We Are All Broken

It's early on a fresh Thursday morning; after a hot few days, there was a violent ten-minute downpour last night, and it's cooled down a lot. Miraculously nothing was destroyed in the garden, including the fragile bean plants. I've had several salads from my lush lettuce, tho' that's all from the garden so far.

I dreamed last night about going back to the Y, the first Covid dream that I remember. I was nervous and kept asking people if I should wear a mask or not. But it was the showers I wanted most, being relaxed and naked in a room full of other naked women standing under hot water. Without masks.

Maybe time for me to do a bit of exercise. I dread finding out how much muscle I've lost. But then - there's been a lot of strenuous cleaning. That counts.

However, good news: the contract for the book is done. Tomorrow I'm going to meet the publisher to talk about cover and interior images. After months searching for the right title, it was suggested by Judy; it's a chapter title, a quote from Vanier, but also a famous saying. And the subtitle, after more flailing, came to me at 4 a.m. the night before last. TA DA:

We Are All Broken:

losing myself in theatre
finding myself at L'Arche

a memoir

Order your copies today!

And the apartment is nearly done; pictures went up on the walls yesterday and more repairs. John told me his bill, for stuff he has bought for me and for his time, will be $1000. Makes me wince, but worth every penny.

So after extreme stress for months, two issues are resolved simultaneously. Of course, I have to get the book out and into the hands of readers, an uphill task, and I have to find a nice quiet person to live downstairs. But we're on our way.

Last night I watched another Hot Docs doc - There's No Place like This Place Anyplace, a wistful elegy to Honest Ed's and Mirvish Village on Markham St., a whole city block sold to a developer and torn down. Ed's was a vital resource for low-income people, and the Village housed many artists and galleries, bookstores, centres. Gone, though there will be some affordable housing and green space. I lived just below the Village on Markham Street in 1973-74, in a second-floor room with a kitchen shared with friends. When I was leaving for B.C., we had a farewell dinner party in the backyard, eating around a pingpong table lit with candles stuck in wine bottles. I was 23. Sigh.

I also watched John Oliver rage about the police: systemic, acceptable, even encouraged racism going back more than a century, a shocking story. Today my daughter is helping to organize an anti-racism protest at her kids' school, and I will be there. I know, people say we're all distancing and then we're gathering in the hundreds or even thousands at protests, it doesn't make sense. But I will be there. In a mask. Fully clothed.

Yesterday at 5, a walk with Monique instead of an aperitif: here's a Purple Robe Black Locust in the tranquil Necropolis. Beauty.