Mrs. Harris / Anger

Last night I rented Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris. It’s Disney. It’s romance. It’s treacley. It’s contrived and the usual endless cycle of happy scenes/crisis/repeat until the happy, happy, happy ending. And I loved every minute of it. It’s in Paris, there’s no violence, and best of all—there are a whole lot of Dior dresses. The star of the show is Dior.

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I had a dear friend who went blind. He was late-onset blind. I’ve written here before about why that was the most satisfying friendship I ever experienced.

My friend and his partner, Steve, my ex, and I were eating together in a nice restaurant. When the server asked us about drinks, his partner ordered for my friend. And when we were drinking, his partner proposed a main to friend liked. I was seated beside mt friend, his partner was across the table. And so, when the food came, I leaned close to my friend and told him the lay of the land. I described what was on the plate to him and, using the face of a clock as a reference tool, I told him where on the plate each food was.

From then on, I was always beside my friend. I’d read the entire menu for him when we went out. I quietly explained silent scenes in movies.  I loved sitting beside in in a park or on a hill and describing what I saw—the colours, the light, where there was movement, people around us. We became very close. 

I was thinking about him because I saw him go through a massive adjustment. I can remember the emotional phases of his process of adapting. 

I belong to two stuttering support groups. I write about stuttering. I hear my fucking stutter every time I open my mouth. I advocate for stuttering support awareness. But worst of all, every time I do something I have to think about how I’m going to communicate when I get there. Sometimes a written expression of need is required. Always: a pad and pencil. Always: my ‘I am mute’ cards. Sometimes: several pre-written notes. Stuttering has taken over my life and I’m still going through phases of adjustment.

Suddenly my self-imposed boundaries feel like jail bars. I don’t want to go in a plane, to a concert or play, to a movie, anyplace loud. I could go on and on.

I remember one late summer at the PNE with some friends. We’d been on the roller coaster, and I loved it. I thought if I could love the giant wooden whirlwind of a ride, I would love everything. But once on the Ferris Wheel, I started freaking. Each time we went round, I screamed, pleading to the operator to let me out. I wanted it to end!!! That’s how I feel about my stutter. I want to be fluent. And I’m angry that I’m not. And I’m angry that I’ve no ambition and little energy.

My friend had periods of anger. My mantra: the seasons change.

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Today, I go to the pacemaker clinic in Nanaimo. It’s a beauty of a day, so it won’t be onerous. I don’t feel like doing any shopping over there, so we’ll just come home afterwards and I’ll do some yard work, watering and reading.

Yay Jacob Collier

I’m quite the fan of Jacob Collier. He’s a unique musical polymath. What he does with this audience moves me. He makes his fans part of the show and that really impresses me. What you see above, is his encore ‘performance’ after a concert in the 02 Academy in Brixton, London last month.

He divides his audience into three sections and gives each one a note. The starting notes he gives are the root, third and fifth of a major chord, in this case, G major, G B and D.  From there, he then points at a section or sections, pointing up or down, and that section goes up or down one step of the major scale. He’s composing his three-part harmony as he's waving his hands.  Every show he does this it's similar, but each one is unique. This one is especially long and complex in comparison to other clips I've seen from shows on this tour.  

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I saw Eoin and François yesterday at the market. It’s clear that they’ll return to Steve’s party next year. They are wonderful friends who are compassionate and understanding. I now know that I overreact to his behavior. But his excessive drinking every night worries me.

I did get some yard work done yesterday, and I did a thorough cleaning of the house. Plus, Her Highness and I had two walks, so life is back to normal. It’s another sunny and hot day and I’ll spend a lot of it watering the gardens. I also did some writing for the clinic and I’ve more to do today. But it’s Sunday. It’s a sin to work on Sunday. I’ll do as little as possible, but the clinic wants a lot of work done.

The yard really needs a lot of attention, but I’m disinclined to do it. I hope to do a little more today, but I love doing nothing way too much. I’ve a Zoom session with my BC stuttering group and we’ll go for a nice walk after it’s finished. Then the watering, then the writing, and then the resting.

 It’s back to my humdrum life, my stressless (for the most part) gentle life in Pinecone Park as Summer winds down. I’m going to try to do some weeding and pruning of dead branches during the coming week. And I will spend lots of time with Bruno.

Movie: The Gay Party

Before I reveal the full majesty of another riveting day at Pinecone Park, I want to go back to the party on Tuesday night. 

I learn from the incidents of my life by writing about them. I think about my concern, fear or experience, as a technical writer. I fine the line of the story. I find the beginning. I work to understand my challenge clearly so that I can explain it before parsing it. I follow the path of the story until its end and the choices for going forward are clear. There’s always resolution at the end of the exercise.

I was freewheeling in an email to my friend Beth about the experience of ‘seeing oneself’ in the writing of another, and I wrote about moments at Tuesday’s party when I felt like I was an actor in a movie. So, back to the party….

Steve presented to our guests with large plastic rings of different colours on all his fingers, a drink in hand and a fey boy twang in his voice. He loves being the focus of attention at a party and goes to great lengths to get it. He presents very large. How others react to his exuberance, flamboyance and wit is their concern, but I was uncomfortable. The dilemma that had be sit down to write is this: After two years in a row of hosting a party for my gay friends and Steve and hating the experience, what am I going to do next year?

My feelings of embarrassment and concern over his behaviour overwhelm me, and that renders my speech very, very poor. I saw boredom in their faces, and people overtalked me if I tried to participate in the conversation. So, I stopped talking. At our party, in my garden. Miserable and mute.

I’m in a movie,’ I wrote to Beth, about a group of gay men having a party. Steve, the queen, one of the hosts of the party and the nemesis of his co-host, the disabled guy; me, the disabled guy (representation); Eoin, the debonaire guy with a tan from South America (representation); François, the Frenchman (Quebec financing; Canadian distribution); and finally, a warm, kind, and handsome fuzzy professor (Gilligan).  

I felt emotionally removed from the party as I watched the scenes play out before me.  I saw everything through eyes of a director, and as the director, it’s clear to me that the queen is an alcoholic. The queen loves the camera. I ask myself: What’s my point of view? I can exploit her desire to perform, but what I do want to say about the character and about alcohol. Mid-way through the film we learn that the queen and the disabled guy were in a relationship when they were young that lasted fourteen years. What’s the disabled guy’s relationship to the queen now and to the alcohol? He doesn’t drink.

I very gently tried to raise the subject of his drinking two years ago. I did not speak, in any way, from a point of view of judgement. I chose words without negative connotations. Still, it provoked rage, so I will not try again. This year, he made a joke about being alcoholic.

When I took him to the ferry Friday morning, I stopped for a burger at the new restaurant—a favourite place for a delicious quick lunch—and came home. Once inside, I sat down at my computer and typed a message to his cell phone: “Come back.” I meant right away; he understood next year, but I liked the answer anyway. I have never stopped loving him.

He will never stop coming here. I, frankly, don’t feel capable of getting on an airplane. I fear that the large and noisy planes, the busy chaos of airports, and the crowds will overstimulate me. I do not want to have a seizure on a plane. So, Steve comes here, bless him. And the price is the party. 

I know and like Steve’s partner, Tim. He doesn’t drink, and we get along very well. I may enlist his help to get Steve to accept my being politely excused from any future such parties here. I will explain to him that I get over-stimulated by the party and become uncomfortably disfluent. I’m going to relay to him how telling a story to four people became a conversation with one person who had a ‘get me outta here’ look on his face. I felt unwelcome and I didn’t like it. I don’t want to feel like that again.

I’m telling a truth but not talking about alcoholism. I’m taking the blame and the initiative. I’m going to ask my friends what they think about another party next year. As the queen’s attendant, I negotiate the agenda. If they are willing to return, I’m going to suggest to Tim and Steve that we have the party, but that I opt out. I’ll spend a short time with them, but I’ll retreat to the house or my bedroom for the bulk of the party.

I’ll ponder what to do a while longer. Maybe I won’t do anything, and the party will be the low point of our remaining years.

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It’s another gorgeous day. We’ll walk, go to the farmers’ market and then I plan on doing some yard work instead of vegging out with Bruno. I have more writing to do for the clinic and a letter to write for my BC stuttering group.

Steve Departs

Thursday became a lovely day. There was lots of sunshine, but the air was nice and refreshing.

I began the day with a Zoom session with my UK stuttering group while Steve went into the village to do some site seeing and shopping. We had lunch—my first in the new restaurant here called Ground Up—before heading to Drumbeg for a walk and to revel in its glory. I love that park and its beautiful views. 

We came home and I made my favourite salad and chicken curry for our final meal together. We ate outdoors after a lovely visit with Merrill and Issa.

Steve leaves this morning as we head back into a hot, burning bright stretch of weather and lots and lots of watering to do. But what a shock: it was 11° here this morning at 6:00 when I got up.

Us on the balcony of Surf Lodge having lunch.

Steve's bouquet of things picked on a morning forest walk.

Our dacquoise dessert cake. Yum!

Fat but happy me and Her Highness on the beach.

Steve took this of me reading on Sandwell Beach. 
He'd been off beach combing while I read.

When we had our dinner party (below) Merrill 
dropped by with Issa—the girl I adore.

(L to R) Eoin, me, Steve, Françoise and Jay.

Our 6K walk around Westwood Lake in Nanaimo.

Steve loves his alcohol. This was at Mahle House where
we went for a spectacular dinner.

We  harvested my Garlic yesterday.