Day 434: Catch 22 Catch-up

Oh, these days that I am living. They are full of so much richness and my not blogging them might be robbing them a tiny bit of the appreciation of that. Rather than recounting (simply because it is not currently a daily practice) the packed list of blessings  I am living every day, part of my mind is enticed away to dance with the challenges, the insecurities, the uncertainties, clouding my perception. And so much (some would say ALL) of what we experience is our perception of things, so this is important. 

This book cooked my head

Some of my reticence is because some of it is 'personal'. It's involved with another person I respect very much and it doesn't feel like public business. Not that I shouldn't write it - I should - but perhaps that it shouldn't be published and read by said person without being said first. Sometimes I only realise things in the writing of them (another reason this practice is so vital to my wellbeing) so there's a tiny Catch 22, but only a very get-roundable one. I can still write this as freely in an offline blog (as I did for the Australian trip last summer) and choose later whether and what to publish. 

Some of it is that I don't blog daily right now. My late nights are not free for such things and my second option, early mornings, aren't either. And then during the days, even though they're not all fully productive, I feel that the things I have to do, plan to do, want to do should take precedence. Often, they do. When the yearning to blog becomes too pressing, when it takes up too much of my non-blogging mind, I need to give in and give it some time. 

Today, the silliest thing made me ache to write and that was a man with the surname 'Meatyard'. It gave me so much pleasure. In an act that served no purpose except the pleasure of writing it, I scrawled the word on a napkin. There was a satisfaction in that, whether or not there will be a result. 

This concept nagged at me on Saturday when, after a long, hot and enjoyable bike ride to the almost-tip of the island (Montreal is an island! This is something I was ignorant of before coming, despite having been here before), we went to the zoo. And not just any zoo. This was Montreal's Ecozoo. This place doesn't purchase animals, it inherits them. They're all orphaned, injured or born in captivity. Many of them have 'something wrong' with them. It was a runtfest. Every single one we saw was fascinating. It was a tiny zoo. I've never ever had the pleasure of spending such a long time with each of the animals. 

Incredulous owl

There were the two surprised owls, which delighted both of us. They both had their mouths open. Little-mouthed awe. Owl surprise. They were brilliant! One, the pretty white one, had just one wing. It wasn't until our third visit to them that I noticed this, when the other one did some boasty flying and she (I decided the white one was a she) tried her best to do some too. The second thing we saw was a sleepy arctic fox with one blue eye and one brown one (like David Bowie, though I hope this one didnt' get punched in the face for the privilege). That was very pleasing too, the owl and fox combination. This fox was cute and young (or so he looked) and unbearably sleepy in the heat. That was a bit of a theme, in fact, but it was at least 25 degrees centigrade in the sun. Felt like more. He raised his head a few times, though. His ears were small. That's a breed thing, not an age thing, but it made him look more teddybear-like. And oh, the bears!

Fat, hot, cute

Three big black bears loping and wobbling in an enclosure. For a long time they paced and bumped down near the entrance to their inside space, cooking in their coats in the bearing heat, quite a way off, until one treated us to a full display of resting bearness, right in the face. First he lurched up to the water feature and took a drink from the streamy bit. Next, he lumbered up to a rock right in front of us and sat, paws crossed in front of him, left leg stretched out to the side. He sat there for a long time. We sat there too, looking at him. We exchanged. It was ace. 

I had a whole conversation with an anxious turkey. He paced back and forth making high-pitched quizzicals, sounding indignant and curious at the same time. They're unfortunate things really, aren't they. They have ballsish protuberances all over their neck and a kind of scrotal quality to their face, especially given the alternately slack and stand-uppy penile thing that hangs off the top of their head. Eternal auto-teabaggers, turkeys. Poor bastards. 

Fascinating ugly

This one was moreish, though. He had a sense of urgency, like he was trying really hard to communicate something very, very important. The poultry version of Flipper, maybe. Perhaps there was a bank robbery to prevent, a child stuck down a well to rescue or some terrible miscarriage of justice that would play itself out in the most damaging of ways unless, if only, unless we'd listen to what he was trying to tell us! Instead, I cooed and whined and squawked back at him, made my neck all long like he was, laughed at him (apologies, helpful hero turkey) and had the whole thing videoed. This is what's going to turn up on the news as one of those 'the moment things could have been different' clips. If only we'd listened!

Sweetie? Till she kills you!

But the wolves, the wolves, they took us away from all that turkey drama. All status and languorous sun-yawning, they were. The bigger of the two had a solid stare that could make you know the value of your life as it came to a very likely end, no time to shout for help before your throat was ripped clear of your body between his teeth, had there not been high enclosure walls and electric fences. The other wolf (wolf queen?) did very little, seemed lower in status than the big one, the mover. I couldn't work out quite why. The position of her ears? Her deference? Or was my whole reading of the situation merely to do with the heat?

Blur your eyes a tiny bit: OTTER BONNET!

And finally (not really finally - there were so many more) there were the otters. I love otters. How can you not? They are sleek and long bodied. They look river-kissed and rivuletted on the banks, all wet fur and whiskers. In the water, they are twisty, turny joy machines. They swim like it was all about the sensation. They are a watery 'wheeeeeee!' They slip into the water and slew themselves through it. They do spirals as they swim, pushing off rocks and walls and glass windows. They're liquid trapeze artists doing turns. They may not really be smiling - animal faces can look that way even when they might be about bite off your face - but there is definite glee and enjoyment going on when those creatures swim. 

Ottery pettery

And as I, here, ponder my purpose, my value in the world, my inherent worth or not to be here doing, I watch all these creatures being and I am full of awe. They do just what they are here to do - to bask, cluck, swim sleekly or lumber around. 


I love Rob Grundel. I love that he sends me things like this to brighten up my day. And I love the idea of this game, ten school friends still playing tag across years and continents, and the commitment, scheming and playfulness it entails. Sounds like living in a Road Runner cartoon where everyone is simultaneously Road Runner and Wiley Coyote. 

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/apr/20/played-tag-23-years-experience

He also sent me this. As much joy again, perfectly timed, perfectly ridiculous. Thanks, Rob.

http://www.tomgauld.com/index.php?/shop/tough-times-print/
It's Tom Gauld, that. Check him out. Buy some stuff. He rocks.