my endorphins shot up. cortisol ghosted away like magic in the gibsons playhouse theatre last night with heather bishop & my sisters and brothers.

the night before at the bold, old, lesbians & dykes conference, ferron had me crying from the get go, my young past when i was a catholic school teacher, all flooded back, those years trying to be who i wasn’t

& queer as funk gittin’ down, jumpin’ with the sisters, makin’ up with one sister i have loved forty-nine years. i lost four pounds.

& suzie vinnick bustin’ the blues all night long in the very house i dreaded as a child, the bad girls industrial school, off cassiar street in vancouver, where i was told i would end up, if i continued like i was.

spoiled, and now sitting at the ocean’s side, nothing more comforting than that sound, the neighbour’s old electric saw, his hammer intermittent, the electric screwdriver, acknowledging all the years of privilege, the plumber’s daughter who grew up on this coast of sunshine, so close to home. home, being mt. seymour where i would ride my bike through the dollarton First Nations reserve, the kids threw rocks at me (we understand now) and swim in deep cove or climb down to seymour river to float down the green river, my respite.

this morning, through rose-coloured glasses, the sea & sky, indistinguishable. pre-apocalyptic times, floods in texas, hurricane irma & as my friend heather conn points out, top military commanders from twenty nations are discussing nuclear war with north korea in victoria, bc, earthquakes in mexico. the west is on fire. you can only blame so much on the gays.

crow caw. no seeum, on the beach, every rock a freckled granite planet. tenacious fruit flies, the sun magenta, maple leaves, logs, the grass, pinkened, fighting to burn through smoke.

i remember when mom and dad could walk to the end of beach ave. a few brief summers ago. and now the family home is up for sale. on virtual tour with remax. realty. reality.

mom with tears in her eyes talking about seeing her friends for the last time, mona, who laid her head on mom’s arm, roberta on her death bed, who cried out “moe.”

how many hours have i left to just hang with folks. “am i close to the cat i am trying to be? if i’m not dat cat, i better figure out how to be dat cat. ain’t nobody coming’ to da cattery, till dis cat in da hat got dat.