Sarah Kennedy writes about grief and distraction for Film Stories:

Grief makes you more vulnerable and that’s frightening, but in that there’s a strength; something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend a decade ago. I can empathise with my favourite characters better now, and enjoy their stories with a whole new, sometimes painful, perspective. That means I can empathise with you better too. And hopefully treat you with the kindness you deserve. Let’s sit here together. We don’t have to talk. What do you want to watch?

From James’ Coffee Blog:

I am intrigued by the IndieWeb’s approach to plurality and building technologies that don’t serve the creation of monocultures or single ways of thinking about things. IndieWeb technologies help build plug-and-play social bridges. The technologies are your pipes. You get to decide how they connect and what you make with those pipes. This idea excites me to a great degree.

In that paragraph they neatly encapsulate much of what I have loved about web culture, both as it applies to the code and the coders.

The tulips in the front garden at 100 Prince Street are earlier this year. And they are stunning.

This Saturday, May 14th, 2022 the G’Ma Circle of Charlottetown Fabric and Yarn Plus Sale will be held at Spring Park United Church Hall, 65 Kirkwood Drive from 9:00 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Fabric, yarn, jewellery, quilting squares, needlework kits, knitting needles, crochet hooks, books and patterns, notions, etc. Individual prices & by bag (yours or ours) starting at $10 per bag.

Proceeds support African Grandmothers raising grandchildren orphaned by HIV/AIDS via the Stephen Lewis Foundation.

When Catherine died in 2020 she left a studio filled with fabric, yarn, thread, fleece, and all manner of tools and notions. With the cooperation of the estimable Sharon Reesor, I was able, mid-COVID, to arrange to donate most of it to this sale, so you’ll find many strands of her there this weekend.

Catherine was so deeply engaged with the needle arts: they connected her to a rich past; she used them to communicate progressive messages. It would give her great solace to know that the stuff of her studio will live on in new hands to make new things.

Please be generous with your support of this initiative.

Little Black Dress is a delightful and progressive clothing store, and has newly opened a shop in Charlottetown on Great George Street. Please go and shop there.

The only fly in the ointment is their sign: simple, solid, and after my own heart, but for a botched kerning job.

It was a year ago today that my darling Olivia came out as a trans-woman. I am so proud of her for boldly finding her way to her true self.

Over the last year she has continued to explore the nooks and crannies of her gender identity and expression; it has not always been easy, especially when she’s struggled to communicate her finely-tuned self-regard to others in a way that does it justice.

In parallel she’s made great leaps and bounds toward independence, self-confidence, and self-determination. And she’s continued to confront her grief over her mother’s death.

She is an estimable young woman; I love her dearly, and am in awe of who she’s becoming.

Three of our motley crew went riding at Venture Stables yesterday. (Young) L’s friend S. came out with us and took photos, including this one, admittedly a little blurry, of me and Jack.

She happens to have captured me with my eyes up, my heels (mostly) down, and my hands in a (pretty) good position.

I have developed a great fondness for Jack; I’ve been riding him since the fall—more than six months now—and we have a developed a good rhythm together.

Cycling home on a crisp May night.

I’ve just left improv class where, among other things, I created the character of Roberta, an aging skateboarder with six children named Doug and an inadequate grasp of mathematics. We were a small group tonight, just three of us. On occasion it’s nice to have a small group, and tonight we gelled well.

The temperature for the ride home was just warm enough that I didn’t have to stick my hands in my pockets. The high from improv, combined with the freedom afforded by deserted streets, made cycling feel like ballet.

One of us three was new, moved here from Toronto just last month. I’ve asked her if she’d met Leo Cheverie yet. She hadn’t. But she’d already met Lobie Daughton, so she’s circling in more quickly than most.

My other character was an 80 year old actor with a gravelly voice and a soft spot for Frank, Sammy, and Dean. I loved her; she’d had quite a life.

To be successful at improv you need to believe. In the teacup you’re holding. In your skateboarding defeat at the 1972 Olympics. That the beer coaster you’re holding really is a leg razor. Or a makeup mirror. Or a mystery novel.

Riding home up Dorchester Street in the 9:45 p.m. stillness, thinking back to my day spent raking leaves, talking about the summer, having a Zoom call with the team in India, solving a problem with the Moon, visiting St. Peters Harbour, getting a hug, and another, having gifted lentil soup for supper, making silly, I am happy.

That too requires belief.

The laundry is done. The dishwasher is running. Olivia is asleep. It’s 11:33 p.m. and I’m about to turn off the light.

Mental illness, attention deficit disorder, and suffering, from Mark Dominus:

I understand that for some people it really is a disorder, that they have no desire to justify or celebrate or honor their attention deficit. For those people the term “attention deficit disorder” might be a good one. Not for me. I have a weird thing in my brain that makes it work differently from the way most other people’s brains do. In many ways it works less well. I lose hats and forget doctor appointments. But that is not a mental illness. Most people aren’t as good at math as I am; that’s not a mental illness either. People have different brains.

(Via Leah Neukirchen)

Thelma writes a loving elegy for her father on what would have been his 100th birthday.