course there were a few who snuck out after hours, misbehaved with patients, followed doctors like eager puppies. Ruth doesn’t dare. She knows she is there on a short leash from her father, and she is terrified of losing her route to what she hopes is a satisfying career.

It doesn’t help that challenges are thrown at her every time she steps just a wee bit out of line. Still, she keeps on, gradually becoming braver as she falls more in love with nursing. It gives her strength to stand up for her choice, even as another pregnancy makes her guilt about not being at home to help her mother. Fortunately, Mrs. Maclean is willing to do the letting go, to allow herself to accept the risk of losing Ruth forever.

I’ll be doing an interview about the book with OC Publishing, on their Author’s Journey sites : YouTube, and Facebook, on Tuesday February 27. I’m delighted to have a chance to visit with Anne O’Connell, who has been a tremendous supporter of writers and writing.

Spit & Polish officially launches February 29th. It’s on sale (the ebook) for pre-order until then on Kobo, Amazon, Apple Books and more. Why not grab a copy and see what happens to Ruth in this first in a series of books on Ruth, nursing education, medical care, and Kingston, ON in 1946.

Loneliness as a health risk factor


Another study is looking at the risk of Parkinson’s disease in the lonely, with the implication that if you are lonely you have a significantly higher risk of developing the disease. The title of the article is “Surprising Link Between Loneliness and Parkinson’s Disease” which is, frankly, clickbait.

Photo by Keenan Constance on Pexels.com

Upon reviewing the study you can see even the authors were unconvinced. I myself could think of a million reasons why this correlation may happen within a few minutes of seeing the article. And we must always remember that:

Correlation does NOT equal causation.

This business about loneliness being tied to chronic illness seems to be a continual thread, especially since Covid revealed that hey! Some people are lonely out there! I’m sure it is. All sorts of studies link it to this or that disease, premature death, depression, anxiety, and the desire to own cats (as if ANYONE ever owns a cat…but I digress).

Which leads people to look at me sideways and raise one eyebrow. After all, I live alone. I have for years. Surely I must be suffering? Surely I need health support and etc., etc. But see, there’s a big difference between solitude and loneliness. Though I’ve lived alone, I count the times when I’ve felt lonely on the fingers of 11/2 hands. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about being lonely, crafting ridiculous things, thrashing through some writing with my imaginary friends, or hanging out with my real-life ones.

And then, when I’m done with my outside or inner conversations, I can toddle off and shut down, not have to answer to anyone, read without interruption or watch British comedies without feeling judged. For me, living with someone will always be more challenging.

Part of it is the very real need I have to be able to pace my activities. The fatigue associated with my MS is no joke, thanks, and when I am tired I am totally exhausted.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Part of it was growing up in a competitive home, marrying into a competitive home, and feeling, always, somewhat inadequate and judged. I don’t need or want that anymore.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

And part of it is because I don’t want to visit my MS on anyone.

Photo by Mahdi Bafande on Pexels.com

Maybe, just maybe, the association between loneliness and chronic diseases is due to the fact that those people are either like me, unwilling to share their lives with their illnesses with the unsuspecting, or, worse thought, are abandoned by friends and family because of their illnesses. It can be so very easy to become isolated when disabled.

So I guess my recommendations following these studies are two-fold. If sick, try to remain involved. I am often totally worn out after an outing but I’ll keep doing them because I’m willing to pay for my pleasures. It keeps my brain and body supple.

And if you know someone who is living with an illness, keep offering to spend time with them. Yes, they can be annoying, cancelling at the last moment, or requiring extra time, but they are still in there. Despite the illness, despite the limitations. Still the wonderful people (or exasperating people) you knew before. Still a vibrant piece of your life puzzle.

I’m so grateful for the people that keep in contact with me – I do cherish them so, even if I lurch away, exhausted, and might seem churlish. And I’m grateful for the creative upbringing I received that has left me willing to keep trying new things, even when tired.

Seeking hope


Photo by Torsten Dettlaff on Pexels.com

Yesterday I had an appointment with my MS neurologist, a wonderful woman, and with the clinic, which is staffed by an excellent nurse and other allied professionals. It’s always great to see them. They seem to offer hope that there are things I can do around this horrid disease. I am profoundly glad I have them to rely upon.

Yesterday, though, it struck me that I’ve come to the end of the road. I’ve entered the “progressive phase” of MS, and as I sat there with my cane and my leg splint and my sprained ankle from naughtily not wearing the leg splint, they told me, essentially, there was nothing more they could do. Yes, they can offer pills to help with the symptoms. They could refer me to other specialists to endure more tormenting tests that would essentially offer more drugs to deal with symptoms.

In short, I’m screwed.

Now I don’t mean to complain. I’ve had a good run – 15 years of MS and it’s only really now that I am having serious difficulty walking. Fatigue has always been a terrible thing to deal with, and the total body numbness is also amusing (and potentially dangerous, but I digress). I’ve been able to fill my life with many fun and exciting people and experiences (you know who you are and I love you all).

Darn good thing I did, too. Most of those experiences are closed off to me now.

It’s like this with all chronic diseases – eventually people with any of them hit a point where the magical cure potential is gone, where you are suddenly aware it is all downhill from there.

The tough thing for me is restricting activity. I don’t want to feel like a wimp or a negative person, but the reality is that I truly can’t do a lot of the things I once took for granted. I don’t look any different, usually, but inside I am dragging myself about. How to explain this to people without sounding like I’m whining? Because, honestly, I FEEL QUITE LUCKY overall. I just have limitations. New ones. And I’m adjusting to them, which takes time.

That said, there’s always a certain amount of grief that goes along with downward changes in chronic diseases. I’m feeling a bit bleu today after the visit yesterday, hearing there are no more super drugs to slow progression. It’s up to me now, and that’s sometimes an exhausting thought.

I teach classes in chronic disease self-management, so of course this means I can also add guilt about being a hypocrite when I don’t manage mine well. On the other hand, as I teach them, I remind myself I can take little steps that lead to bigger returns over time. Last May, I walked 80 km, 2 km at a time. I can try to do that again (leg splint in place).

Something about planning baby steps that are achievable does somehow lead to hope. If we can do this, maybe we can also do that, our brains figure.

Strapping on my hideous brace and grabbing my sticks, I begin…

Bob Newhart and memories of giggles


Happy Birthday, Mr. Newhart! I saw that he was trending on “X” and for a moment thought the worst – after all, he is 94- but instead it was a series of clips wishing him a happy birthday and showing him at his funniest.

Bob Newhart was a key part of my growing up. Back in the 70’s, after dinner and homework, our family would gather in the den and watch all of those TV comedies that used to run back then – Mary Tyler Moore, Rhoda, All in the Family, Carol Burnett, and both of Newhart’s shows. I remember laughing heartily at the messes his characters got into, snickered over Larry, Darryl and Darryl. His show was like a cozy campfire that we could all gather around and share. All of the characters were likeable, and Bob’s performance tied them all together in a cloud of kind foolishness.

I’ve wished for his delivery – that pause, the dry voice, the famous stutter, the utter detachment from what he was saying. His bit as the therapist that shouts at his patient never fails to make me laugh – how many of us would be better if someone just told us to stop doing what we were doing? Harsh though that might be, I sure could have used it several times in the past, as I tried to deal with my brain damage from MS by making unwise decisions.

That scene was all the more fun because of his sudden attack. His usual gentle, faltering delivery normally eased into the jokes. I miss that in our more brash times – find myself searching for the quieter British comedians, who trust the viewer to get the joke, even when it is slid in sideways. In Bob’s shows and standup, the hilarity creeps ever upwards until you are left helplessly giggling. I love that.

So happy day, Mr. Newhart. He said that people often come up and thank him for all the laughs. I thank him, too, both for the those, and for the memories I have of that simpler time when we were all together as a family, curled up in our cozy den, laughing and spending time together.

A Heartbeat in Time


Photo by Ekaterina on Pexels.com

In a study reported by Science Daily, participants perception of time varied by the speed of their heart beat. According to the study, our heartbeats vary by minuscule amounts even in very healthy hearts, and, with this variation, the perception of the length of presented sounds changed. If the heartbeat preceding a tone was shorter, the tone was perceived as longer, and vice versa.

Questions arose in my fevered mind. Is this why time spent when falling in love seems to last forever? Is this why when meditating or sleeping or gazing out over a lake, the time seems to fly by? And what about coffee????

Suddenly my life as a caffeine addict became suspect. If I drink coffee and my heartbeat speeds up, does that mean work time will seem longer? Why would I want this? I immediately vowed not to drink coffee while preparing my tax returns.

On the other hand, I have some delightful friends. I want to spread out the perceived time I have with them. So shall I guzzle caffeine just to lengthen the perceived time we are together?

And what about the gym? Can I count my workouts as being longer if I get my heart rate up? Or will they just SEEM longer?

So many questions. I’d contemplate them but I’ve had a cup of strong coffee and this is taking me forever. Gotta fit a dozen more things into my sped up heartbeat time…

Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com

The late lamented singing Tilly


I lost my lovely cat, Bendicks, in the depths of the pandemic. I’m still missing him.

I’ve been hesitant to adopt a new friend. Would I be able to love a new cat, with all their foibles and activities and behavioural misunderstandings? What if they got sick? Did I want to take on that pain of loss again?

So, I decided to foster a cat. The humane society was overrun, they needed help. The gruelling procedure for evaluation of my suitability went on for months, involved vets in two provinces and most of my friends, but eventually I passed the tests. Finally I got the call to pick up my new foster, an older gal, Tilly, a short haired tortoiseshell. I happily leapt in the car to pick her up. What could possibly go wrong?

Picking her up was the first challenge. Sixteen years old and weighing about twenty pounds, lifting her in the carrier was a workout in itself. We headed home, laden with donated supplies, and after several trips I managed to get her and everything else into my apartment.

Then came the Days of Hiding. Eventually I lured her out with treats, and our adventure together began. The poor gal couldn’t be adopted until she had dental surgery, and we started out giving her pain pills twice a day – this locked her into a time clock that meant treats had to happen, 9 am and 9 pm, no matter what else was going on. She needed shots for the pain as well, so I hefted her into her carrier and took her to the humane society every month for a top up. She was stiff, couldn’t walk properly, couldn’t jump up on the furniture, moaned when I lifted her (or maybe that was me. My quads were finding her a challenge).

One day, she started acting funny, being overly affectionate, meowing. She was going into heat! I had no idea cats never ever stop going into heat, so after frantic and ultimately disappointing searches about cat menopause on the inter webs, I gave up and told the humane society they’d have to add spaying to her surgical agenda. They weren’t sure, so on one of her visits they shaved her tummy to look for a surgical scar. She was insulted, but eventually forgave me.

She didn’t have a voice, so her heat howls came out as squeaks. This still was disruptive when leading Zoom meetings and the poor girl was miserable, so I invested in good weed (catnip) and kept her stoned for much of that week. That passed, but two weeks later, she was in heat again. And again. And again. A random stranger suggested I violate her with a Q-tip to stop the heat process, but Tilly and I discussed it and we both felt that was one step too far. We struggled on.

We bonded over the need to diet, she on her almost acceptable diet food and a few treats a day, me on salads and a few more treats (I am bigger, after all).

She got more comfortable, demanding I sit where she could stomp onto my lap for cuddles. She learned to jump on the bed, landing like a bowling ball on me in the middle of the night, climbing onto my neck for pats where she would press her paws on my carotid artery and wait until I passed out before she settled in. She’d curl up and purr loudly enough I couldn’t hear anything else. It was soothing, at least when I could move her off my vital organs and breathe again.

Less soothing was when she’d try to jump up and not make it, landing with a thump and a pussycat swear on the ground, shredding my sheets as she did.

We developed a cozy pattern, hanging out together, doing our own things. One day I was sitting stitching, something she resented as it took up my lap, when I started singing along to the radio. She ran (!) over (not her usual pace), climbed into my lap and put her paw over my mouth, meanwhile singing along with me in her mini mew. I’m not sure if she was critiquing or merely wanting to take the lead…all I know is that she really enjoyed Queen’s Radio Gaga.

She started to get sick, and we made more trips to the humane society vets. Fostering a cat is a bit like leasing a car. Though you have it, it’s not really yours. Any damage involves layers of bureaucracy, and the decisions about treatment aren’t really yours to make. So back and forth we went, me thinking she didn’t look good.

She stopped eating, and when she climbed onto my lap she’d allow a few pats and then growl and hiss. She’d still run for her treats (low calorie ones) but eventually she stopped even that.

Last Saturday evening, upon advice of the society, I took her for her last ride to the emergency vet. We waited together in the car for the mandatory hours, during which time I ran down my car battery playing the radio to soothe us both. I called CAA, the vets called us in, told me the bad news. She was too high risk to do anything with, and obviously in pain.

At least this time, unlike with my cat, I was able to cuddle her before they sedated her. I talked to her a bit, but she wasn’t up for singing. They took her away, and I headed out to meet the tow truck.

All the while I fostered her, I told myself and everyone else that she was just a foster, that I wasn’t going to adopt her, but despite that she purred herself into my heart and I am still heartbroken. I keep looking for her, waiting to hear her meow. I haven’t been able to take her bed out from under mine, still hear her snoring under there as she did so often.

The humane society, who have been wonderful, contacted me to tell me they hoped I’d foster again. A younger cat, they told me. One with fewer health problems. I’m not sure my heart can take it. Not when I can still hear her squeak every time I hear Queen playing on the radio.

But then again…

(Spay or neuter your pets, please! Tilly likely developed cancer from being intact all those years; it’s common. There are low cost spay/neuter clinics in many areas.)

Christmas Work


Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

In my family, we always thought of Christmas as my dad’s day. It’s not clear why, and after having squeezed the life into a few family Christmases myself, I can empathize with the repressed rage my mum must have experienced over this.

She’d spend weeks, months even, baking, cleaning, getting us new clothes, preparing us and the house for big parties with neighbours and friends. When family visited from far away, she sorted out beds and meals and church and every bit of the framework. And then my dad would step forward and lead the festivities. He’d gather us at the piano, and we’d all sing or play along on whatever instrument we were torturing at the time. He’d dominate the jigsaw table, hiding pieces from us, only to tap them in place with a braggart’s finger, triumph on his face. Just him and us. Mum wasn’t a part. She was in the kitchen.

We’d be honoured to accompany him as co-conspirators when he asked us to dash about with him at the last minute, seeking just that perfect present, running in and out of shops before the final closing on Christmas Eve. We’d be forcibly marched out of Lechmere, a shop filled with all sorts of cool technology, the clerks glaring at us as the overhead blared that, “The store is now closed. Please make your way to a cashier now.” He was either extremely lucky or had spent more time thinking about things than it seemed. He’d always find the perfect gift for my mother– a soft green velour pantsuit that highlighted her gorgeous eyes was one I remember. I don’t remember many others, focused as I was at the time on my own goodies, but I do remember her cries of delight.

Mum never got the same reaction. She’s have spent weeks in agonies over what to get him, and whether he’d like it, only to get a lukewarm reaction from him. Her gift somehow was always the wrong size or not wanted and dad’s disappointment would show.

Tension inevitably grew as the day passed. At the time I was unsympathetic, but back then I didn’t know the Christmas fatigue that overwhelms mothers, or whoever else gets the task of making the day happen. Now I do.

Dad had fun, though –the clown at the party, he came on stage and managed the presents (most bought by mum). My older brother, an acquisitive lad with some Smaug-like tendencies, was forced to exchange one of his past items for the coveted new one while Dad looked on with glee. My brother collected cameras, so my dad would gift my younger brother a piece of the new camera my older brother wanted. He would have to sacrifice one of his treasured older cameras to get the piece he wanted, and he visibly hated that thought. Both boys would eventually be happy, my father could economize, but we always knew his real joy lay in watching the reluctant exchange.

Then, just like the Grinch after his heart growth, dad would preside over the dinner table to carve the Roast Beast. Ever the perfect host, he’d regale the table with stories and jokes, puzzles and games (and far too many puns). Meanwhile my mum would carry in the meal she’d prepared, serve it, clear away the dishes, and tidy up the mess. We kids would all flee the table and follow him like imprinted ducklings into the living room to play with our new treats, abandoning mum to the kitchen tasks.

We were heartless.

Still, at Christmas, I always think of my dad, of his smiles, his music, his obvious love for us shining forth. Meanwhile, the softer, more hidden love that showed in all the backbreaking labour my mum did keeps getting forgotten.

My dad even died on Christmas Eve, taking his light away on the day we most associated with him, ensuring we’d always think of him first at that magical time. I’m sure he’s laughing about that even now. Somewhere.

My mother is probably laughing, too. She died on Mother’s Day a few years later, a final kick at the ‘who’s more important’ can. So she has her own spot where we can never forget her.

I wish she’d been around longer, long enough for me to let her know how much I enjoyed her efforts, understood her holiday fatigue, was so grateful for all of it. I don’t think I ever did.

Christmas (or any holiday) magic takes time, effort, hard work. Cheers to all who manage to create it for those you love.

8th grade hazing, or Valentine’s Day Massacre


In the hallway the boys gather about in smelly heaps like old laundry, laughing and pointing and dancing in their ridiculously large sneakers. Hair sticking out in every direction, body odor of newly minted puberty encircling them in a miasma, they crow like four-month roosters, stomping their feet on the small pieces of paper scattered on the ground.

Each square has a blotch of red on it, some writing, a signature.

One boy picks up a larger piece and theatrically tears it into small then smaller then tiny pieces, throws it into the air like confetti. The other boys bat at it, sending the shreds flying around through the hallway.

The boys’ voices crack as they hoot and cat-call, which makes them shout louder. The teachers are nowhere to be found.

To the side a small girl stands, dressed in a slightly off-fashion red bodysuit and plaid skort, uncertain shoes, long hair massing about her head in a ‘my mother won’t let me cut it’ study of split ends and tangles. Head down, she tries to slip by, unseen, escape down the hallway to the exit, but she can’t avoid the tangle of boys, the shouts, the destruction.

The boys spot her, and the pointing and yelling sharpens, knife-like. Like a murder of crows, they caw in her face, pull at her hair, scoop up the shreds of paper off the floor and throw them at her. Winter gravel is mixed with the paper which stings as it hits her. The papers don’t fly well, and this makes the boys finally give up in frustration and turn away. They slam the doors open, shoving each other, grinning back at her.

One boy is quieter than the rest. He knows the girl, they were friends of a sort, of whatever sort boys and girls could be friends in grade eight, clouded in hormones and poor judgement. He shouts through the noise to the boys, “Let’s go, she’s not worth it.”

She looks over at him, her face dead. She’s frozen, mortally wounded, unable to edge one cell forward out of there. Minutes after the boys finally tumble out of the door and outside, away, she thaws enough to move.

Bending forward, she gathers up the shreds of her valentines, silent. Alone.

Plagues, isolation, the boredom of waiting around, or why everyone should read The Magic Mountain, right now.


Thomas Mann differs with the bromide that “Time flies when you are having fun”. He argues, in his masterwork The Magic Mountain, that time flies fastest when you are bored, that time having fun can spread out as each moment is savoured. His main character, Hans Castorp, is visiting/imprisoned in a sanitarium on the top of said mountain, with a variety of other patients recovering (or not) from the dread tuberculosis. He thinks a lot about time and boredom.

The Magic Mountain is the perfect sort of book to read during this time of waiting, this forced enclosure. I personally am envious of the sanitarium, where you are fed four times a day, ushered on healthy walks, and expected to lay about wrapped in woolen blankets for prolonged periods of time. It’s truly not that different from pandemic self-protection, except that a. no one is fixing me meals and b. there is no convivial shared time.

But our situation shares a lot with what Mann describes. We’ve been living for almost a year now in an arrested state, holding back from projects, friendly gatherings, romance, family events, education, meaningful work, travel, ukulele gangs…We could be in a sanitarium given the way we have had to live.

In another similarity, our world, as Mann’s, is regulated by doctors, who examine the situation and tell us, no, you must stay here, in the enclosure, things are not better yet.

It is profoundly boring. And the time is slipping away. I can barely recall last summer, let alone the fall. I forced myself to do a weekly stitch-along project last year just to mark the time, as otherwise there are no guidelines through the fog. I dread beginning another one, and the time challenges it will reveal.

For all the guests at the sanitarium, time is flexed and changed, spun into fever dreams or secretive trysts, whisking by too fast and yet not at all. I can feel that change in our time, too. I barely know what time it is, let alone what day. Calendars are proliferating in my apartment, each an almost bare map of a life not quite lived.

I do not easily get bored. I have 1000000 projects on the go, a zillion things I SHOULD be doing, way too many books to read (including the 727 page long Mann book), places to walk, and god knows, exercise to be done (so I don’t end up further towards the ‘Asiatic-flabby’ of Mann’s book (or just plain flabby without even the interest of the Asian background- I once had muscle tone and am desperately seeking it)).

My arm gift to you. You are on your own for legs.

I’ve seen countless postings about how boredom is good for you, how it stimulates creativity, etc etc. I am beginning to doubt the effectiveness of long term boredom, though working on my books does seem somehow more enchanting.

But it’s all SO BLAH! There is something to be said in that one’s life only matters if someone else sees it, ergo the mass migration to happy family social media, and try as I might, I have trouble assigning my own value to my little embroideries or weirdly knitted scarves or writings that suffer from too many commas…If no one sees me or what I am doing, does anything actually matter? (Maybe I need to put more cat photos up on Instagram?)

“Now, now”, I hear my more motivated friends say. “You still have value, even just sitting there.”

Hmm. NOT the way I was raised.

Be that as it may, I wonder about the times to come, when we step out into the light again, when we can wander freely about our environment, laugh in a bar with friends and strangers over a beer or two. Will we end up like the characters in this novel, and be loathe to extend outwards again? Will we find ourselves longing for the sweatshirt days, the quiet of an unbusy world, the reduced demand from our previously oh so busy lives?

In the book, few people escape the sanitarium. Many die, many commit suicide, and our hero gets sent to the warfront. Their time on the mountain is a special time aside, girt round with threats and death and an undercurrent of banal evils. In our time, we struggle with lack of contact, lack of employment, and profound mental illness, and are forced to hang about, while outside our circle, death and destruction reigns. Will we be able to escape the pandemic? Will we ever feel safe in a crowd again? Or will it linger, like the ghost of TB spots, shadowing our lives?

I’ve been essentially alone now for ten months, with the occasional jaunt out to see a few friendly faces and my desperate conversations at the grocery store being my only social contact. I have almost forgotten how to speak. I see the news where people continue to gather and cause the virus to remain a threat and I am growing to hate those people. The non-maskers, the people campaigning against the vaccine, the partiers. Each news item means more weeks of isolation for me, and so many others.

I can’t wait to escape. I need to bump myself off others to know I exist.

Aw, shaddup!

PS: Do listen to the excellent podcast on this book via The History of Literature.