You’ve got to dance like there’s nobody watching. Except it turns out that somebody’s always watching. That guy, right over there. Hiding so you couldn’t see him. And he’s laughing at you because you were dancing. Laughing like a maniac.

You’ve got to bury the body like there’s nobody watching.


It’s All About Me

Whenever I’m the first person on my block to get my garbage can out to the curb on garbage day, my first thought is that I’ve somehow lost track of what day it is.

My second thought is that the reason I’ve lost track of the day is because I’m living in some Philip K. Dick dystopia where time and reality are folding in around me under the direction of alien intelligences that have singled me out for scrutiny and contact.

My third thought is, “No, wait; I see another can out at the end of the block."


Sleep Well

Sitting in bed with laptop. Lights are out. Black cat decides to walk up and put her head over the laptop screen to see what’s shaking. Only because she’s black, I don’t see her approach. I’m thus aware only of the sudden appearance of her nose and whiskers as they descend over the top of the screen, creating the image of some kind of spindle-legged Lovecraftian spider-creature six freaking inches across.

Gonna sleep well tonight.



We scattered my dad’s ashes today, and as part of the not-really-a-service-but-just-a-few-friends-and-family-gathering, I told a shorter version of the following story. My dad loved to tell stories about himself, a number of which were actually entirely true. This was one he didn’t tell often, though, because I suspect the reliving of it was as disquieting for him as it still is for me.

One of my very first memories comes from when I nearly died when I was four years old, and my dad saved my life. On the quiet suburban cul-de-sac where we lived at the time, a new house was under construction about four lots down from us. And because in those crazy, halcyon days when parents could get away with just letting their kids wander around the neighborhood unchaperoned, myself and a bunch of other equally young neighborhood kids were wandering around this under-construction house late in the afternoon that the concrete floor for the ground-level basement was poured, and after the work crew had cleared out for the day. Because they had just poured a concrete floor and left it to set overnight, the crew in question had been very careful to close off the still-under-construction doorways into the space — even as they neglected to do anything more than cross-slap a couple of pieces of wood across the open ground-level window frames.

As it happened, the spaces in between those boards across the windows were just about the right size for a small child to slip through. I’m pretty sure you see where this is going.

I remember being the first one through the window and onto the new basement floor. I made it about fifteen feet from the window, though I don’t remember now whether they’d poured the front floor already or whether there were boards or some other surface laid down to cover my first steps. I just remember that about fifteen feet from the window, I sunk up to my four-year-old shins in wet concrete.

The other kids behind me panicked and bolted. I was alone suddenly, and I couldn’t move.

I don’t know how long I was there. My memory tells me it was hours of trying and failing to pull my legs out of slowly setting concrete and not being strong enough to do so. I remember falling, more than once, and clawing my way back upright, covered in cement. I remember crying, I remember screaming, but there was no one around to hear me. I learned only later that the kids I was with were so scared of what had happened — and so young as to not fully understand what was going on — that they hadn’t actually told anybody. And I learned later as well that when my dad came home from work, he and my mom figured out pretty quickly that I wasn’t anywhere I should have been, and he came looking for me at a run.

I remember the sun was going down, the basement almost dark. I remember having fallen for the last time, so exhausted that I couldn’t stand anymore, too tired to call out. I remember the sensation of being face-first in concrete and unable to move, encased in a surface layer of wet cement from head to foot.

I remember seeing my dad tear his way through the cross-boarded window and across the darkening basement toward me, the last light of the sun behind him. I remember him picking me up and pulling me free. I’m pretty sure my shoes got left behind.

I remember I fell asleep/passed out as he carried me home.

That’s not the only story I can tell about my dad, but it’s the first one. That’s a memory I’ve been carrying with me since I was four years old, and which I’ll hopefully carry for a few more years yet.

I’m not a religious person. I don’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t believe that my dad and I will ever see each other again in any physical or metaphysical sense. But I believe in a connection between life and memory, and I believe that the people whose lives intersect with ours in meaningful ways live in our memories in a way beyond mere impression.

I believe that life is a continuum of memory and emotion. I believe that the reflection of each person we love becomes a part of us by virtue of the memories those people make in us. As we seize those memories, we draw a part of their lives inside our own. And in the same way, the people who love us draw off a part of us in the form of their own memories, and those memories of us contain the memories of all the people we loved, and in that endless connection is an immortality that binds us all.


Who’s Counting?

So my dad died last week, comfortably and peacefully, and after a relatively quick downturn in his health following a few years of slowing down and finally showing his age. That age was either 82 or 83, depending on who you ask, and there’s an odd story behind that which I’ll share here:

When my dad was fifteen, he lied about his age so he could get his driver’s license and go to work running logging trucks on Vancouver Island. As a result, his year of birth wound up being entered incorrectly (1932 instead of 1933) into a number of government databases. That was never a problem until he got notification that he was set to receive his old age pension a year early, and his lawyer advising him that the government would cheerfully sue him for fraud if he collected. That in turn resulted in him and me (but mostly me) having to do a whole ton of running around tracking down his original hospital birth records to get the information corrected before the RCMP kicked down his door. Good times.

My dad accomplished a lot of other things in his life, but “lying about your age so you can drive a logging truck at fifteen" sums him up pretty nicely in its own way. I’m not sure I’ve done anything in my life quite that cool, but I’ll keep working at it.