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These are some of my Carl Larsson prints, in case they are too small to see.

At Home with Brigitte

My family left for a 2-week vacation and I find myself blessedly alone, mistress of the house.

First thing I do is clean and decorate. I need to live in a beautiful environment.



This is a "before" picture. After, the cats raided the vase, toppling it, drenching the floor and stealing away with a flower. I came, I saw, I conquered and put things right again. To get even, Elune threw my yet-untouched Tim Hortons coffee on the floor, drenching it a second time. I called her all kinds of sweet names.
I also did a laundry, careful to add plenty of softener because these days, for some reason, I could shave with what comes out of the wash. Of course, I did forget the actual detergent but I consider that a detail. Heh.

I went flea market hunting and here are my finds:

A lovely old fashion tureen (complete with cover and spoon - not shown)

Two delightful cups and saucers. Their size is just between a cup and a bowl, which I love for hot chocolate and such...

What is that paw? The only visible piece of Chinook...

No Ordinary Day at the Office

July 8th 2011 was the morning of the historical launch of the last shuttle mission ever, STS-135. My friend A. joined me to watch it on a big screen. After a nerve-wracking countdown stop at T-minus 31 seconds, Atlantis took off flawlessly. It was an exhilarating moment: the last launch of the shuttle era.

At noon, I got an email from my friend J.: “Picking you up at 1:00. We’re going to SkyVenture.” Oh? Oooooook. We’d been planning on going for 2 years but never found the time. Today was it! Rush home to change and prepare. SkyVenture is a wind tunnel that reproduces free fall conditions. In other words, you get to fly. Cool!!!!
It was my first time ever in a wind tunnel and I had a blast. If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d really enjoy doing that regularly. What the instructors can do when let loose in the tunnel is simply breathtaking. Gravity no longer exists. You have to see it.

As if this was not enough emotions for one day, J. and I then headed to nothing less than the U2 show at the especially set-up open-sky stadium on Montreal’s hyppodrome’s site. Eighty thousand people converged to the spot. It was a hot summer evening and I thought that should it rain a bit, it would be rather pleasant. Eighty thousand people in an cheerful and partying mode... it was a thrilling experience.

Photo: J. Hébert

I will skip on J. suddenly realising his memory card did not fit his brand new camera and our mad dash to find another memory card in time. One is never bored with J. We succeeded and the show was fantastic. Feeling the aluminum bleechers pulsing and waving under our feet like the deck of a boat on a rocky sea, 50 feet in the air, was also an experience. Several people had to leave because of that, either afraid or feeling sea sick.

Photo: J. Hébert

On the last note of the last encore, it started to rain lightly. What incredible timing! Then it rained harder. Within two minutes, the skies opened up and eighty thousand people suddenly found themselves scrambling under a torrential rain as heavy as India’s worst monsoon. We got soaked down to the bones in a matter of minutes, and the rain was cold and an icy wind swept over the site. Suddenly, people were freezing, teeth chattering, their skimpy summer outfits clinging miserably to their bodies, offering no protection whatsoever.

It was a surreal end to an extraordinary show. It was funny, it was crazy, it was freezing, and it never let down. Holding on tight to each other, J. and I walked back the mile to the car, our faces, hair and clothes completely drenched. “Watch out! There’s a puddle! Don’t get wet!” we would joke while walking ankle deep in the water on the street.

This, my friends, was my day, on July 8th, 2011.

Dead Woman Walking

Yesterday at the grocery store, I passed a dark-haired girl in her early 20's. She was slowly pushing a big, nearly empty grocery cart. In a slow voice, she was asking the young teenage boy accompanying her: “Which bread do you prefer?”

She was wearing a t-shirt and her stick-like arms displayed the unmistakable fuzz of advanced anorexia. Her thighs were approximately the size of a muscular man’s biceps, and as tiny as her jeans were, the complete absence of buttocks made them hang awkwardly. She was by far the most emaciated person I have ever seen with my own eyes.

What was she doing there, pretending to casually be buying food? She should have been on a hospital bed, being fed intravenously and closely supervised by a psychiatrist.

For some reason, her pretence at normalcy got to me. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to point to her cart and ask: “Who do you think you are fooling?” I wanted to tell her: “Do you really think you are fat right now? because you are a walking skeleton.” I wanted to tell her: “Eat. Just EAT or you will DIE.”

At her weight and degree of cachexia, vital organs, including the heart, can fail at any time with no warning. She’s a dead woman walking.

I know nothing of her story. Will she live? Will she die? I will never know either.

And if I sound harsh, it's the anger of helplessness.

Peace to You

Another weekend ended, and it was eventful, not in my quiet life but on the world scene. The massacre in Norway defies imagination. I find it hard to grasp that one man can kill 85 people, not blowing them up at once, but one by one, finishing off the wounded. Eighty-five people. I once had a dream, years ago, of myself lying down on the ground, and the bad guy just above me, pointing his gun. I remember the panic and utter despair in my mind, the knowledge of doom: “Nothing to do, nowhere to run, I am a second away from death, this is IT”. The dream was so clear and desperate I never forgot it. And now all I’m thinking is that it has just been experienced by dozens of people, just before their death, only they’re no longer there to tell us of the horror.

I read Hollywood gossip magazines, I brazenly admit it. It takes my mind off of things in a wonderful, harmless way. Three days ago, I read the latest weekly issue of Star/Systeme, a magazine from Quebec. It had an article titled: "Amy Winehouse Flirts With Death". The last sentence read: “If she doesn’t get a handle on things, doctors give her 3 months to live, which is very little considering she is only 27...” These magazines are always sensationalist. I read this THREE days ago. Then I turn on my computer and read “Amy Winehouse is dead”.

This my prayer, for the grief to abate at Morning Bray Farm, for the victims of Norway’s Timothy McVeigh and their loved ones, for a lost soul who checked out. Peace to you, alive or dead. Amen

Once in a while...

... you meet someone. It may be brief, but a bond is forged. Balto was not in my life for a long time. He was there for 10 days only. But he was probably the sweetest puppy I have yet met. I mean sweet as in quiet, obedient, calm, endearing, completely trusting. He was a darling and he exited my life just as suddenly as he came into it. He was adopted by what I believe will be a loving family. Goodbye sweet Balto, have a good, long, happy life.



This is not a dead cat. This is Chinook being hot.

A Midsummer Evening

Hot you say? Yes. I think 44 degrees Celsius qualify as hot. Disgusted, the cats are spread out on the floor, as floppy as they can be. The pool is so nice and warm that it actually barely refreshes the swimmer. The fans are working full time, full speed, full power, to little effect. But it still is a lovely summer evening... The only thing I could wish for would be fragrant roses. And a popsicle.

To cool off, here's a photograph from Jonah Gautier. Water, like sparkling diamonds...

In Summer Time

It was Marie’s post about a fog horn… so evocative a sound... that made me want to start writing again.

It is the height of the summer. There’s a certain feeling of... freedom in the air. Yesterday, I had lunch on a yacht club restaurant’s terrasse. The wind was wonderful. Although very thin, the layer of sand under my feet reminisced of other times, other places. It was hard to believe I was in Montreal. For a short while, it carried me away, back to where the sea breeze always blows, so many yacht clubs, so many restaurants lined with sand... Bob Marley was unforgivably missing. I ate the cherry from my glass of a mediocre sangria.



“I used to know a Honduran parrot, I said suddenly, that just LOVED those maraschino cherries.”
My table cracked up. Because of my past experiences, I often have these really out of nowhere, off the wall anecdotes. My table cheerfully admitted nobody else had a Honduran parrot among their acquaintances. Heh.
But it’s true. His name was Paco. He loved cherries, and when in a really good mood, he’d keep repeating, in an creepy, ghostlike voice: “Goo awaaaayyyyyyyy”.

Today, we are forewarned of a tremendous heat wave. I shall be in my air conditioned office, then in my air conditioned gym, then in my pool. So I’m not too worried. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get some of these violent summer thunderstorms I love so.

I’ve still to tell you about the dog. About July 8th. Many things have been happening. It will come.