A tethered and taunted bull, made madder by the ineffective picas the picadors have launched, is about to be let loose in the country. He will stomp and trash everything in his way and then will try to move beyond his own pasture to attack his neighbours. Still worse, he has coalesced a herd of steer, bulls with no balls, to facilitate his marauding. Blind to nuances of colour he sees only red. No reasoning or rational voice will stop the onslaught of the destruction and chaos he will effect. Where is the brave matador who will pierce his heart?

It has a name – Hamas, a face – Terror, and a date of birth – October 7, 2023.
Evil came bursting through Hell’s gates and flooded the land of milk and honey with blood and offal. Jihad versus Chai perversely glorifying death instead of sanctifying life. That day Hell was born on earth, joyful innocence and blind trust were casualties. Love has become pain, anger reigns, and hate is rampant. The one emotion struggling to survive is Hope. Hope that innocents, if not innocence, will be returned and the hope that now exposed, evil will die in the light.

I hadn’t seen my best-friend-wannabe in years and then one August afternoon she was walking toward me on Queen Street. Was it really her? The brilliant sunshine was unkind to her. As she approached I noticed the mutations that time has wrought. An exhausted face with rings around eyes that have lost their luster. Her throat has thickened as has the rest of her. Her physique is a collection of body parts that don’t fit together. Short legs, long arms, small flat buttocks below wide hips. My stomach knots as she gets closer. Will she stop? Who will she see?

Calendar pages flip over in fast motion as if being blown by a gust of wind, a trick used in old films, to indicate that we are no longer where we were a minute ago. No kidding! I have just regained my bearings from a spring and summer fraught with bad news; fires, floods and death, only to see that the trees in Forest Hills have begun to put on their autumn show. Next thing I know it’ll be the dead of winter and soon a new year on the calendar. It didn’t go so fast when I was younger.

Daylight has come just as it always does. Today it’s filtered through murky grey skies. An omen for the year to come? Trepidation and hope vie for dominance. Today, the beginning of something new springs hope that all will be well. Today, the dark skies create uneasiness and hope retreats. Today, in a changed world, dare we speculate on how it might be changed for the better? And so, it continues, up and down, even as we try to will away the memory of the roller coaster ride that was 2024 and conjure a new, more benign ride this year.

How is it that as the clock winds down, the years remaining seem to speed up and the prospects for completing bucket-lists become slimmer? Not that I’m a bucket-list person. I’m more of a see-what’s-around-the-corner-and-take-advantage-of-whatever-it-is type. There is no prospect of globe-trotting, horseback riding, sailing or romance around the corner. Instead there is space and time for writing, painting, and learning. As for thrills, there is still driving fast. Speeding around corners is no longer in anticipation of adventure, but for the enjoyment of how well I can hug them. And still, you never know what curves lie in wait.