Spring in the Winter

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On January 19, I woke up at 7am to find the campsite enshrouded in fog so thick I couldn’t see Burger’s or Yann’s tents in the distance. It was much too chilly to leave my tent, so after putting on a fleece jacket and activating a fresh pair of hand warmers to put inside my sleeping bag, I tightened the drawstring around the hood, leaving only my nose poking out. I stayed in my warm cocoon for another two hours before emerging from the tent to find that the fog had dissipated. The boys were up and around, boiling water on camp stoves for their coffee.

“Sleeping Beauty,” remarked Burger.

I’m glad he and Yann didn’t end up scraping my frozen corpse off the tent platform at Montague Harbour Provincial Park. I’d survived my first ever winter camping trip.

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Ridiculously Assiduous

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False Spring has arrived! The weather forecast through Tuesday looks so promising that my plan to go on an overnight cycling trip tomorrow night has been met with encouragement rather than bafflement from those I’ve shared it with. This won’t be a repeat of October’s Hell of the South Island ride, as Yann, Burger, and I are expected to reach the campsite well before dark.

My adventures in 2026 continue to be a series of anomalies. Today, I combined two uncharacteristic activities: ice skating and interacting with the local deaf community. I was more successful with the former, accomplishing about 30 laps around what looked like a giant planter box. When I first saw the ice rink, I got excited about the strip of ice that stuck out of the circular rink, thinking it’d join up with a second, larger rink–the adult rink. But, no, that strip led to the Zamboni garage. This rinky-dink ice rink was about 1/3 the size of a standard ice rink and teeming with deaf kids pushing around skating aids. Barely big enough to wow anyone with my mediocre ice skating skills. Even though I didn’t “find my people”, I didn’t regret going.

Even on the mainland, where there’s a much larger community of like-eared folks, my childfree status has kept me from re-integrating in the deaf community to which I once belonged. I’m also not quite old enough to get amped for Bingo nights with the deaf empty nesters. Maybe in 2046?

I have committed to attending a Heated Rivalry-themed party in March with one of my favourite deaf people, Zoée. It’s not a deaf event, but a dance party at a queer bar! I think I’ll dress like Scott Hunter when he tried to go art shopping incognito.

“Where’s all the heteronormative art at?”

That reminds me, I haven’t yet shared the screen print I did over the holidays.

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Icy hot.

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I’ve had some luck with solutions presenting themselves after I’ve complained about something on my blog.

Case in point:

There will be no DIY calendar this year. My 2026 Aurora Borealis calendar ensures I can focus on steaming my hams to perfection.

My first road run in Victoria was a success and didn’t result in a route that resembled a white power symbol. Despite that, I’ve chosen to keep my runs private on Strava for now. I’d rather be sure it’s an activity I can commit to doing with some semblance of regularity. Love me for my mind, not my ridiculous lactate threshold.

In the same vein, I wasn’t about to declare myself a fan of Heated Rivalry after the first episode.

(It is about to get hot in here.)

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Assload of asses.

~ Lkvy ~ 1 Comment

It’s not a good year for calendars.

2022 was the year of Peter Glazebrook.

2023’s calendar was a Where’s Waldo knockoff.

Moons were the star in 2024.

2025 featured axolotls.

December’s axolotl still adorns the wall next to the fridge. A week into 2026, I walked into Russel Books, expecting to buy a calendar at half price, just like I had the previous year, only to learn that the procrastinator’s discount had turned into a BOGO deal. When the cashier explained that I could grab a second calendar for “free”, I declined on the basis that I wasn’t leading a double life and begrudgingly paid full price for 12 large pictures of axolotls. This calendar turned out to be a dud. Instead of the weekend sandwiching the weekdays as usual, both weekends appeared as the last two columns, resulting in a year of showing up for appointments a day early and premature birthday greetings.

This year, Russel’s selection was limited to dog breeds and the works of Gustav Klimt, all at full price. BOGO was no go.

Whatever. I have a printer: there’s no need to limit myself to just one breed of dog for a whole year. I could transform every weekday into a Saturday or Sunday, which has become my reality as an unemployed person, not that I haven’t been keeping busy with personal projects, reading lists, and fitness ambitions.

The aspect of my life that has suffered the most during this sabbatical has been my social life. So, when Zoée left to be with her other chosen family on the 27th, I scrambled to make plans with the few folks I knew who hadn’t skipped town for the holidays, including my actual family.

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A run gone foul.

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I’m opening this post with another seagull picture. It was refreshing to observe a kid who hasn’t lost a sense of awe towards the natural world. I was also tickled, as was the seagull, by the kid’s excellent fashion sense.

So, you like seagulls, kid? Wait until one of them steals your breaded oyster burger or shits on you, both of which I’ve experienced.

Life’s full of disappointments, and seagulls are one of them.

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