It's been a weird few weeks. I've found my stride, and lost it again; hiked to the top to see what was on the other side, sat back down again. I don't really have a topic to write about, not because I don't have enough words but because I have too many. I'm brimming with feelings and thoughts, but most of them are inchoate and chaotic. So I'll try my best.

On the family front, I have... lots! The past month I've met some wonderful people. I've discovered things I merely guessed at, and also confirmed some things I knew. And... confirming them is different than merely knowing them. So I'm trying to go slowly there, which is not my strong suit -- I am a jump all-in, do-it-now person, but these are deep waters. I don't know what lies underneath. It could be beautiful gardens of sea-life, or rocky shoals. It's probably both. So I am wading out slowly. Those who know me well will understand how very hard it is for me to do this slowly.

And, weirdly, I'm dealing with some unexpected sadness too. I was prepared for indifference or rejection; I wasn't prepared for acceptance and love. So I'm having a strange reaction that I can only describe as delayed grief. I've felt this before. When I learned that HIV is no longer a death sentence, I had a good long cry about my uncles--Donald, and Robert. They were amazing men, delightful and kind and funny and so, so young. They died before their time, time they should have had, and I grieved all over again--this breakthrough that will save so many came too late to save them.

This is almost like that: the feeling that there were people who I could have known, who would have been family, but who I am too late to meet and now never will. Before, they were abstractions, possibilities. Now they have names, faces, photos, memories and stories. But these are books that have no more chapters, and will never get sequels I can share in now (not even a thing I expected to want).

Not only did my biodad die about 5 years ago--and, he may have known about me, at least that I existed, which feels strange too--but it also turns out that I had another half-sister on my maternal side. And she was a force of nature. Brilliant, complicated, large in every sense. An immense whirlwind of a woman. She died a few years ago, and I was not prepared for the feeling of lost possibilities. It's kinda spun me.

 So I'm trying to just wrap my head around all this. This horrible cold, wet spring isn't helping -- it felt, for awhile, like I could dive into summer and the heat would burn away the remaining cobwebs of my midlife crisis. But no, I have to actually get through it the normal way: overthinking it, feeling weird, spending too much money on ridiculous things (the latest indulgence: renfaire dresses, because what's a wet spring without mead and a turkey leg?) and trying on ideas and futures until I eventually just get used to whatever the new normal is.

And for now, that's probably enough.

I've always struggled with sleep, ever since I was a kid. Sometimes I can't get to sleep. I managed to overcome, more or less, my sleep-procrastination, but I can count on one night a month of just absolutely shitty brain-loops, lasting all night.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, a solid few hours into a good quality snooze, just to lie there and curse the darkness. And sometimes, my brain's latest party trick, I wake up just a few hours too early, for no reason that I can discern.

And that wouldn't be so bad -- lots of people in the middle-ages did biphasic sleep and manged to be OK, aside from having to live in the middle ages. But my brain loves keeping me awake, too. Sometimes it's a total asshole and decides it'll do this by counting the number of hours of sleep I could still, theoretically, get. If I just went to sleep right now. Or... now!

I guess 6 hours is Ok? How about now?

... well, maybe NOW I can make it through on 5 hours.

Or four.

I guess.

Used to be that I used this to my advantage; I lived in a chronic state of jet lag and my ADHD brain actually seemed to perform better when I was slowed down by tau toxins. But much like how everybody in an above-average driver, people always think they are more functional than they are when they're short on sleep... so it's possible I just really liked airports.

But now, there's no exciting new city to explore while stoned out of my mind on young airplane scotch and stiff-necked redeye fatigue. Now, being tired is just ...tiring. I'd like to not feel this way, for a change.
 

The adoption paperwork my parents got came with a single photo: a baby in diapers, sitting at a piano. And some brief descriptions:

• Mother: ***. Blonde hair, 5.2" 120lb, hairdresser.
• Father: John. Brown hair, 5.7" 160lbs, unknown.

Yeahhh: don't tell teenaged me this, but ...I was always destined to be short.

I've said before, and it's still true, that I was never really looking to get in contact with bio-parents -- my own parents, bless our many misunderstandings and troubles, our shared tragedies and fuckedupednesses, our difficulties and scars... whatever else we went through, they have always been enough.

But there was something more in the document.

• Family background: Mother is a twin. Has another daughter, 5 years older.

Whenever anyone asked me if I thought of finding my biological parents, I'd always say no... but.

But. I had a half-sister, I would say. And I would like to find her some day.

A few weeks ago I reached out to the folks that had the closest DNA match. They had a woman with the name I had in their family, with the same spelling -- but, she wasn't a twin. And she died many years ago. They responded kindly, and were willing to entertain the idea that I was oopsed into existence by their clan, but... the timing just didn't work for there to be a maternal connection. Hmm.

I had also reached out to the other side of the family, but hadn't had any luck. Crickets, unread messages, nada. But. I had my courage up from the success of my first contact, so I decided to try again. This time I reached out to some different cousins. And... one responded! So we chatted.

She guessed that I could be the daughter of one of her twin aunts... one of whom disappeared in the mid-80s. But, she said, I definitely have the family smile. Ok! It's something. Not quite a dead-end, but more mystery. But damn. I've have quite a lot of that  -- even the newspaper in the town I was born in was no help. It got acquired a year before I was born, and sold the year after -- those two years are the only years without records.

Maybe I'll just never know.

She gamely messaged her cousin to find a DOB I could use to help track down some info. I'm pretty good at research by now, at finding digital clues and records. But perhaps, I thought, I'd be better off just setting this aside for another while.

Instead... she asked me to hold on. And relayed a response. From the other twin's daughter.

"She's my baby sister."

"I have been searching my whole life for her."

And Reader ...we have the exact same smile.

The power has been out for about 10 hours now, and I'll be honest: usually I LOVE power outages. When I was a kid they were magical. And, if they happened over dinner we'd get to drive somewhere and eat fast food!

And then go home and light candles. And FEEL FANCY.

BECAUSE CANDLES ARE FANCY!

But here, in literal paradise, I kinda hate power outages. They're cold. And I worry that the house will fall down and explode, or the other way around. And they make me hate the rich. Er, well, the specific rich.

Because our neighbours -- nice people, you know, as people - are very very wealthy. And they're wealthy in a "literally living in a castle!" way. And their castle is 6,500 sqft, which takes 400A service to make go. And when things stop going, a 25kW generator starts up. Which is... not so nice.

And it has been going. And going. It's been going since 10:00am.

Back before we replaced the single-paned windows this thing was unbearable. Impossible to sleep through, incredibly oppressive. Now that we have multiple panes, it's merely a constant, grating, unrelenting noise. As if someone outside has been mowing the lawn. Without breaks. At 105dB. For ten hours.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRRRRRRRR

So instead of a majestic storm, hurling the forces of nature directly at my face as I sit behind glass, warm in blankets and sipping a camp-stove-heated tea, I'm... in the middle of an industrial hellscape.

A rave would be more restful, and at least I'd get cool glowsticks.

Just before I was about to scale their ridiculously large hedge beside their ridiculously large house, and take an axe to their ridiculously loud generator... the power came back on.

Thank you, BC Hydro. You rock. And even rock is better than the sound of that generator.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go sit in utter silence with all the lights off.

I have this sneaking suspicion that things are really hard for everyone right now.

We all seem, as a world, collectively off our games. Things are... weird.

"Reopen" but not. Putting on our formal clothes again, but they don't fit anymore.

We, humanity, *changed* the last few years. Together, and very very apart. We are all greyer and more tired, and things are not how they used to be. And neither are we.

We gave space and grace for awhile that was honestly rather lovely. Sure there were vocal dissenters and a lot of stupid decisions, but we all had our Crisis Hats on. Tactical mode engaged: live through this.

For my part... I was already way ahead of the world going into this. Three years ago when mom died after a horrible and complicated decline, and I saw my dad through detox centre after detox centre. Then I broke a leg, and then I packed up 50 years of my parents stuff and sold their house... in March 2020.

Burned out, I changed jobs; Dad married the first woman who would return his calls, while I said "fuck this" to Vancouver altogether. And I put off a lot of grieving by turning inward. Now...

The world has no more grace in it.

And this pandemic? I don't know about you, but it has *aged me.* And so many others. We all made changes, deliberately or accidentally, in that liminal time of "lockdown", whatever that meant for us. Now the land is reforming in ways that don't feel right anymore, under our feet as we walk out into a new day.

It is OK to be off-kilter.

Forgive yourself.

A lot.

The best advice I got when my mom died was from my old boss: she said, "be gentle with yourself." And I hung on to that phrase like a life preserver. Because it is a thing I am specifically terrible at, but it is the most important advice to hear.

We are grieving our lives as they were before, the world we hoped would emerge, the millions of people we left behind in the old one. And a future that doesn't seem quite so full of possibilities or solutions as it did going in as coming out.

I think a lot of us were on autopilot ...and now we know that nobody is steering.

It's a lot.

Be gentle with yourselves.

So the US's headlong flight into Christian evangelical fundamentalism continues apace, and I'm not sure what I can say about it that everyone hasn't already said. I have no unique insights, no special rage--just... the usual kind.

Unfortunately the arc of history... isn't. There is no teleology to it; society doesn't move "towards" "better" anything. There's just fights for and against competing ideas and interests. And these are never won--just stalemated. Rivers of ideology are not rerouted, only dammed. Any system, just or unjust, can be undermined with enough erosion, enough neglect, and enough pressure.

The biggest vulnerability in democracy is that people who disagree about the inherent humanity of others always have the upper hand. They have no boundaries or standards about carrying out politics in a way that respects the fundamental dignity of the people they disagree with--because they don't believe humanity is a thing that exists inherently. Their own, sure. But yours and mine? Not really.

Not that long ago I'd have argued that it's more complicated than that. But I'm tired of the illusion of evenhanded grace, and I don't believe any caveats about how there are good people on both sides--bullshit. There aren't sides in any sort of equivalency. You can't support policies that lead to oppression, poverty, inequality and injustice and get any sort of pass just because some other policy matters more to you than that. If it does, you're not being a good person.

I had something else to say, I'm sure of it, but I think I've said enough for tonight.

The biggest industry conference of our year happened last week and it was, unfortunately, a minor super-spreader event. One in three folks who went seem to have COVID now, and colleagues and customers are showing up on meetings all sweaty-faced and wheezing (WHY. NO. NOT ZOOM, BED. GO TO BED).

So despite some general FOMO I'm glad I didn't go, but that doesn't mean the 'rona isn't here too; a number of friends are also down with unexplained unwellness, and it feels like we've just totally given up on trying, as a society, to not spread this thing around. Despite the totally unknown long-term effects. So, sigh. I hate this. Feel better, y'all.

In less plaguey news about bodies, some terrifying 23andme results popped into my inbox last week in the form of a very close cousin match. Originally I was curious in general about my ancestry (the answer: Irish, Scottish, English, and Inbred), but was more about the health results than actually finding relatives. But it was fascinating to see how the various genetic matches lined up, so I spend many hours happily playing what I called the "relatives game." Using some sharp research chops and very cool tech I'd narrowed it down to a great-grandparent on each side.

And that was fun as an academic problem because 1. my ancestors had nothing better to do than have hundreds of children, apparently?, and 2. they were all cousins. So what should be a tree looks rather more like a large box hedge, and I was very reluctant to call up a bunch of strangers and be like "I have really fat upper arms: EXPLAIN YOURSELVES" without being really sure who -- specifically -- they were.

I was pretty sure, though.

Well... now I'm very sure.

But still. I wasn't sure about reaching out. To be fair I'm just conflicted about family in general -- I grew up in a very small one that was not what you might call "happy," for various tragic and complicated reasons, so although in finest consultant fashion I understand the theory of family, I also know that a lot depends on the implementation details. I just didn't want to throw a wrench into anyone else's just for my own curiosity, without really understanding the implications.

But I also know that life is short, and you never get enough time to ask all the questions you want to ask. So... I asked. Now, to see if I get an answer.

Today I wandered around the garden appreciating the burgeoning springiness of it all. I spent a good hour just being thoroughly bemused by... like... plants and shit.

And there was literally shit: we got some great 50/50 from the local topsoil place, and it has been growing nutty morels in the shade and what are becoming shockingly large rose bushes in the sun. And it was great.

Gardening is a weird hobby. I've heard it described as "slow-motion art." Nothing happens right away; plans you laid a year, two years ago, take shape and turn into slow, unfolding, gently changing living sculpture.

And I can happily spend hours just wandering around the garden thinking, and planning; imagining vaguely what might work where, and doing random undirected poking. Pick a weed, pull some dead stuff, prune a thing, tie back a drooper, relocate a flagstone, dig a hole... all in a bemused fugue state that is both relaxing and weirdly exhausting.

The great thing about a garden is that plants don't mind. They are slow. They like my unfocussed futzing, just a bit here and a bit there -- eventually all the small inputs add up. Nothing is ever urgent, though everything has a season. But as long as my random walks are random enough, I can get enough done to keep things growing.

And that's kinda how I've directed my life, too. I've been able to build an incredible career out of being a generalist. I bury myself in shit until I have enough raw fertilizer for my brain, and then once things start happening, I randomly tend my thought-gardens until good things grow. (And the occasional weed.)

It's felt like this winter I've been buried by a haze of meetings; this week I got to spend some solid hours making progress on focus tasks that I've been planning for ages. And, like all things spring lying dormant in the ground, all it really took was a bit of poking and fussing; suddenly things once dormant are shouldering their way out, shrugging off the dirt, and threatening to bloom.

I haven't decided if I'm going to post daily, weekly, or whenever-I-feel-like-it yet. "As the mood strikes" is probably a bad strategy, considering the months-delayed email replies I still owe people... (ahem. sorry people.)

So for now, I'm taking advantage of all the stored-up Not Social Media Exhaustion to let my fingers do the talking.

The thing is, I'm super out of practice remembering what to write about. I have a few great ideas throughout the day of topics, things worth pondering on, generally interesting concepts that might be worth pontificating about... and then they're gone.

Because my brain is wired to TWEET THAT SHIT OUT. And then I don't have to remember what I was thinking.

Genius!

Externalizing large parts of my ADHD brain was wonderful, but maybe it was a bit of a bad idea. Seems I've trained my already-shady short-term memory to be even shadier, because I no longer need to pin my ideas to something to come back to it later.

Oops.

Writing long- (well, medium-) form is a practice. And I'm way out of practice. SO, uh, trust me, today's post was gonna be a corker. Probably.

I wrote my first post yesterday, just before news of Musk buying Twitter hit the shitfan. And damn. The fans are many, and they are all full of shit.

This, in short, fucking sucks.

Twitter has been an important part of my life for well over a decade now. I've made friends, enemies, frenemies, and shitposts. I've had Richard Dawkins and Adam Baldwin sic their millions of followers on me via RT. I've had deep and passionate conversations with world experts and world idiots. I've been brigaded by faceless tolls and made life-long friends. I've had my snarky BC Ferries tweets quoted by the evening news, and I've changed at least three minds about something important. I've blocked and been blocked, and never once became the main character.

And now... an edgelord who got lucky has decided that his investment in fake followers and his ability to stir shit for pump and dump schemes is more important than a community that was lurching its way towards some semblance of useful as a town square, so that he can turn it into a town dump.

Oh, well.

This too, all good things, and so on. I'm glad I got to enjoy the ride - get in early, and get off before the music stops.