going back to saltspring

island, where I will wander by cedar stands and touch the peeling flesh of the arbutus tree. I will look out over that other vast expanse, the one that confounds prairie-dwellers. I'll smile at the locals (both the tree huggers and the engine-gunning rednecks) who surely still hate us, the ignorant trampling tourists, with a salt-cured zeal. Do the old guys still play Jazz on Sunday nights at Moby's? Has the farmers' market begun yet? Truckloads of smoked salmon, firewood and more fine tie-dyed goods than you can shake a bidi at. Maybe I'll rent a little scooter, and me and Tracey will ride to Fulford Harbour and watch the otters fooling around by the docks. Really, we can do anything we want.

Maybe I'll even kiss a sunset pig (?)

hagar's lesson: feed the chickadees

If you should happen to lose your boyfriend, look to the chickadees and squirrels, and to your lesbian friends, for comfort. I learned that from Hagar, who has been vociferously grieving the loss of her love all about the newsroom of late. We knew too much about the joy and pleasure he gave her, uninvited mental polaroids burned forever into our collective consciousness. (The toys! Why do I know about the toys?) Now we know much about the sorrow.

The depression phase of the breakup hit her, she said, like a ton of bricks on Saturday morning. Luckily for our heartsick heroine, nature and friends were a soothing balm on the lacerations of middle-aged loneliness. At Pike Lake, she found sweet relief. Now there's a new picture in my head, one I don't mind so much. It's the one that matches this statement:

"If you hold out a handful of seeds, and are very patient and still, a chickadee will come and land there - right in the palm of your hand! But before it eats anything it will look up, right into your eyes, as if to say Thankyou for honouring my trust. Thankyou for feeding me."

what kind of animal are you?

the reasons for my respect
remained in the sand:
the religious bird
did not need to fly,
did not need to sing,
and through its form was visible
its wild soul bled salt:
as if a vein from the bitter sea
had been broken.

Penguin, static traveler,
deliberate priest of the cold,
I salute your vertical salt
and envy your plumed pride.

Pablo Neruda
from Magellanic Penguin