What's wrong with this picture?

Earlier this year we treated ourselves to a quick holiday (too short, but that's another story) in Cuba. I spent a lot of time strolling along the beach. Initially, my beachwalks were of the standard variety, keeping an eye out for shells or pretty rocks. But it didn't take long for me to decide there were far too many rainbow straws littering the beach.

Because one of my daily practices is picking up a piece of litter, it was easy to bend and pick up the first pink plastic straw that greeted me. But I soon found these littered straws were in abundance. And these were just the ones still on the beach. How many others had made their way out to sea?

In a place where plenty of drinks are being served, practically 24//7, I understand that hygiene is important -- thus, straws are inserted into just about every glass (even the plastic 'glasses') the bartenders hand out. I suppose the colourful straws also present some aesthetic appeal, and no doubt are cheaper than tiny umbrellas would be.

But, the abundance of these plastic straws along the shoreline got me worried about how much ocean contamination they were causing.

The pipe coral in my photo was washed up on shore, yes. And I'll admit to inserting some of the straws I'd picked up into the hollow tubes. I hope the juxtaposition of the natural and the man-made helps make a point -- a point I first heard about from an action in Tofino called 'Straws Suck.'

Plastic doesn't break down well, not even in the sea. Where tourism in Tofino is all about nature and the ocean, folks there take their stewardship seriously. The Straws Suck campaign is simple: avoid straws if you can, but if you need to use straws, use paper ones instead. Something to think about next time you're sucking up a drink.

Ridiculous

When I was little (like, five) I used to play store. This involved getting tins from my mother's cupboards and arranging them on the steps outside the front of our house. I never sold anything, but I remember taking great pleasure in setting up the 'store' and taking some kind of strange pride in how it all looked. Plentiful, secure. Who knows.

Looking at my kitchen counter, I realized it still looks like I'm playing store -- only the display isn't on the steps outside, and the line-up doesn't consist of beans or corn or soups.

The set-up this time is an assortment of the various remedies I have tried to get through this ridiculous coughing flu, the manifestation of this winter's flu that's decided to pay me an unwelcome visit.

It probably looks as though I've decided to play drugstore. Frankly, it's nowhere near as much fun as playing 'ordinary' store. I'm just hoping I'm not going to need to rely on these supplies for much longer. But excuse me, please, while I go to find another lozenge.

Snow job

It was sunny here on Thursday, Groundhog Day, so I suppose the little critter saw his shadow and ran back inside. Even though snowdrops were blooming in the garden, I guess I should have expected 'six more weeks of winter' -- just as the local groundhog must have predicted,

Still, when the snow started falling on Friday morning, I was less than enthusiastic. Mostly I've taken comfort in the fact that I don't really have to go anyplace this weekend, so I can stay home and hunker down for a few days. Besides, I can blame it on the groundhog.

If only I could blame the other snow job on a character as innocuous as a groundhog.

I'm talking about the second of the big campaign promises that have been dashed by our prime minister, who once seemed like such a beacon of hope.

Many British Columbians must have voted for Liberal candidates on the basis of promises made on that party's behalf by its leader, Mr Trudeau.

Elements of their policy platform (still posted as least as of today's blog posting) include the promise of electoral reform -- in other words, as they put it: We will make every vote count, with Trudeau telling us many times that the 2015 election would the last we'd see of the first-past-the-post system.

People believed the Liberal promises in the last election, as evidenced by the fact that the party's dismal results in 2011 (when only 34 Liberal MPs were elected) were more than reversed by their resounding success in 2015 (with 184 elected, 17 of them from here in B.C.).

But electoral reform isn't the only promise that's already been put aside.

Trudeau campaigned on protecting BCs coastal waters. There was even a proposed moratorium on crude oil tanker traffic. Apparently that sort of ban doesn't apply to the waters of Burrard Inlet or the Strait of Georgia, as another broken promise came when Trudeau approval the Kinder Morgan pipeline plan.

The third big promise was the plan to legalize and regulate marijuana. At the rate he's been going with breaking his commitments to the citizens of Canada, I fully expect this one too will turn out to be too difficult for him to follow through on.

A snow job from the skies above? I can pretend to blame it on a rodent. A snow job from the government? I object.

Mr. Jaws and others who come to mind

Today marks the start of the Lunar New Year, this time the Year of the Rooster. Since I didn't have a live rooster handy in my neighbourhood (and I didn't think you'd like the pic I took of the dead one on the street in Havana), this image of the little rooster box must suffice.

Thinking about roosters, I must recall one our family owned briefly many years ago. His temperament was none too friendly, so we named him "Mr. Jaws". Sadly, he met an untimely demise at the jaws of an animal bigger than he was.

I also can't help but think about the personality to the south who has invaded the White House. Right down to (or should that be 'up to') his flamboyant hairstyle, it's hard not to think of a cock's comb when I see him.

Of the several rooster-related quotes I've checked out, the most appropriate seems to be one attributed to Jeff Foxworthy: "The more excited the rooster gets, the higher his voice gets." Or, though certainly darker, this descriptor from the work of Stephen King, "a banty-rooster sort of guy -- the kind that likes to pick fights, especially when the odds are all their way."

So, aside from thinking about that particular rooster of sorts, what's inside the box?

Although it might appear empty, I'm sure this 'New Year's Box' contains a number of wispy plans, at least several unspoken dreams and of course, as always, plenty of hope.

Peace starts here

I'm doing my best to remind myself that mindful intention can be nearly as powerful as action, especially when it's combined with time devoted to a meditative practice. But even with such self-reminders, I'll admit to feeling a little guilty about not going into Vancouver today to be part of the Women's March there.

The closest I've come to being part of this weekend's social actions was participating in yesterday's virtual march in Surrey, the city where I live. The little guy in the photo above was one of the marchers in that. Again, intention, intention.

Especially if you've never tried meditating, here's a website that provides some solid guidance. Because it's by subscription, please know that I'm not necessarily promoting it, just saying it's a good place for learning.

But now I'm moving beyond intention (in my own small way) and heading out the door for a private march for peace in my neighbourhood.

Post-performance notes on an evening of song and light

All right, the photo is duller than most of the pics I post, but that doesn't mean that what I'm writing about was dull in any way. I'd have taken photos of the presentation if I'd been able, but cameras weren't allowed at the event.

Vancouver's Arts Club Theatre offers a program where certain of the plays they put on in the city circulate later at theatres in the suburbs. I've been a subscriber to this series in Surrey for several years, and last night's show was one of the best I have seen.

I'll admit, beyond knowing that the play had been written by Tomson Highway and that it was essentially a one-woman show, I knew almost nothing about The (Post)Mistress in advance.

The playwright's bio states that he grew up speaking Cree and Dene. So it wasn't too surprising to find the interplay of languages playing an important role in the script.

The main character, Marie-Louise Painchaud (indeed, that means 'hot bread'), who plays the all-knowing postmistress in a small Ontario town, spoke and sang in French, English and Cree. The French was easy enough for even me to understand, though English sub-titles appeared on a screen for both the Cree and the French. So yes, the show was wonderfully inclusive.

Beyond being inclusive, the message of the play was powerful. It probably sounds simplistic to say the focus of its themes was the importance of love, kindness and laughter, but that would be true.

The show seemed to be the quintessentially Canadian play -- from its use of language to its portrayal of life in a small town. How very appropriate for this, our country's 150th anniversary.

Marie-Louise was played by the remarkable Patricia Cano, who has a voice big enough to blast away anyone's winter blahs and a stage presence that nearly overfilled the theatre. She had all of us in gales of laughter and also drew us to tears (even hard-hearted moi, who rarely cries, even privately).

There are elements of the play that I can't give away; I can only encourage anyone who has the opportunity to see it to do so. Because truly, as the show ended, as I and the rest of the audience rose with applause, I could only feel that it had been an honour to be able to attend this amazing show.

"Are they mating yet?"

Some things in life just don't make any sense. Today's stumper for me is the mystery of the mismatched lids-and-containers.

How is it that when they get washed and put on a shelf, top and bottom are intact, but when I go to tidy their chaos, more than half of them are loners?

I haven't heard any arguments coming from their shelf, so I can't blame this disconnect on domestic discord or messy divorces. As for my question at the top of this page, some may recognize it from the film version of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. However it is that this disconnect occurs, I'll admit to being puzzled. After all, I don't think anyone's been sneaking into the laundry room and stealing lonesome bits of plastic for the re-use phase of recycling. If they are, I wish they'd take the lids to go with all those missing bottoms.

And while I'm not exactly saying that there's a black hole behind the washer (though who knows, maybe there is), if there is, maybe it's a companion to the one behind the dryer that keeps chomping down those singleton socks.

Celebrating and Un-

Today is Orthodox Christmas, so it seemed like a good excuse for a bit more celebrating. I'd heard that the British call it 'Little Christmas,' but when I checked, it turns out that was yesterday, and that it sounds to be more of an Irish tradition than an English one. Today is also a friend's birthday so it was a good excuse to visit with her and have a celebratory cup of tea.

But along with celebrating went a bit of 'un-celebrating' as today was the day for packing up the ornaments and taking the wreaths down from the doors. Un-Christmasy, I suppose, but in my own homely way, practical.

Still, perhaps today's best celebrating was taking in a matinee at the local bijou, a place that's actually called the Rialto. This name proved to be more than simply nostalgically traditional, as the cinema featured within the film we saw had its own Rialto a scene which got an appreciative chuckle from the audience.

And yes, the celebratory fantasy was LaLa Land, a fitting title if ever there was one.

At first, I was hesitant, especially with the over-the-top (literally) opening scene (though it did present a nice alternative to road rage), but I soon fell under its charm (or maybe Ryan Gosling's).

Oh, it's corny, to be sure, with numbers reminiscent of Donald O'Connor and Debbie Reynolds. But it's also a lot more than that. There's a story, an actual story, a story that even has layers.

The music, much of it terrific jazz -- especially piano, the instrument I'm the biggest sucker for -- may well be the real star of the film, though Ryan Gosling's piano playing is certainly in the running.

The film's been praised like crazy and has also received nearly as many pans. I'm on the praise side and can't help but think that -- like so many things -- it's all about the timing.

Maybe this little movie, with its clever (even if not-quite Cole-Porterish) lyrics and peppy dancing is a dose of exactly what we need right now.

As 2016 was winding down, it seemed nearly every source was reporting doom and gloom, telling us what a dark time it is. Well, maybe it doesn't have to be. I'm all for un-dark.

A tradition of keeping non-traditional traditions

The end of the year -- a time for thought, evaluation, and maybe reconsideration of things that may no longer be of value.

This Christmas I've been quietly examining some of the holiday traditions we practise here in the 'tree fort' behind the cedars.

Bottom-line is I'm pretty much a traditionalist, even if some of those traditions are a bit non-traditional or at least not conventional ones.

As an example, our Christmas Eve tradition means that quite a few people -- family and friends -- come over for a big supper. The menu has remained fixed for decades: Swedish meatballs with egg noodles. And no, we're not Swedish. Nor is anyone in the circle of diners who gather around the table that night. There's a story behind the meatballs, of course, but because everyone in the vicinity of the table groans if I even begin to mention it, know that you too shall be spared this retelling.

The Christmas tradition includes way too many sweets, with baking starting days before the big event. Most of these are confections I make every year -- butter tarts, cinnamon cookies, chocolate-dipped apricots (that have been soaking in brandy since November).

There's even tradition with these, as the butter tart recipe was given to me by my former mother-in-law and the formula for the cookies came down from my Grampa Jim. He was a baker in a hospital and the surviving recipe is one that's been cut down from the mammoth proportions he needed for the hundreds he made. The apricots, though I've made them for many years, carry less mystique. I'm pretty sure I found those in a Woman's Day or Family Circle, magazines where I often took quiet refuge when my kids were growing up. (And I'll admit to some surprise that both of these publications still exist, perhaps providing inspiration or escape to some other harried mother.)

One tradition I've always tried to carry on (besides making a donation to the food bank) is to ensure that everyone in the family gets a toy for Christmas -- this despite the fact that all of us are now 'too old' for toys.

This year, my kids saw to it that this tradition applied to me, with both of them giving me a fantastic toy -- my very own Lego. It's one of those spectacular 'idea sets' -- the Yellow Submarine, complete with four Beatles and a Jeremy. It took a while to assemble the 550 or so pieces, but the time was so relaxing, I loved every minute. It helped that the parts were divided into five bags, complete with warning to not open the next bag until all the bits from the previous one had been used. Reviews of the set make it look like just about everyone who got one of these has had fun with it.

So, what did I learn from playing with Lego? Probably the most valuable part of the gift was that it forced me to 'play' at something with no consequence whatsoever. And maybe the best part of that experience was that looking at the finished submarine still makes me smile, maybe even makes my shoulders go down a little bit. So maybe the tradition I most want to add to my list of non-traditional traditions is the resolve to do something mindless more often, to remember the importance of play.

And with that I say, On to the new year!

On with the light!

Yesterday marked the Solstice -- the first official day of winter for those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere. For the rest of the planet, it's now officially summer, and time to crank up the barbie, not the furnace.

It also would have (should have) been Frank Zappa's 76th birthday. A friend recently sent me a link to a bizarre performance of Frank playing a bicycle as part of one of his fantastic compositions.

But even more bizarre than making music on a bicycle is the raft of 'fake news' we've seen of late. Yesterday's example was a widely circulated story that apparently had no scientific basis, claiming that this year's solstice would bring "the longest night in 500 years." While the hyperbolic nature of the headline should have been enough to raise caution flags, many sources (including plenty of supposedly trustworthy news sites), gave it a prominent spot in their coverage of the changing of the season. I can only hope the announcement that solar energy is now cheaper than wind power isn't another such made-up story.

I suppose 'fake news' is merely an offshoot of the term that's been deemed by the Oxford Dictionary as word of the year: post-truth. That word may indeed be all-too-relevant for the times in which we live, though I'm more inclined to go with Merriam-Webster's word for the year: surreal.

Who was it -- supposedly the ancient Chinese -- who gave us the curse: May you live in surreal times.

Or, if that doesn't sound quite right, let's choose a blessing instead: Let there be light -- and let there be solar power to provide it.

Wintry thoughts

This was the view out the back door this morning. Fresh snow adding its weight to the snow that's been here for a week or so already. It's a far cry from the way the same space looks during the summer, verdant with all those salad fixin's.

In some ways, I suppose such a "Christmasy view" should put me into a bright and cheery holiday mood. In other ways, I'll admit, it depresses me. The negative effect comes when I think about the homeless, all too many of whom surround us. Where do they go when the weather's like this?

And even more depressing is the numbers that keep rolling in with just about every day's news, how many more overdoses can there be in a single night?

The fentanyl crisis has led me to a longer piece of writing -- one I'm still working on, one I'm hoping may find a broader audience than this little blog, one that might even help change things for the better. While words seem to be the only defence I have against any of these horrific situations, there are certainly too many days when words are nowhere near enough.

Yet I'm not sure what I can do beyond seeking words. And where to look for them, but to the garden -- even in winter -- for encouragement and inspiration.

Especially to the hardiest green, the kale. A lesson in survival, to be sure.

To market, to market...

Today was the last day for the local Farmers' Market -- at least for 2016. Because it's December, there wasn't much available in the way of produce, but the vendors made up for that with trinkets, crafts and a huge assortment of baked goods. There were also plenty of jars of jam, jelly and juice -- the traditional preserves resulting from summer's bounty.

I was lucky enough to get there just in time to get the last dozen eggs from my faithful supplier. She's kind enough to come into town during the winter so we don't have to resort to store-bought (tired) ones.

The marketplace (indoor this time of year) was festive, with people buying poinsettias and extending early Merry Christmas wishes to each other.

Even for a humbugger like me, the carols (unlike the annoyingly tinny ones at the mall), played on an accordion, helped set the tone of neighbourly warmth.

The ritual of the farmers' market is an example of community at its best. Come May, when it's back outside, we'll be there Sunday mornings -- even if not 'to buy a fat pig.' And as always, while we go about choosing our fruit and vegies we'll chat and hug and laugh with each other, recognizing that even if we don't live next door each other, we're neighbours.

Anniversaries and observations

It was 75 years ago that the attack on Pearl Harbor took place. And this week, the world might have moved a few steps closer to peace. Baby steps, I suppose they might have to be called. Still. Even small progress always seems worth noting.

In summer President Obama visited Hiroshima. Now Prime Minister Shinzo Abe is visiting Pearl Harbor. Although neither man is apologizing for sins of the past, Abe did say, "We must never repeat the tragedy of the war" and made a commitment to that stance.

Now if the U.S. could make a similar commitment, perhaps the rest of the world would fall into line with that kind of thinking. How's that for an early Christmas wish?

As for the photo of the man in uniform, it's one I've posted on this blog of mine before. Nonetheless, it's important enough that I'm putting it up there again. It's my dad. And today's the day he would have been 98. In uniform on account of events all those years ago at Pearl Harbor, the day he would have been turning 23.

Yet another pipeline

Only I'm not about to protest this particular pipeline, as its purpose is innocent. It's not for transporting oil or the dreaded bitumen. Instead it's to transport water.

The city has determined that some of the pipes in our neighbourhood are aging and in need of being replaced. So that's what they're doing -- digging a ditch and taking out the old ones, replacing them with new ones. The project goes all the way up our street and around the corner for now.

Water. Without it, we wouldn't be here at all.

When is a promise not a promise?

When it's a political lie.

I had misgivings about Justin Trudeau's promises last May when announcements about the Kinder Morgan project started leaking out (sort of like a pipeline or a tanker might?).

I don't think I'm the only one who remembers that he said, "Governments may be able to issue permits, but only communities can grant permission." If you consider the massive protest that took place barely over a week ago, it's clear that the community has not given its permission.

Today's news conference contained a surprise that almost no one was expecting. Maybe waiting until December 19th, as had been the previous understanding, would have seen any announcements overshadowed by pronouncements scheduled to come from the US Electoral College. It seems more likely that this was just some smelly little political game of see-saw meant to keep everybody happy. Sort of.

This nasty surprise bombshell sends an undeniable message. Yes, we need to go back to the mountain, even if it means as it did two years ago, that we'll be standing in the rain.

And if that doesn't work, come the next election, I think we'll all be warier of buying anyone's promises, even if they're coming from a guy who once seemed worth believing.

The joys of being a generalist

I've never been very good at restricting myself to any single discipline. Maybe that word 'discipline' still carries too many negative connotations. Or maybe I simply prefer to live a free-range sort of life.

One way this open-ended set of interests pays off is that it's nearly impossible to be bored. And since I've come home from my retreat, with all the levels of catch-up that;s entailed, the days certainly been filled in an almost wild range of ways.

Thursday night was another in our local literary series, Readings by the Salish Sea, with the distinguished guest Anosh Irani reading from his latest novel, The Parcel.

The book is no easy read. Not because the writing is difficult to understand. If anything, the scenes he creates are all too clear. But the unpleasantness of 'breaking in' a young girl to a life of prostitution is distasteful, to be sure. Still, it's writing that's brave and, despite the topic, beautiful.

In addition to reading, he was generous in answering questions from the audience.

If you're wondering why there are paintings behind him, it's because the event was held in a gallery, one currently featuring the work of Vojislav Morosan, an artist who meticulously documented so many local scenes. Considering how fast so many of these vistas are changing (thank you, high-rise developers), it's a good thing we have these paintings as reminders.

As for the rest of the weekend, it's been another fit-for-a-generalist mix, one that included a visit to the megalithic Cineplex in Langley. Despite the fact that I'm a Harry Potter fan -- I own (and have read) all of the books and have seen all the films, more than once -- the newest offering from J.K. Rowling was a letdown. Even Eddie Redmayne seemed flat in his role as the admittedly somewhat-wimpy character he played. From minute to minute, I wasn't sure whether he was going to transform into the Danish Girl or maybe Stephen Hawking.

I'll admit that part of last night's entertainment, Bad Grandpa, was quite a few notches lower, though I'll also admit that I laughed so  hard I cried.

When a show comes on with this many warnings, you know there's bound to be more than a few politically-incorrect elements.

As for today, I'm doing yet another two very different things.

First, I'm heading to a pottery show, where I'm hoping I might find a special something as a Christmas gift. After that I'm joining (at half-time) a group of friends who still celebrate the Grey Cup.

And if all of this doesn't qualify me as a generalist, I don't know what might.

This unwillingness to declare a pigeon-holed category of interest once cost me a pretty decent book reviewing gig. But do I have regrets over that? Not a chance, especially as once that editor changed, I was back on the roster.

Even my degree attests to who I am: Bachelor of General Studies. For now at least, curiosity remains my guiding star.

Springtime in November

I know. I should know better than to make any such cheery proclamations. It’s just that when the weather is perfect (perfect enough to spend the morning in my deck chair, reading and sipping at coffee), it’s something to celebrate.

I’m also celebrating my annual writing retreat. It’s a time I anticipate with pleasure, not only for the uninterrupted writing time, but for the evenings of camaraderie among close friends.

This year’s setting is new to us, in a pastoral setting on North Pender Island. The sheep are far enough away that I don’t ever hear them. As for the chickens (and crows), they’re another matter. But being natural sounds, they’re never a disturbance.

There are several indicators that despite the sunny hours, it isn’t really spring, just some lucky autumn breaks before colder weather arrives. One of those indicators is this year’s bounteous supply of apples. We’ve been invited to help ourselves to them, so the forager in me has taken advantage of that. I’ve harvested two different varieties – and they’re waiting in bags for when I depart.

When I leave here I know that I’ll be leaving with more than apples. As I always do at the end of a retreat, I’ll come away refreshed and renewed – and I hope ready to face the many changes we are all bound to experience over the coming months.

I plan to do my best to keep some of these sunny images in mind, trusting that they will carry me through whatever dark times may be ahead.

As for now, I’m glad that I’ve come back indoors, as I can hear the start of yet another round of the inevitable November rains. 

Seeking wisdom

Kurt Vonnegut was born on November 11th, 1922.

One of my long-held traditions was to write a letter to him on that day.

He never replied to any of those letters (heck, I don't even know whether any of them reached him), but I kept up the tradition for many years. Much, I suppose, the way I keep this little blog. Sending words out into the universe without knowing whether they might ever connect with anyone.

In light of all that's occurred this week, I'm writing to him again. I just wish that this time, he'd be able to respond, as I'm sure we could use some of his wise advice.

Although, who knows, he might just go along with the down-home homely advice offered in the sign.

And yes, I wrote some of those letters long enough ago that I used a typewriter, thus the likely now-jarring font:

Dear Mr Vonnegut, 

If you were alive, you'd be turning 94. A somewhat creaky age, I suspect. Not an impossible age, but one where I expect that you'd be slowing down. Nonetheless an age when your sense of wisdom would likely be keener than ever. 

Quite a few of us have had our world upended this week. We were expecting one thing to happen, but instead the opposite occurred. 

The reactions I've heard about have included crying (in all its various manifestations, from tears streaming in shocked silence to tears accompanied by sobbing and even shrieking), vomiting, or going to bed and pulling up the covers. 

Apparently so many Americans wanted to know how to emigrate to Canada that our government's immigration website crashed.  

Then yesterday, the president-elect met with the current president of the US, Barack Obama, a fellow I'm sure you've heard about even as far as Tralfamadore or wherever it is that you might now be. 

If the news cameras can be trusted anymore, the new guy came away from that meeting looking a lot like the kid who's been taken to the firehall (I know how you loved firehalls and fire engines) after being caught playing with matches. Sobered right up. Or, to put it in Bondian terms, "shaken, not stirred." *

The only positive spin I can manage on this is that it's just part of the cycle of big change that's been coming for such a long time. Again, I look to thoughts Tralfamadorian as I do my best to come to an acceptance of the reality of now. 

One of your writer-colleagues, Toni Morrison, offered some good advice: "This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. This is how civilizations heal."

To that, I imagine you would wholeheartedly agree. After all, doesn't that pretty much sum up how you spent your life here on this little blue planet?

It's Remembrance Day here in Canada, Veterans Day in the US, so I turned on the radio a few minutes ago -- just in time for the moment of silence. Thankfully, that's not a sound one gets very often on the CBC. 

Several speakers then offered remembrance and, as is always the case, in both official languages, French and English. But this year, they added something I didn't remember hearing before, another speaker offered these in a First Nation tongue. Yes. A time for healing. Hallelujah. 

Which brings to mind one other bit of news. A very cool fellow should have arrived in your zone last night. His name is Leonard. I expect the two of you should find plenty to talk about. 

Best cheers, as always,

hg

* Explanation of this phrase brings to mind another of your works, Cat's Cradle, with its exploration of the properties of ice, a fascination held in what we call 'real life' by your brother, Bernard. 

There are walls, and then there are walls...

This is a wall.

This is a wall with ivy on it.

This is a wall covered with colourful autumny leaves,

It's a wall, yes -- one that provides a bit of privacy,

but isn't a wall that encloses anything.

Maybe it's the only kind of wall anyone should need.

On this morning (or should that be mourning?), I can't help but notice the numbers at the bottom of my computer's screen: 09/11/2016. It seems indeed like quite another kind of 9/11.

Less than a week to go...

This photo is from an ad for tissues that I spotted in a SkyTrain station downtown. The way things are going it seems appropriate.

I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised at the way this race is turning into a dead heat. When we travelled through the western U.S. this September there were so many Trump signs I don't think I could have counted them all if I'd wanted to.

And though I did see one (yes, just one) sign in support of 'Hillary' (and yes, with her first name only), the only 'Clinton' sign I saw was this one, approaching in the distance on the freeway outside of Clinton, Montana.

The town is home to not only the annual Testicle Festival, but today is their Annual Festival of the Dead Group Art Show.

As to which of these cultural events might be more appropriate in light of electioneering and these particular candidates, well, you'll have to be the one to decide.