Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Halloween Birthday

I had a post all ready and was putting it together in Blogger, when I noticed that today is October 31. Halloween. Because I am nothing if not swift of mind and it’s not like there’s been hints of impending pumpkin takeover in the last few days.

I’d like to use the weather as an excuse for my brainlessness – today, it’s 18 (64F) in Toronto. I am not wearing socks and plan to go read a book in the park in 5 minutes. On Halloween.

And as it is Halloween, Barb, my partner in crime in all things tenant associated has decorated the lobby.

Please notice the spiders. I’m not fond of spiders. Really not fond. However, after several years of exposure, I’ve become accustomed to the wee ones in the webs, but this year, she gleefully placed humongous (humungous?) ones right above the elevator. Then she added tarantulas. Very realistic tarantulas. I email her regularly with Spider Watches. I swear the brown one in the middle has moved down the wall. And on the same day I noticed another missing, I rode up in the elevator with a pest control guy. Coincidence? I think not! Barb laughs at me, claims I’m imagining things. I still sleep with one eye open.

Halloween is also the fluffball’s birthday.

She’s my wee familiar, found by Michele, who knew someone who didn’t want her and on a sunny day in February, brought home by Janne, who went into the house while I waited in the car and brought a tiny explosion of fur into my hands. Then Mojo (at the time called Bandit) proceeded to investigate the car, licked our hands with her sandpaper tongue the whole way home and took over my home with her charm and personality. Of which she has much.

Never boring, Mojo is forever finding new ways of entertaining herself (and me) – like watching the baseboard in my bathroom. For tarantulas, maybe?


And with the sense of complete entitlement only naturally found in those of royal descent (or perhaps divine origin - I hear tell that cats have never forgotten that they were once worshipped as gods), she considers not just my apartment, my furniture and me her own, but has also annexed the hallway on my floor as her personal domain and includes it in her evening constitutional while she checks that everything is the way it should be. I’m pretty sure there’s Doberman in her lineage somewhere.

The fur between her ears is the softest I have ever felt, she has eyes the green of arctic ice, more expressive than an Oscar winner’s and she tells me stories and yells at me when I am tardy with her meal. No matter my mood, no matter how crappy I’ve felt, every day for these almost 11 years, she’s opened my heart and made me laugh. We are perfect for each other and share a relationship of equality and dignity that came about because I am physically unable to force her to do anything, instead relying on negotiation and want. It’s been fascinating, heartwarming and lovely to share my home with her all these years and I hope for many more.

Happy Halloween!

Friday, October 26, 2007

A Delicate Blossom of Womanhood

Back in my not-nearly-misspent-enough youth, when I was in erm… gymnasiet (which is sort of highschool, except more – it’s a three-year program, you go there if your career plans include going to university, what’d you call it? And yes, I know I keep asking that question)… Anyway, several of my teachers had conspired to delve into a specific important period in Denmark, which I can vaguely recall included the 1700s and 1800s and we spent 1½ years of the three immersed in said era in both history and Danish classes (and maybe one more subject?) and by the end, I was sick to death of it and never wanted to read anything written before 1960 again in my life. Which was unfortunate – instead of instilling a love of history and literature, they created an aversion so deep that I’ve repressed everything I learned. Nay, scrubbed it out of my mind. OK, so I’m a history nerd, but the urge to avoid literature – or perhaps I should say Literature – stuck.

Fastforward to sometime in the 80s, when I finally gave in to the feelings of guilt over being unfamiliar with much of the English-language classics, determined to do something about it with about the same level of enthusiasm I employ when eating brussel sprouts and picked up Pride & Prejudice. Then I spent several weeks asking everyone I knew why on earth they hadn’t told me it was funny and in general raving about Jane Austen. Fastforward another couple of decades and we’re in October, 2007 and I’ve just finished reading Persuasion by the incomparable Miss Austen (apparently, despite the earlier positive experience, the aversion stuck enough that it was 20 years before I picked up another pre-1960 classic. I’m working on it). I’ve had a spectacular time, especially since it was narrated by Nadia May, who brilliantly captures the intricacies of the language, but what struck me most was how horrendous it must have been to be a woman in the 18th and early 19th centuries. More specifically, wives and daughters of gentlemen.

The first thing that makes me grateful to be born in 1962 was the thought of how boring it must have been. No education beyond a facility in French, Italian, etc. Being “accomplished” meant playing the piano, embroidery, drawing and… what? Developing the ability to listen patiently to the inane blatherings of people older and/or of higher status? Not being allowed to run, be required to move in a delicate unladylike manner and being treated like the slightest inclement weather could kill you - one quote (of many) in Persuasion was "it began to rain. Not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women". I'm beginning to realize that in all of these books one woman will somehow become injured or ill in a way that requires spending a lot of time at death's door, often from a mere cold. But it shouldn't be surprising - at the time, women were kept in so weakened a state that I am surprised any of them survived past 21 at all (come to think of it, that would’ve been positively middleaged when the average life expectancy was 30).

When spending time with Ms. Austen, I was overwhelmed by how confined the women were, physically, emotionally and socially. Back at the beginnings of the reality show craze, Britain’s Channel 4 got in on the act in trademark British manner. In Regency House, they recruited a number of men and women in their 20s and 30s and plopped them down in a manor house pretending to be the 18th century. Reading about it is one thing, but watching these 20th-century women doing nothing but a bit of embroidery, taking a turn about the room at a snail’s pace, never be allowed to be free, to have a belly laugh or to talk about anything of substance was both frightening and enlightening.

Reading Persuasion made me think about feminism and where we been and where we're going. What the differences are between then and now and what similarities still exist, just better hidden. And it felt right to think about that with more attention this week in particular, because this week, it's been 78 years since Canadian women were granted person status in the eyes of the law. Seventy-eight years. A lifetime, that's all.

We've only been persons for a lifetime.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Random October

I'm in the middle of Exploding Week #2 in a row, running around like a decapitated barnyard fowl and… well. Good thing I’ve been saving stuff of miscellaneous character and can therefore provide you with a Random post, which makes it look like I’ve worked hard(ish) without actually having done so. If you came here for thoughtful commentary…. well. Today is a goofy day.

I saw this nifty thing in a cool little store down the road a bit. A global warming mug. You pour hot liquid into it and watch the continents on the outside of the mug disappear. I thought about buying it for myself, I thought it'd make a terrific Christmas present for several environmentally conscious friends and then I reconsidered. This neverending summer (26°C on October 22? In Toronto?? WTF???) is already freaking me/us out enough - facing a disappearing world over your morning hot-beverage-of-choice every single day would be a guaranteed ticket to a permanent cabin at the funny farm
.

For those of us who have ever wondered if we are a good person, here's a handy test to indicate whether certain things need attending to. Of course, some of the questions seem somewhat affected by human interpretation and… well. Is 50% enough, d’you think
?

Luckily, this helpful public service announcement gave me a way to feel better about my sinful state.

A
s usual, I’m obsessed with Dancing with the Stars and this year’s fantastic – Fringe! Falls! Faints!! Some very good dancing and several individuals worthy of the lustful thoughts that may have contributed to tripping me up in the Good Person test (as usual, Maks makes steam come off my TV, but Helio is quite something to behold, as well) and I read recaps in several places to prolong the enjoyment. Well, until I saw this comment on a message board somewhere (grammatical errors not mine): “I really like Helio, he and julianne are a good match up. Jennie Garth to, but only because the woman looks AMAZING for her age”. For her age. Jennie Garth is 35. Bleedin’ whippersnappers...

For the last few years, I’ve been rabbitting on about how the government ought to create a long weekend in the indeterminable stretch between the December holidays and Easter. Not only is it the soul-killing Toronto winter, but no long weekends? Maybe the incidence of SAD would diminish if there wasn’t this unending 3 ½ months of work and dark and cold. Just as I was getting over my touch of megalomania from last winter’s experience in controlling the weather, Ontario’s premier, Dalton McGuinty proclaims the third Monday in February Family Day. It’s nice to have an impact. I just wish, though, that he’d chosen another type of celebration. Imagine the glee at Hallmark – another holiday on which to badger the public into buying oodles of cards! But it’s my fault, really – I wasn’t specific enough when I sent the instruction into the universe. Sorry ‘bout that.


Facebook is good to me. It’s given me a place to engage in a quite undignified expression of addiction (Scrabulous is evil), but it’s also served for me to find an old friend. His latest profile picture follows and it just seemed so apropos considering the rant of a few weeks ago.

Who here remembers Firefly? And bemoans its loss? Find out which Serenity crew you are here. Me? In view of the nerd test result, perhaps it’s not surprise.

You are Dr. Simon Tam (Ship Medic)


Dr. Simon Tam (Ship Medic)
100%
Malcolm Reynolds (Captain)
75%
Kaylee Frye (Ship Mechanic)
70%
Zoe Washburne (Second-in-command)
70%
Derrial Book (Shepherd)
65%
River (Stowaway)
55%
Inara Serra (Companion)
45%
Wash (Ship Pilot)
25%
Alliance
25%
Jayne Cobb (Mercenary)
20%
A Reaver (Cannibal)
0%
Medicine and physical healing are your game,
but wooing women isn't a strong suit.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Through Sick & Sin

Sometime this week or next and 25 years ago, Michele and I met for the first time. I’d been in Canada about three months, knew no one except my parents, sister and dog and had discovered that being good at English in Denmark was much, much different than understanding university lectures in courses I’d never been exposed to before. One of those courses was psychology and we had a lab in which we did basic experiments in operant conditioning with gerbils, rats and pigeons (we were the last who got our hands on actual animals; by the next year, animal rights’ groups had forced those labs to shut down and rightfully so). After our first lab test, I was trying to see the results that were posted, as all things are, at a convenient height for walking people. I asked the girl who was already checking out the posting to tell me my grade and the rest, as they say, is history.

We had a lot of fun in university, especially once I started understanding what Michele said. Canadians speak fast, she speaks really fast and between that and my mangling of the English language, much hilarity ensued. So much so that she was the one who gave me my first nickname. I’d wanted one for as long as I could remember and Krudtirøv didn’t really work beyond age 7. Remember V? The aliens that came to earth and looked all normal and friendly, but really, they were giant lizards out to stock up their larders with humans? One of them had originally been supposed to go to Russia but his destination was changed to the US at the last minute and he was a little iffy with the language (“all systems go” became “all sisters go”). His name was Willie (played by Robert Englund) and it became my nickname. I still have a fondness for knickknacks, jewellery and miscellaneous decorations with a lizard theme and every now and again, when I mangle the language, Michele will call me Willie.

University was also when we adopted the phrase “through sick and sin” (shamelessly pilfered from from this book) and we have been through it all together. From sitting by the hallway couches at Scarborough Campus holding up imaginary scorecards of hotness as guys walked by, gleefully smoking a plant from the backyard that we were convinced was marijuana and getting very, very giggly (it wasn’t weed… it was a weed, thus proving the whole power of suggestion thing), dancing everywhere we could - yes, we have A Song - to me standing up (figuratively speaking) for Michele at her wedding, her placing her newborns in my arms and allowing me to be a sort of godmother to her boys, to us asking her, as a member of our family, to deliver one of the eulogies at my father’s memorial service. We have been through marriages, break-ups and divorce, illness (our own and others’) and death, disappointments and triumphs and we have talked each other through grief and growth and laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

Michele is part of every important thing that has happened in my life in the last quarter century. She is my sister-friend, a member of our chosen family, we are each other’s Thelma & Louise (and still argue about who’s who), fully intending to sit in our wheelchairs in the nursing home when we’re old, holding up imaginary scorecards as the male nurses go by and to, at the end, go out in a blaze of glory. Together.

I am a very lucky woman..

Happy silver, Michele!

And because I’ve just figured out how to do this, a wee video starring my friend, the instigator of the tissue paper game and her new subjects for subversion (that's her youngest, Scott in the corner, hiding from the paparazzi).

video

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Tink Fest

This weekend, we did the (somewhat delayed) family celebration of my birthday, attended by... well, family-type people. Based on the pictures I took, it appears that I was trying to document every single minute of the four-hour event in still photography. Most of The Tinks, but some of the rest of the crowd. As I don't yet have permission to share one of the attendees with the internet, you'll have to make do with largely Tink photos. I hope you can manage.

My lovies have discovered walking and didn't stop, moving very fast at all times. When I was little, my uncle Poul called me Krudtirøv (directly translated as gunpowder-in-arse - apparently, I moved with some speed) and these two proudly carry on the family tradition.


When not moving fast, they could be found levitating



And gently petting the plants.


They were much taken with the old rockingchair


And then there was the talking. Both are progressing with leaps and bounds, can count from 1-10 and are beginning to recognize letters. Liam is a little more quiet than Morgan, although this is quite possibly due to his sister not letting him get in a word edgewise, keeping a running commentary on any and all events. Here, she's telling me all about her lunch.


This is my favourite picture of Liam - it shows exactly who he is and what he'll look like when he grows up. Some day, I'll learn enough about Photoshop to get rid of the fuzziness - I don't even know if Photoshop could do that, but it seems to be capable of miraculous events, so I'm hoping. Yep, that's Ken knitting in the background.


And then there was the tissue paper game. First, one employs two toddlers to rip tissue paper into small pieces (not nearly as difficult as one might imagine). Second, one picks up an antique soldier's cooking pot, stuff the tissue paper in, upends the pot and watch said toddlers explode with delight. Over and over and over again.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Again

They're at it again. This time her name is not Ashley, but Katie and she lives in England, not Seattle. Kay over at The Gimp Parade has written a rather brilliant post about it and I’m not going to say much about the case, because I’ve already said it all and more than once. I am weary of the assault, of the atrocities and yet again, feeling that I ought to present a public argument about my rights, our rights and how they ought to be the same as yours. That if I don’t and if all the other voices that can speak don’t, we risk our rights eroding. I feel like we are a tiny force trying to stem a massive tide that inexorably moves against us, like slow-moving lava, unstoppable, circling back to medicalizing us, institutionalizing us, silencing us.

It makes me so very tired.

I’ve been over there, at Kay’s, trying to leave a comment. Sometimes more than once a day, but I can’t. I read the post, I scan it and recoil, clicking away again, feeling as if I’ve touched a filthy contaminant, a cesspoll of poison. And it’s nothing to do with Kay, who is a lovely person, a fantastic writer and advocate – it’s because of…. Well. This. Again. Less than a year after Ashley, hardly any time since Ruben Navarro and I haven’t built up my defenses yet, I am too raw, too wounded, too aware of the reality I blithely ignore most of the time: that so many people view people with disabilities, view me, as nothing but pitiful, never more than Less Than, my life never as valid as someone who is able-bodied.

As an antidote, I’ve been watching this video repeatedly. A video of kids who without the invention of augmentative communication devices would be silenced. When I watch that video and listen, really listen to what they have to say, their teenage sparkling through, I am grateful to technology for ripping away that layer that allows those of narrow imaginations to believe that their lives are nothing, not worth it, to make the argument that they don’t need their parts.

And still, I feel not safe at all.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Freedom To Shut Up

OK, so I’m getting political again. Ranty, even

It all started Sunday evening after watching Brothers and Sisters (which, by the way, is shaping up to be one of the best shows on television) when mor and I had our post-show debriefing. When said debriefing turned to exclamations of delight about Sally Field, I remembered how the part of her Emmy speech that include a comment about the war in Iraq got cut off. And then, Monday morning, I read an editorial in the New York Times about how WBAI, a New York radio station that apparently has a long history of challenging limits to free speech (such as broadcasting George Carlin's "seven dirty words"), has decided it couldn’t risk broadcasting Allen Ginsberg's Howl on its 50th anniversary. Howl, I discovered, was ruled not to be obscene 50 years ago in a landmark case. According to the editorial, “[T]he station retreated out of fear that the Federal Communications Commission would levy large obscenity fines that might bankrupt the small-budget station."

And then I got a little bent out of shape about freedom of expression, censorship and the lunatic fringe bullying an entire country into submission.

When things first started to go sideways several years ago, after 9/11 and as the Iraq war was sold as a just fight to prevent a lunatic dictator from destroying the world with his WMD's, I tried to talk to American friends about looking deeper, about asking questions, and about how up here in Canada, it wasn't very hard at all to find information that contradicted the propaganda and I was very firmly and angrily told that now was not the time to challenge the president, now was the time to support him. It was a hard time and not only because I believe that during a time of war the most patriotic thing you can do is to ask questions - we have centuries of examples of how it is so very easy to demonize a country, a race, a culture when in reality, war is often about something other than that. It was a hard time because, as I tried to tell my American friends, the very reason that I was tremendously upset was because I love America and Americans. I have travelled to the States many times and have found Americans to be welcoming and friendly and their country spectacular. Watching the ideals of freedom and democracy become hijacked has been hard to bear, even for those of us in different countries.

Although freedom of expression is a part of many international human rights documents, it is with America that I associate it most. The Declaration of Independence states in its First Amendment that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances”. Ratified in 1791. Over 200 years ago. Wow. Just… wow.

And now this nation that so famously said 'up yours', this nation that has been a model for fledgling democracies and revolutionaries all over the world, has willingly sleepwalked its way into a place where fear has gagged its media and its citizens.

Free speech? What free speech?

And sure, there are welcome changes emerging. The White House Press Corps has begun to ask questions again, after years of passively recycling statements, art questions – like Sunday’s episode of Brothers and Sisters when Kitty said to a Rush Limbaugh-like radio host that nutbars like him has turned conservatism into an ideology of hate - and media questions in cases like this (which horrified and nauseated me), but what I keep wondering is how much damage has been done and how long it will take the U.S. and the world to return to where it was. Or if we ever will.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Thanksgiving in Toronto

It was the last long weekend before winter hits, now no lazy holiday Mondays until Christmas, nothing but fall and rain and cold. As behooves a transitional holiday, it wasn't quite sure which way of the fence it was on and so, we got a little bit of both.

Some fall fog


Shadows of dying leaves on the sidewalk


But summer still has a hold, not quite ready to go into hibernation


Which showed to spectacular effect yesterday, with 39C humidex (102.2F) - record-breaking, sweltering and bittersweet, a last hurrah worthy of remembering.

Friday, October 05, 2007

Detox

And speaking of addiction...

When it comes to books, I have a small problem. Teeny, really. Hardly worth mentioning.

I like to have a stash.

The knitters among you will know what I mean. That jittering anxiety in the back of your mind that someday, there could be a yarn shortage and therefore, you have to get while the getting’s good, oftentimes leading to a yarn stash of monumental proportions or, as the esteemed Harlot calls it, SABLE - Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy. I’ve got that with books.

It all started reasonably enough, but then, it always does, doesn’t it? I was given a perfectly reasonable number of credits as an introduction to Audible. Ken gave them to me. I think he may have meant well, wanting to give me back the books I’d lost when my neck couldn’t handle the regular way of reading anymore, unaware that he had just given me a gateway drug.

I’ve continued to purchase a perfectly reasonable amount of credits once a year – a Platinum membership’s pretty sweet deal: 24 credits for what works out to be about $10 a credit (not bad, when many of the books cost $20 or more). If used judiciously, these credits can last an entire year. I have a ritual. At the beginning of every month, I sit down at my desk with a cup of tea and look through my wish list (which, in the past three years of being a member of Audible has accumulated a mere 400 titles, most Must Reads, some just Potentials). It takes a while to narrow down the candidates for the short list, researching, checking review, thinking of what will suit me best and finally, with great satisfaction, I choose two. Perfectly restrained. Perfectly controlled. There would be no stash if this was the only way I got my books. It’s not. It’s the sales that get me - the bastards at Audible keeps having completely irresistible sales and… well. I have a stash.

I mentioned that I'd had a problem related to the trilogy His Dark materials, when after reading the first book in the series, I absolutely had to read the next two and – gasp! - used credits even though it wasn't the first of the month. Having broken my ordinarily very disciplined approach to book acquisition, I snapped completely and after a thoroughly wanton episode over which I will draw a gauzy curtain, as to not spread the contagion to the knitters on yarn diets (as I believe this loss of control may be contagious) and long, sordid story short, I have two (when I first thought of this post) one (and then I snapped before twisting myself into a pretzel of choice anxiety – after all, what book could possibly be special enough for The Last Credit?) no credits left and three months to go before I'm allowed to buy another 24 credit plan.

So, I’m on a book diet. Which is the nice word for it. Really? I’m in detox. It’s time for some stash diving – which is far from a chore, I’ve got piles and piles of interesting books waiting for me, some of them half-read, and I think it’s time I finish a few before I add more. It seems that finishing things is a trend here in Toronto. Maybe it’s something in the water?

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

5 Years

Five years ago today, I quit smoking.

Well, to be honest, it was the second time I’d quit. Or the 187th, depending on your point of view.

The first time I quit, it lasted four years. I blame my sister - she started sneaking cigarettes when she was out and the smell of smoke on her clothes when she came home was more than I could handle. I know she's rolling her eyes right now, suggesting that perhaps I take responsibility for my own failings and I'm just kidding - my mother and I both tease her a lot about all the years way she nagged us to stop smoking and when we finally did, she started. With my present understanding of how deep my addiction is, I'm sure that I would have cracked eventually, but I cracked when I did because around the time my sister started smoking, someone broke my heart. I’d tried drinking, but feared barfing too much to really get into it and when the wretched feeling needed to drown itself in something, the scent of cigarette smoke did it. For a while, I just had a puff of one of her cigarettes, then I progressed to bumming one. Or two. And then ended up buying my own pack. “Just until I felt better”, y’unnerstand...

The second time I quit (many years later) was a very long process. All smokers know that smoking is bad for you – there’s this great quote in a book called Only Forward where our protagonist is told in that very sanctimonious way non-smokers have that smoking is bad for him and he goes off on a nice little rant. I’m paraphrasing because it's been a long time since I read it, but I believe it goes something like this: "it’s as if non-smokers believe that smokers only smoke because they don't know that it's bad for you and if they tell you, you will say, completely astonished, 'oh my God! Thank you so much for telling me! I'll stop right now' and never pick up another cigarette again". Brilliant, just brilliant. I’d been thinking about quitting for a very long time and even quit several times - lasting 14 hours, 19 hours, 21 hours, but always, I broke down. For months, I quit every night, only to start smoking again in the morning and while I repeated this agonizing process day in and day out, I did a lot of thinking about why I smoked, believing that there had to be something more to it then simply liking it (which I did. Very much). In the end, I did figure it out and then I quit. Cold turkey, using only willpower, quite possibly because I was phenomenally stupid/stubborn, refusing to use any cessation aids – if I’d done it before by willpower, then dammit, that’s how I’d do it again! (yes, I like doing things the hard way – why do you ask?)

The thing that helped me most as I made it through first the physical withdrawal and then the emotional one was something Ken said. He'd been struggling with the demon weed, as well, and once said something about dealing with the craving to smoke by telling himself that it was the addiction that wanted a cigarette, not him. Learning that the overwhelming, frightening, all-encompassing need that feels like your body and soul will break into a thousand pieces unless you smoke right now is not what you want. That what you want is buried deep underneath the mountain of need and if you can remember this, hold on to the knowledge that this is not you who’s speaking, it is the addiction roaring, screaming, blaring it through a bullhorn, making it hard to focus and listen to the new silent whisper underneath saying "you don't want to smoke anymore". This round of quitting was the first time I really understood why addicts go to meetings - I can't remember how many times I wished there was a Smokers Anonymous in my neighbourhood.

But quit I did and so far, have stayed quit. I regularly get all cocky and confident in my non-smoker status, forgetting about cigarettes, tobacco, the joy of making smoke rings and passing my quitting anniversary without realizing it and then something will remind me that it is still there. Every now and again, The Demon, as I call it, pops up again, whispering seductively. The last visit was a couple months ago, when I picked up a pack of cigarettes for a friend and opened it, just because I wanted to see what it felt like (in retrospect, this was clearly the demon working its evil ways). Taking off the cellophane, crinkling it in my hand, then pushing open the pack and letting loose that first whiff of tobacco felt so familiar. Then I took off the golden foil on the right side of the pack and lifted the neat row of dusky orange filters towards my nose, inhaling deeply, awakening something deep within, inhaling, then exhaling with a satisfaction I haven't felt in years. And then I gave it to my friend and actually backed up in a very much 'get Thee behind me, Satan' moment. So it's still there and I suspect that it will never be gone completely, that I will have to be careful for the rest of my life.

But so far, five years. It's a personal best.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Still Summer

Cat basking in the sun


Ripples and flip-flops


Mor, sprung, home and out in the neighbourhood


Sun shining through leaves (I'm going to miss that so much)


Selfportrait (that's my shadow, I was born n the Year of the Tiger... get it? Eh? Oh, I slay me...)


Have you ever seen a sky so blue?