It's not that I'm not thinking, it's just that I've hit the wall of inertia again. Why talk/write about it? Who cares?

I received another one of those soppy, blackmailing chain letters this morning, with all the fine sentiments suitable for stitching on a sampler. (No one knows what a sampler is; it was before my time, too.) But instead of giving me a warm, cosy feeling, the message made me even more aware of how alone I am. This one is in praise of sisters, that is, all women who are your sisters, better than husbands or children or family, women who stand by you. Yeah. Well. So.

Here I am. (And there you are, whoever you are.) My parents are dead, my husband is dead, my brother is dead. I never had a sister. My best friend died a dozen years ago but she had been remote as we lived in separate cities for 30-40 years. I have a couple of dear old friends dating from the time we were young mothers together in Winnipeg, 50-some years ago, and I try to get to B.C. to see them maybe every other year, if I'm lucky. I have moved too much. I've lost more friends than furniture, but even in my living room, the dearth shows. There used to be a style called Early-Married Baroque in newlyweds' homes, being an accumulation of used stuff from the parents. That was before living together before marriage, double incomes, and bridal registries. Couples of whatever persuasion have everything they need. Now what I have is Late-in-Life Remnants, what remains from a lifetime of loss and fill-the-gap purchases. Not complaining, Not. I love my present home and I hope I can stay a while. Furniture and friends are sparse but I'm still here.

Back to the chain letter. I'm supposed to send it on to my "sisters" and be prepared for lovely feedback. I don't know enough women to send it to.

You, out there. If you were closer I'd bring you some soup or muffins Pass it on.

EARTH HOUR. (Note the caps.) This is important.

I love looking out from my balcony when the city is as dark as it is possible for it to be. When I lived up north (near-north) for a while (16 years) I really enjoyed a power outage. I had my fireplace for warmth and cooking (I had a special grid on the andirons that enabled me to cook over the coals) and I had candles and kerosene lamps. If the power came on too soon, i.e. before the evening was over, I left the lights off because I was enjoying my cosy arrangements.

But this brief deprivation of light surely illuminates (meaning intended) Marshall McLuhan's statement that electric light is information. When people went to bed in the dark -- oh dear, here comes another tangent: Remember Robert Louis Stevenson's children's poem:

In winter I go to bed at night/And have to dress by candlelight./In summer it's just the other way/I have to go to bed by day....

So, unless you were like Thomas Jefferson, who invented a lovely writing chair with wide arms on both sides, each mounted with a candle-holder so that he could see to write well past dark - as I say - unless you were like him, you probably went to bed. I don't mean You, I mean, less ambitious, less literate people in that time who were content to dream. (That would be nice, actually.)

Anyway, those are thoughts that drift across my mind as I prepare for my #darkmoment, or whatever "they" are calling it this week in preparation. I think we should have a glass of wine and toast the darkness.

Hello darkness, my old friend.