Tuesday, November 23, 2021


Ask any of my friends. They’ll tell you. My house is always tidy and ‘pretty’—as pretty as I can possibly make it. My blog is named for ‘lovers of beauty,” philocalists. My orientation will likely never change; I’m driven to host pristinely. I can think of many reasons as to why I feel its so important to ‘impress.’

I once read that the more a person feels out of control in the world, the more they want to control theirworld. That could be me.

I have a need for everything to be in its place; everything to look perfect—to the extent of my capacity to create the perfect environment for guests. The need has been as strong as my libido, all my adult life. But, thank God, it’s fading.

Keeping everything perfect is a full-time job. But something is dampening that long felt desire. The brakes are on, not stopping me, but slowing me down. I don’t need perfection anymore; ‘good enough’ will do just fine. It could be laziness; it could be an aspect of being Chris.2 (post onset of FND). Regardless, I’m thrilled.

I’ve lived here for four years, in quiet solitude with an indulgence of pets. I could almost say that homes of my past were designed for my guests—as I say, to impress. I liked living in a home I was proud of.

But nowhere, ever, has felt like home like Pinecone Park does. Perhaps it’s because I love living (with pets) in rural semi-solitude. I love the silence, I love having one stop sign between me and the village, no pay parking, plenty of parking, I love forest walking twice a day in pure nature. And I’m home with the pets all day, every day. I’ve never spent so much time in my home.

For the first time, I’m living in a home designed for me. For a reason I don’t understand, I think this is part of why ‘good enough’ is good enough.

We’re under alert again. Starting Wednesday and worse on Thursday, another atmospheric river is expected. Thank God for books, gumboots, rubber pants and raincoats. 

Today, a barge filled with gasoline is arriving in Vancouver from the USA to help area residents fill their cars, and the army has fixed the breached dyke on the Fraser River. However, flood waters are pouring into Sumas prairie from the USA

Today is sunny and bright, but there are strong gusts of wind ahead of the predicted storm.

Di, one of my dog walking group friends, is going to host us all for an Xmas eve party. We’ve become terrific friends; I’m so pleased and thankful for that. We’ve been walking three times a week together for well over three years. Now, it’s four days a week and we’re getting together at Di’s more often.

I love my gay friends here. Eoin, Fançois, Jay and I get together regularly and communicate infrequently by email. I love being with my people. My walking group, however, is equally important to me. Is it sexist to express the importance of heterosexuals to my life? I do not want to live in a gay ghetto; Steve, my ex, does. I don’t like it. I like balance.

I’m rambling. I’m rambling because it feels good to have my fingers on the keyboard. I miss my column, I miss writing plays, screenplays and the column in a newsletter I wrote for twenty-six years. But all ambition has left me. No more libido, no more concern with my wardrobe, no more daily shaving, more sweatpants. 

Chris.2 can’t seem to concentrate. That’s my understanding of myself; it’s why I never use my studio and can’t get to drawing yet. (Even though I’ve had the supplies I ordered for almost two weeks.) All I want to do is read. I’m addicted to the worlds I visit.  I read a book every two-to-three days.

This blog is the only writing I do now. 

I resolve to set up my magnifying glass and bright light over a drawing surface today, to fetch my pencil crayons, and to set up a still life that I can draw for my first image of a series I have planned called “Winter.” 

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