From Indie Magonomics, written by Kai Brach, just arrived in the post from Heftwerk in Berlin, a reminder that printing in colour isn’t expensive because ink is expensive, it’s expensive because of everything else.

I’ve printed thousands of pieces from the same can of black ink that I’ve been using for a decade; I rarely use more than a dollop per job. The setting of the type, the makeready, the setting of the type for a second colour, the cleanup: those are the things that take time and thus add expense.

I look forward to the arrival of the Dense Discovery email newsletter each week.

I am particularly fond of the subject line of this week’s issue:

Unrecognisable casualties of the growth cult

Although it was a reference to a notion in the editor’s letter about software, it’s a notion that has general application, and harkens back to a public meeting I was at many years ago, where the architect of a prominent Charlottetown megalomaniac developer stood up and, in support of his client’s development, exhorted that the city must “develop or die.” That is the mission statement for the growth cult, and it’s something we’re all wrapped up in, at our peril.

We are all of us unrecognisable casualties of the growth cult,

We hosted the monthly Pen Night in our back yard tonight, our first non-Zoom meeting since February.

I wanted to make sure we did it right, so I got out the measuring tape and ensured that there was 6 feet between each chair.

It turns out that 6 feet apart is a lot more apart than I thought; if I hadn’t measured, I likely would have placed the chairs 3 or 4 feet apart, in error.

Makes me realize the people in the grocery store are a lot closer than 6 feet apart a lot of the time.

One of the curious psychological effects of grief is that I am moved to accomplish household tasks that were either long-uncompleted or which I would have actively opposed while Catherine was alive. Hence, patio umbrella; a little bit in each column.

Kudos to brother Mike for remote guidance, and to my mother for the inspiration.

I have become a huge Phoebe Bridgers fanboy. She released a new album yesterday, Punisher. I love it.

When the speed kicks in
I go to the store for nothing
And walk right by
The house where you lived with Snow White
I wonder if she ever thought
The storybook tiles on the roof were too much
But from the window, it’s not a bad show
If your favorite thing’s Dianetics or stucco

I celebrated Catherine’s 30th, 40th, and 50th birthdays with her; today would have been her 57th.

Her 30th was momentous: we were young and wild and free, and had landed on Prince Edward Island just a few months earlier. I have little recollection of what we did that day, other than that it was warm and sunny and we were very very happy.

Her 40th went sideways: she was in a funk, Oliver (age 2) and I tried our best to make it epic, but failed. 

Her 50th was much better: we booked a table at The Dunes, about which I wrote, in part:

By way of celebrating Catherine’s birthday we headed out to The Dunes for supper midweek and had what turned out to be an excellent meal. The highlight was an appetizer they call “The Grazing,” which was, as it turned out, almost enough to feed all three of us for the night: sausage, olives, spiced almonds, salad, roasted onion jam, fresh bread and more. It was the kind of dish that makes Catherine swoon, so, only by coincidence and not by plan, the perfect dish to celebrate her birthday.

I remember that meal like it was yesterday.

There were, of course, other birthdays in there: I celebrated 28 of them with her, maybe 29 if you factor in the birthday going on next door while I was but her shy next-door neighbour in Peterborough. I wrote here about her birthday in 2006, 2010, and 2016. Because late June was often time to travel, more than a few of them were celebrated while en route to some exotic foreign locale; in 2014–The Last Great Summer–we were en route to Germany for our caravanning vacation, and that wasn’t the only time that happened. To the point where, just now, as I write this, I received a text from Oliver:

Catherine was never averse to aging, and generally greeted her birthday with enthusiasm, but she never wanted to be the centre of attention, and there was a standing order, from the time we first met, that there should be No Surprise Parties. I followed that order strictly, and tried to work magic, as best I could, in other ways.

Tonight Oliver and I will go to Richard’s for fish & chips, and will think of her. By happenstance I had a grief support group meeting this afternoon, and halfway through, talking about “what rituals will you uphold?”, I realized that every single time we’d ever been to Richard’s as a family, I’d go and get a table with Oliver, and Catherine would order. Tonight I will have to order.

Later in the evening we’ll gather with family on Zoom to remember Catherine–it’s one of a punishing cavalcade of family Zooms that Oliver has arranged for this week of memorializations.

I answer the question “how are you and Oliver doing?” a lot these days. “We’re okay,” I generally reply. And, most of the time, that’s honest: it’s been five months and two days since Catherine died, and we’re slowly starting to find our sea legs. I am not sad all the time (but I am sad some of the time). We made it through the worst of the lockdown together and emerged unscathed. We planted a tomato and some peppers. We’re about to plant some patchouli in Catherine’s honour. We eat. We sleep. We do the laundry. Some nights I look over at the rocking chair and am surprised to not see Catherine there, and some nights the loneliness reaches out to bite me something fierce. But most nights I’m okay. I’ve learned a lot about grief, most notably that it’s largely indescribable in words, and that it’s different from being sad (which is why it’s not simply called “the sadness”). 

I’m starting to tentatively hold out hope that maybe 2014 was not, in fact, The Last Great Summer. Tentatively.

Wherever this June 18th finds you, please take a moment to raise a glass to Catherine, who is, no doubt, sitting on a stool at God’s microbrewery, enjoying tapas, and wondering why we’re making such a fuss about her.

It’s Bike Week in Charlottetown. In our case this is about celebrating cycling, not celebrating motorcycling as it is to the south (I once called a cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee to inquire about a rental; “you know that’s Bike Week, right?” they asked, as though I should know that was a week to avoid if seeking a quiet family vacation on the lake).

Among other things, you will find:

• an #IBikeCharlotetown billboard on the Confederation Trail near the Charlottetown Farmers’ Market where you can take a selfie in front of a whimsical fox (see below),
• the Charlottetown Cycling Handbook, a remarkably well-designed and useful primer on cycling in the city,
• an updated version of the Bike Map, showing cycle routes through the city, businesses that offer cyclists discounts, places where you can park your bicycle.

Tomorrow, June 19, 2020, is “Bike to Work Day” in the city; while in my case my commute, being 25 seconds across the street, does not lend itself to cycling, many others might consider leaving the car at home and discovering that cycling to work is not only feasible, but also kind of fun.

Cycle on.

A verse from Rufus Wainwright’s You Ain’t Big (emphasis mine):

You ain’t big if you’re little in Texas
Don’t know who are who you are unless you made it in Lawrence, Kansas
Wait a minute, Lawrence, Kansas
Doesn’t really matter at all

A verse from Options Open by Kathleen Edwards (emphasis mine):

I love you so much, everything
You do, you say, you speak, you wear, it just works for me
But I blame it on the weekly flyer
That took me down to Crappy Tire
‘Cause you were smiling when I looked up
I guess we’ll always have a parking lot

A verse from Can I Be Your Friend by Chevy Mustang ft. Evan Rachel Wood (emphasis mine):

Oh I see that you are
Oh wow… oh my
You’re actually Evan Rachel Wood
Wow, nice to meet you
Can I be your friend?
Oh I see that you’re from Fresno
Can I be your friend?
(I Evan Rachel would love to)
Oh I see that you have new shoes
Can I be your friend? (haha they’re adidas, shell toes)
Oh I see that you’re a guru
Can I be your friend?

These three songs played, one after the other, in my Spotify earlier this week.

You get me Spotify, you really get me.

I found myself this morning in the odd position of dancing, Career Opportunities-style¹, through the aisles of Sobeys, to the song Spiracles, by the German duo COMA. I challenge you to put it in your earbuds and not do likewise.

It’s a good track.

1. Okay, not quite like Career Opportunities.