I could’ve been at the concert. I ended up not going for a variety of reasons.

Still. I could’ve been there.

“Keep up the pace! You can do it!”

I have no idea who he was, but I appreciate the humour.

When I was in University, there was a girl I knew that had a book called 10,000 Dreams Interpreted*. She pointed one out to me, and it became my favourite dream ever:

To see a horse in human flesh, descending on a hammock through the air, and as it nears your house is metamorphosed into a man, and he approaches your door and throws something at you which seems to be rubber but turns into great bees, denotes miscarriage of hopes and useless endeavors to regain lost valuables. To see animals in human flesh, signifies great advancement to the dreamer, and new friends will be made by modest wearing of well-earned honors. If the human flesh appears diseased or freckled, the miscarriage of well-laid plans is denoted.

– source

Little did I know — until today — that that book was first published in 1901, and that dream’s been haunting peoples’ minds ever since then.

____

* Or something to that effect. Come on, this was 15+ years ago. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering where I put the cordless phone ten minutes ago.**

** Until it rings.

I saw him on Wednesday, and he looked fine, if a little thin. Now he’s gone, and I still can’t quite believe it.

Slow down.

As you can’t help but know, you almost hit me. Notice how your brakes didn’t do the slightest thing to slow your headlong travel? That’s because it’s winter here, with snow at the intersections, and fresh snow everywhere. These things impede friction, which cars need in order to stop.

You should be thanking God—as I am—that there was no traffic in the lane I had to pull into to avoid getting smashed by you. Even if you’re an atheist you should be thanking God. Also you should be thankful that you didn’t hit the minivan behind me either.

You should be thankful that I didn’t get your license plate number. I was too busy veering out of my lane, and then after that I was in an adrenaline haze, and then after that I was shaky and just wanted to get home. If I’d gotten your plate number, I’d be on the phone to the police right now. I kind of hope the people in the van got it, but I doubt it.

I hope, too, that you wet your pants, and drove home in a puddle of cooling piss. Not very Christmassy, but then neither were the names I called you, either.

If you’re feeling remorseful about how you nearly ran me down today, I have the solution: Go to the police station. Ideally have someone else drive you, since evidently you have no clear idea what you’re doing. Hand over your driver’s license, and tell them you won’t be needing it anymore, at least for a few years. Get a bus pass. Sell your car.

There’s no excuse. Winter didn’t just start today. Even if you’re new to this country, or even this part of this country, you’ve had a few weeks to practice your winter driving. The STOP sign was clearly marked. The speed limit is well below how fast you were going.

Well, I guess I’m done shouting into the wind. I hope you learned something from this. If not, I hope I never, in all my life, encounter you again.

Thanks for not killing me, no matter how hard you tried.

My last remaining grandmother died last week. It was fast; she went in her sleep the night after she’d been admitted to the hospital.

I delivered the eulogy, presented here in edited form:

Ladies, gentlemen, friends, and family:

We gather here today to mourn the loss of my Gramma, Jeanne Johanneson, but more importantly, we gather to celebrate her life.

Jeanne Olwen Gilliam was born March 24th, 19XX. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised by her aunt, Inez Kingdom, in Tenby, Pembrokeshire, Wales.

During her nurse’s training, Gramma met George Johanneson, a soldier who had been wounded during the Second World War. They were married in Sussex, England, and moved to Canada, where they lived.

(If you don’t mind, from here on out, I’m going to call them Gramma and Grampa — I don’t recall ever calling them Jeanne or George in my life.)

Gramma was an avid gardener. Mom was always impressed by–not to say a little envious of–her flowerbeds, especially her roses. I remember one year when Gramma grew a rose in such a dark purple shade it might as well have been black.

She always seemed have a pet, too. At least one. She was partial to Siamese cats for reasons I don’t think I’ll ever understand — they seemed to like her, but I never got anything from them but grief. She was also fond of Welsh Corgis — the Queen’s dogs. I remember her little dog Taffy, playing endlessly with that slobbery ball of his. I also remember Rex, the first dog of hers that I can recall.

Gramma loved her British humour — Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, Benny Hill, all the old classics. My sisters and I shared this enjoyment, though my dad doesn’t. My sisters and I would sometimes joke that maybe that particular gene skipped a generation.

A lot of my memories of Gramma centre on the Christmas season. I remember Gramma’s trifle — such a delicious dessert that I eventually learned to make my own — and what we refer to as Gramma tarts, which I’m informed are really “maid-of-honour tarts”, and the ham she’d cook. I remember the Christmas lights she had, the ones with water in them that would bubble once they’d got hot enough.

Gramma was a fan of the Royal Family, too. Sometimes it seemed like half the decorations in her house were green Wedgwood; half of what remained seemed dedicated to Queen Elizabeth and her family.

I still have the big black-and-yellow wool blanket that she bought in Wales for me when I was just a wee one. It’s great, and so-o-o-o warm.

Jeanne Johanneson has gone on ahead of us, at the age of XX. She will be missed. She will always be loved.

Friday we got invited out to a “black tie” martini party at Lady of the Lake. I got gussied up in a suit, K put on her new Little Black Dress, and we ventured forth with X and X (no, I’m not kidding, I know two people whose initials are X, and they were both in the back seat of my car on Friday night). Live music by Poor Boy Roger, a local blues/swing band, dancing, martinis of all descriptions (including one with a chocolate-covered espresso bean at the bottom like a prize), and delicious appetizers. It was a hoot.

Saturday we ran into The City so I could take part in the U of M’s weekend judo class. An hour of warmup left me sweating profusely — I thought I was going to die during the handball game — and then I was shown the first two sets of ju-no-kata, along with some help finding the kata’s narrative, which helps. I also had one of the senseis drop a pearl of wisdom in my ear that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since: “All throws in judo come from sumi-otoshi or uki-otoshi.”

Sunday: off to MacG for family fun times with T, A, and their new boy B. Having a cold, I felt it was unwise to hold the baby, so K ended up with my turn. Not that she complained one whit.

Tonight: Watched a cow-orker’s copy of The Fall, which was a fantastic movie, in all senses of the word. It was visually stunning, well-shot, it captivated my attention, and it provided an interesting look at the process of creating a story. It was also a moving drama, and brimful of fine actors in fine roles.

And then, tonight as well, I submitted two more stories to magazines: “After the Missile Rain”, a <1k “flash” piece, to Flash Fiction Online, and “Neither Bang nor Whimper”, 2700 words that I wrote in under 24 hours for a contest, to Fantasy Magazine. Wish me luck!

And with that: good night.