Wednesday, August 23, 2017


Holy Jesus it was hot here last night. I spent the evening prior to bed not moving between cool showers. Today is cooler, thank goodness.
Yesterday began with a liver ultrasound at 9:00 am, then Dr. Shoja at 10:00 and then Sue, my respirologist, at noon and finally Del Dorscheid, my asthma doctor (whom I love), at 1:00 pm. Mr. One-thing-a-day came home feeling totally beat but if I move long-distance, a day like today will happen every three months.
I’m selling my beloved place; I’ve got to get out of the chaos of downtown so I wrote to my realtor to help me think through where to go — plus I’m consulting with friends. I’m having dinner with John and Bunny on Saturday to talk with them more formally about using their basement suite when I come to stay in town.
I’m also talked to my fish, chocolate and marijuana suppliers and verified that they can ship their product to me. However, I plan to come to town regularly for medical appointments and to get craft supplies so I can get things I need then.
The point of moving is to buy land on which I can garden (in privacy) and exercise a dog. The thought of growing my own vegetables and lots of them and lots of varieties is extraordinarily appealing.
Leon will thrive in a yard; and a both of us will love expanding our family with a canine brother and a fireplace. We don’t have many years left. I want us to really enjoy them.
The ultrasound was super interesting but her fascination with one spot made me apprehensive. My poor liver has been processing my HIV medications, which is essentially mild chemo, for twenty years. Now I wait. If I get no call in the next day or two, I’m in the clear.
Although I wrote to Rachel about my script on Monday morning (early) I’ve still had no answer.
I learned how to sign the alphabet so I’m prepared for my signing class that starts in two weeks. I’m a little worried that we may be called upon to speak. I’m quite proficient at signing my first name. In fact it’s ideal for signing; the signs for the letters of my first name flow fluidly.
I love in a multi-ethnic city. There’s a huge Asian and South Asian population here. There are also a large number of Pilipino and Latino people here but it seems to me virtually all the numerous homeless people are Caucasian.
Oh oh. I’ve discovered jam. How did I go through life without jam? I only discovered mayonnaise about six years ago. Now it’s (strawberry) jam. Toast and jam is my new sex. It’s not like I haven’t had it before; I’ve had it in restaurants but I’ve not bought any for at home since probably my twenties and I forgot how good it can be.

Monday, August 21, 2017

I Asked

Before my breakdown I led a dynamic life and the living of it gave me lots to write about. I was a serious walker and my walks were a rich source of inspiration for posts and photography.
Now my life is spectacularly dull. So to add some spice I wrote to Rachel this morning and asked when I might hear about their decision about my script.
Ivan Sayers offered me a Plan B: To “license” him to present my dresses at some of his gigs this upcoming season. He presents fashion shows around town and if I am to be part of this season, I need to tell him so I used his interest in my dresses as an excuse to ask Rachel. She’s had my script since June 19 so I think it’s fair to ask.
It’s going to be so horrid when the weather changes. For the past four months it’s been sunny virtually every day and there’s no change predicted yet. In fact, it is supposed to get hot again. But when the change comes, it is going to be such a sad shock. Today there’s not a spec of wind. The air is still; everything is still.
Heaven! Bliss. The man I absolutely adore and who is tirelessly fascinating is back; Endeavor Morse (and actor Sean Evans). A new season started last night on PBS.

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Passionate New Love

Passionate new love #1: Rag‘nBone Man. He’s a big burly tattooed singer from the U.K. He looks like someone in whom I’d take no interest but his voice is pure smooth moody honey. I loved his song Skin immediately upon hearing it. That’s why I bought his album. Now it’s Odetta that gives me goosebumps. He’s a male Adele. Oh my goodness!
Passionate new love #2: Saucisson sec with fennel from Oyama Sausage on Granville Island. Today when I go there I am going to ask if they ship product in case I move.
Lately some of the blog/websites I visit were “posting in black and white” to “honour those who died in Barcelona.” I’ve also seen a lot of graphic art “honoring” the same dead.
I cannot fathom doing something similar. I share in their horror of the event itself; I just don’t understand “honoring” the dead. What is “honoring?” What makes people hear about a tragedy and want to post their “pain” on twitter? Those who honour the dead on social media seem to be turning the attention on themselves: “See my pain;” repost my honour graphic.
I understand pain over the horror of the instrument of their death, the circumstances of their deaths and sadness for the horrific loss of the friends and families of the dead. But writing on social media about it? Really?
They care but they put me through Hell. Dr. Shoja shares my pain; she knows that many doctors cannot understand psychiatric illness. They only understand pathology. So my symptoms alarm them.
Last September I collapsed on the seawall and was taken to hospital and they were “worried” about heat rhythm irregularities. So off I go to a cardiologist and I wear a monitor and he tells me I am fine and not to worry with a what-the-fuck-did-you-waste-my-time tone in his voice.
Then, when my HIV doctor saw me, off I was sent to a neurologist who did the same thing — he adopted the wasted tone dismissing me. He was really curt so I was right back.
He said: “I don’t understand why you’ve come here. I told you when I saw you in Emergency that there is nothing neurologically wrong.”
To which I replied: “I’m here because your colleague told me to come here and he set up the appointment. He wants you to tell him whether or not my condition could be caused by my HIV medications. I’m not here for my health; I’m here for his research. And he’s internationally renowned whereas you are arrogant and rude — at least with me you are.”
Then he apologized for misunderstanding and I got to say: “You didn’t misunderstand. You misjudged. As I said, you’re arrogant.” My God that felt good; he was such a prick. And when I feel as insulted as I felt with him (and angry), I don’t stutter.
Starting Monday night at midnight I have to fast for twenty-four hours before a liver ultrasound: “Better safe than sorry.” This time it’s not only wasted time; the fasting is going to be dreadful. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with my liver.