War. Yes, a wise and thoughtful solution to the world’s problems, bombing the shit out of each other. Go team human. Nightmare image: the orange blowhole at the mike crowing about bombs, behind him the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Hegseth, Rubio, and worst of all, Vance. There are three people on earth whose faces I confess have a violent impulse to punch: our @#$@# lying premier Ford, Stephen Harper, and J.D. Vance. Our poor planet.
As of now, apparently a ceasefire is holding. Go team human. Sigh.
Moving right along, because there’s nothing I can do about that. First, my own good news: the results of my various health tests show that so far, my insides are A-OK. So lucky! Whatever’s wrong isn’t what I feared, so we’ll cope. Among other things, there’s painful osteoarthritis of the right thumb, which I can’t bend and makes opening wine bottles difficult. The doctor suggests starting the day with hand stretches. Can do.
We’re in a heat wave, 33 feeling like 43, brutal outside. My new AC works well downstairs, but upstairs is a steam bath. And yet yesterday, for the first time in years, I ran really well in class at the Y. Art remarked, “You’re full of beans today,” and I replied, “I know! And I don’t know why.” Full of beans during the heat wave makes no sense. And yet, I was.
This week’s treat: on Sunday Annie and I went to a matinée at Tarragon Theatre of After the Rain, with music by Suzie Wilde and book by Rose Napoli. Clever Rose took my course at U of T and was my social media assistant for a while. Suzie’s mother Nancy White is one of my oldest friends; we toured for 3 months in a Young People’s Theatre show in 1971, a way to get to know someone really well. It was wonderful to meet up with her there yesterday. “Do you know the Yiddish word kvelling?” I asked her. She did, and she was, watching her older daughter on stage; her younger, Maddie, is also a musician. The show is fabulous with, I’m sure, a great future. It’s off next to the NAC in Ottawa, but I hope Mirvish is on the case; I sense another huge hit. It was wonderful to celebrate the success of these young women. Brava to everyone involved.
Another treat: a telephone talk with Michelle, who knew my childhood friend Penny during the last two years of her life; the important story of our friendship, begun in 1961, is outlined in the essay Secret under Articles. Talking with Michelle felt like solving a puzzle, helping to close another chapter. Penny told Michelle about her abusive childhood and that she was happily single after making poor choices of partners – making me feel less bad that I’d tried to warn her about one of them, leading to her cutting me off forever. Michelle told me Penny was an inspiration to her. Grateful to hear about a beloved friend from over sixty years ago.
Friday night, dinner with two more old and beloved friends, these from university — Suzette and Jessica, with their husbands, in Suzette’s elegant garden in the Annex. Much talk. The three of us are just the same as we were decades ago. We are also completely different.
We’re none of us good at selfies. I’m wearing a marinière from the Monoprix in Montpellier; Lynn has the same one.
And finally, I have at last finished Dad the Red, an essay I’ve had hanging around for years, about the FBI files on my father and our relationship. At least, I’ve finished this draft, #4,763. Inspired by Jean-Marc, who uses ChatGPT all the time, I explained to the chatbot what the essay is and asked where I should send it. In seconds, a list of valid suggestions, followed by a question – did I want it to write a cover letter? It did, but I will not use it. Apt but generic. Today I read an obituary in the Star that was obviously written by ChatGPT: the anodyne language, the clichés, the undeniable core of truth. Can you imagine, a chatbot writing your obituary? The final insult.
The roses are magnificent but because of the heat will be over too soon. I, however — if my health results are any indication — will not.
