And I know where the flowers is

These past few weeks, Vancouver has been experiencing what they are now calling an “atmospheric river.”  Why the euphemistic language?  It’s a MONSOON.  It’s an ENERGY-DEPLETING RAINSTORM.  This is a temperate urban rainforest; meteorologists don’t need to start mollycoddling our feelings with fancy-pants lingo.  We know what’s up.  Look at that picture: I even have the de rigueur Arc’Teryx rain jacket that local citizens must wear in order to officially, perhaps even proudly, demonstrate that they have acquired the civic uniform.  I obtained mine through questionable means–look, that very plain thing retails for almost $800, though I promise you, I did not risk everything just to stupidly shoplift something so bland and not even that effective–but I have one nonetheless, and when I wear it, suddenly my status as a Vancouver native is solidified.  This goes through my head (RIP John Mann) every time I zip it on.  When I walk around and that thin little rain shell is on me, I swear to God this immediately starts playing on some invisible P.A. system around the city.

While I am more than accustomed to the rain here–I tend to love it in reasonable doses, actually–it’s been an exhausting time.  Not quite the eight months of downpour and winter weather we had from September 2021 to June 2022, but a very dense, concentrated experience consisting of drops the size of bedroom slippers, winds that turned my carefully-brushed hair into a tangled ball of yarn, some thunder (which we never get, and which kicks ass), accompanying lightning, a few moments of hail, some flashes of sun, and then right back to rain again.  And all of this cycling over the span of one hour, every hour, every day. It was too much.  I walk a LOT–during my commute, my breaks, and in general–so every day consisted of making sure I was wearing at least three layers of clothing, and that I had sunglasses and an umbrella and Kleenex and gloves and a hat in my bag, as well as promising myself I wasn’t going to have some kind of unexpected outburst in public due to the frustration of it all.  No wonder my last post found me fairly grumpy, although I still do attribute a lot of that to this book-writing goal I have taken upon myself.  However, trying to write one’s first manuscript while dealing with mood swings thanks to barometric pressure and God playing a solo game of Messin’ With The Pacific Passives meant that last week, in particular, found me frowning a lot.  

And that won’t do.  Who needs a triangle of sadness?

I came home on Friday evening after a depressing pop-in to The Bay, which is actually liquidating, and which I don’t really want to write too much about right now.  It was warm and bright when I walked in; half an hour later, once I left, the sky was charcoal-coloured and the rain was coming down in a slant thanks to the gusts.  I just went home and decided that staying inside for all of Saturday would be a splendid way to spend my time.  Enough was enough.

Today, Sunday, a dear one and I decided to meet up and venture out to do some stuff, and I promise you, the entire city had suddenly burst into spring overnight.  I came home on Friday with Vancouver still very much in winter mode; I walked out of my apartment today and everything was suddenly as it should be.  Nine days after the official equinox, certainly, but better a few days later than never.

The Sakuras, which usually don’t make their brief-but-magical appearance until around April, said “Okee doke, kids.  We’ll give you a surprise party.”  This street was not like this on Friday. IT WAS NOT.

Everyone loves spring.  If you don’t, you’re as savage as an Australian.  I say this not because they are terrible people–in fact, Masterchef Australia and My Kitchen Rules are two of my favourite reality cooking shows, and the contestants show themselves time and time again to be gregarious, warm, friendly, funny, and generally great folks–but because their national dish is roast lamb.  Really, Aussies?  A beautiful little baby animal shoved into a magma-hot oven is your national dish?  

Savage, I say.  I guess when penal colonies formed the basis for a great deal of your country, this is just unavoidable, the way my Doukhobor ancestry dictates that I will always think about ways to voluntarily suffer and struggle and martyr myself despite there being absolutely no need to do so in almost any situation.    

Anyway, it goes like this for me: Spring > Autumn > Winter > Summer.  Yes, summer is dead last.  Summer is good for about two weeks on my end of things, and then all I want to do is, well, suffer and struggle and martyr myself.  I have been known to deal with the oppression and stickiness of Vancouver summers (which are getting hotter and more intolerable by the year) by going down the hill to Sunset Beach, and performing some ritualistic self-abuse by eschewing sunscreen altogether and grilling myself beneath the rays of our life-giver and crazy-maker, Sun.  Kind of like if I were in Australia and I were a little lamb, except I’m doing it to myself.

Bright, breathtaking, gorgeous, crimson-hued petals tumbling from a flower bush.  Was it like this on Friday?  I’m going to say I doubt it.  

Suddenly, I didn’t need to be dressed up for winter, as I so clearly was in the header pic; in fact, I was far too warm in my getup today.  There were people sitting around on park benches, eyes closed, faces tilted up to absorb the Vitamin D and warmth from our merciless flaming sphere.  A handful of guys were wearing shorts and T-shirts, but guys will dress like that anyway regardless of the weather conditions.  What did Tennyson say?  “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”  I’m sure that’s true, but I also think this is accurate 365 days a year.  You can also substitute “love” with any number of crude nouns, and they would apply very well, too.

…and it’s not just young men, Lord Alfred.  Vancouver has been in a rut of monk-like sterility for the past long while.  Today, when spring at last flailed around the Lower Mainland like some kind of epileptic marlin, everyone had a glint in their eyes that meant our collective climatological chastity belts could, at last, be unlocked.

I’m telling you, this just happened over the course of a weekend.  It’s a whim-wham miracle!

It was such a glorious day, and my skyrocketing serotonin found me walking about 17,000 steps (in heavy Doc Martens) and even smiling at babies, toddlers, and little kids who were out with their parents, something I don’t ever do.  It isn’t that I dislike kids, it’s just that…okay, I kind of dislike kids.  My nephews and nieces notwithstanding, of course, because they are fabulous.  I’m not a fan of little kids, and if you want to ruin a movie for me, throw some child actors in there.  Just do that if you really want me to make roguish, sarcastic, annoyed comments about their “acting” and their precociousness and their obviously-groomed-by-stage-parents insufferable thespian ways.  

But!  Today?  Today, every child was a child of the great universe.  And so I smiled upon them.  

I could hear Mother Nature softly humming this tune of sweet nirvana as I gazed upon the newly-birthed blooms of March.   

A most delightful and happy spring to you, world.  My book is going to be a smashing success, I will never use the word “hate” again, I will wish great peace and wellness to every junkie criminal in Vancouver, I will give myself daily reminders that every moment is a blessed gift, and I vow to always celebrate the splendour of existence by reciting celebratory verse as often as possible.  From Hamlet, if I may:

What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!

how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how

express and admirable! in action how like an angel!

in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the

world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,

what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not

me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling

you seem to say so.

…wait a minute.  I forgot this speech was all about losing joy and how the wonder of human beings is meaningless.  Dammit, Billy S, I haven’t thought about that one since English 12.  Let’s try again, shall we?  Take it away, Gord Gano:

When I’m out walking

I strut my stuff

And I’m so strung out

I’m high as a kite

I just might

Stop to check you out

Let me go on

Like I blister in the sun

Let me go on

Big hands, I know you’re the one

Body and beats

I stain my sheets

I don’t even know why

My girlfriend, she’s at the end

She is starting to cry

Let me go on

Like I blister in the sun

Let me go on

Big hands, I know you’re the one

That’s more like it.

Sproingin’,

Nadya.