The open road - redux

Who's gonna drive you home?
Somewhere on the 401 Eastbound, October 2009

I've been focusing on the road a lot lately (link), likely because it's a place that circumstance dictates we'll be quite familiar with in the months and years to come. Unless we move back to Montreal (not likely...roots don't unroot easily) we'll be covering the 401 and related highways to keep close to family and friends. There are some things, after all, that webcams and headsets just can't do. Like give hugs. Or receive them.

When we hit the road, my retentive-driver ethos compels me to be behind the wheel. But when my wife drives, I often take the camera out and play with it until one of the following things happens:

1. I get nauseous beyond belief (reading or focusing on small objects in a moving car + Carmi = one bad combo)
2. She gets annoyed beyond belief (I do that to her. And to everyone else around me, apparently.)

But in the smidgen of time that I have, I sometimes take something that isn't blurred, washed out or otherwise so technically maligned that not even my own mother would lie and say she likes it.

This picture, unspectacular as it is, puts me in a place I don't want to be, a place we'll have to occupy for some time, a place - if you can call something so transient a place - that for some can be an adventure, but for others is merely lonely and sad.

I like to look at pictures I've taken because they often bring me right back to what I was feeling when I took them. It doesn't matter whether that feeling is sunny or grey - it's a journey all the same. And I'm always happy to take it as long as I've got my family around me. On this day, as much as I didn't want to be on this road, I was comforted that I wasn't alone.

Your turn: The (open) road too often traveled. Please discuss.

One more thing: Those leaves appeared on the dashboard just before we left for Montreal, a gift for my wife from the kids. I kept them there for the entire journey, a reminder that life is precious.

Let's kill all the drunk drivers

Hope you liked the hyperbolic headline. I'm only half-kidding.

Please read this story, from today's Toronto Star, then return. I'll wait. In case you're busy, here's a quick synopsis: A 21-year-old at the wheel of a BMW plowed into a minivan, killing three and sending two others to hospital. Police suspect the driver was drinking. Reports have the BMW doing 200 km/h (120 miles/hour) in the moments leading up to the crash. Note: this wasn't on a highway. It was on a city street, at the corner of Finch and Tobermory.

Said driver had been investigated for earlier drinking and driving-related offenses, but police have not released his name, or the details of those earlier cases. As happens so often in cases like this, the suspected drunk driver suffered minor injuries.

Something in my head snapped when I read this. If this moron is convicted - which any justice system worth its salt will hopefully manage to accomplish - then I pray he spends the rest of his life behind bars. It isn't justice, of course, but it's high time we got serious about drinking-related crimes. Where to start: Zero tolerance, punishment that means something, no remorse.

Enough.

Your turn: Thoughts?

Productivity suite

Open office
Laval, QC, August 2009

Call me antisocial, but I don't write well in the company of others. It gets even worse when we're away from home and I don't have my usual quiet places to go. When you're sleeping on a futon and pulling jammies out of a suitcase on the floor, the environment just isn't conducive to heads-down creativity.

So when we were visiting the mishpacha (family) a couple of months back - a lifetime, in retrospect - I found myself with stuff that needed to get done. So I headed down to the little marina nearby and became at one with nature. I was out of WiFi range, so I had no Internet. Working off of battery meant I had a finite amount of time to get it done before the laptop ran out of juice.

This strange little strategy of mine seemed to do the trick. Although the occasional early morning dogwalker meandered on by, the headphones in my ears convinced them that today wasn't a good day to play 20 Questions. Similarly, while on any other day the sight of ducks paddling back and forth in between the boats would draw me in, this time out I simply kept my head down and wrote. The ducks would be there later. For now, I had a deadline.

In the end, I wrote some lovely articles, which I saved to my BlackBerry and e-mailed to their respective faraway places before bundling everything under my arm and heading back inside for breakfast.

On this particular morning, I learned that sometimes you can indeed have your cake and eat it, too. The ducks would doubtless agree.

Your turn: The appeal of being beside bodies of water. Please discuss.

The open road

Traces
Laval, QC, August 2009 [Click photo to enlarge]

My son and I had come to this spot in the middle of a small bridge over a small tributary of the mighty Riviere-des-prairies, in the shadow of my parents' and in-laws' building. It was the peak night of the Perseids meteor shower. Zach had never seen a meteor shower before, so we figured we had nothing to lose as we headed outside and looked for the widest visible swath of sky.

That was easier said than done, of course, thanks to the thick canopy of trees that smothered the night sky. So as we wandered from one spot to another and finally settled on the bridge as a workable compromise, neither one of us had any great expectations that we'd see anything.

So we were very pleasantly surprised - nay, make that somewhat freaked out - when a bright flash streaked across the sky barely a minute after we settled in on the sidewalk. We looked at each other, stunned, before coming to our senses and doing a high five followed by a happy dance. I'm sure passing motorists and pedestrians thought we were out of our minds, but we didn't care: this was cool stuff.

We sat back and waited for more meteors to appear. The rusted steel railing dug into our backs as we craned our necks skyward and hoped for a repeat celestial performance. I lay down virtually prone on the crumbling sidewalk to reduce the kink in my neck. No dice: the only bright things in the skies from then on came from the never-ending stream of planes on final approach.

We didn't much mind, though. We had seen what we came to see, and we couldn't stop talking about the show, why this stuff happens in the first place, and the physics of it all. Eventually I pulled out my camera and started to fiddle with the controls as we quietly mulled over potential photographic targets. Now, an inconspicuous and old deck bridge in the middle of suburbia may not seem like a worthwhile subject, but we wanted to challenge ourselves to come up with something, anything, to remember what it was like to be there. So we eventually settled on long exposures of passing cars. Their head and tail lights, I surmised, might be neat.

Why am I sharing this? Because I've never been so totally focused on the big moments that I've forgotten about the small ones. When it comes to our kids, I don't think any of this has anything to do with headlines, big bangs or major milestones. I grew up in a house where the small stuff mattered, and as I've been reflecting on how my father related to me at that age - and indeed at all of my ages - I've also been reflecting on how I've been relating to my kids.

Sadly, my father wasn't able to join us on our quest. Toward the end, it hurt him to walk, and his legs were especially troublesome that night. We thought of him as we sat on the sidewalk, wishing quietly that he could have seen it - the meteor, the ghostlike cars, his son and his grandson just being - for himself.

Either way, I see more hanging out on sidewalks in our future.

About this photo: 6 second exposure, f/10, 18mm. No word on what the two motorists who passed in the night were thinking as they watched a couple of strange-looking guys point a tripod-mounted camera at them as they cruised on past. This photo supports our most recent TP theme, open. Click here for more.

A closed window

The view from here
Montreal, QC, October 2009

I know this view well. Virtually every time I stayed in this place* as a child, I'd wander the floors and explore a place many of us would call alien and frightening. It was, of course, and still is in many respects. But between the ages of 4 and 6, it was home to me. So instead of cowering in my bed, I'd often climb down, grab a wheelchair and hit the waxed-floor road. Eventually, I'd run into the solariums at the corner of each floor. And I'd stare out at the big world through windows that would not open.

We spent some time in the 4th floor solarium with my mother-in-law over the weekend. It was a good day for her. She was able to walk the short distance from her room to this bright, happy spot in a place that is rarely bright or happy. The kids looked out the window at the city below. They counted the planes on approach to the airport and saw the giant Orange Julep in the distance. My mother-in-law drank in their energy as they absorbed the kind of vista few patients or visitors here ever get the opportunity to enjoy. I watched all this unfold and realized history was repeating itself.

I'm sorry that my family has so many ties to this institution, that so many milestones for so many generations have been marked right here. I'm sorry that the mere mention of it brings to mind memories of illness and endings. I'm sorry I walked down the corridor beside the OR where we said goodbye to my father before his first surgery 12 years ago, then spoke to the doctor after she was done saving his life. For the first time. And the second. I'm sorry we can't seem to put this place behind us.

* Montreal's Jewish General Hospital (link, wiki)

Thematic Photographic 71 - Open

Talk to the hand
London, ON, August 2009

Quick note: Before I begin, I'd like to share my deepest thanks to Mojo for stepping in and running Thematic Photographic at a time when I was patently unable to do much of anything from my end. I'm still not sure I'm anywhere near capable (see here if you don't know what I'm talking about, and here for the full run of entries), but his wise counsel throughout the last three weeks has helped me realize that now is as proper a time as any to dip my toes back in the waters and see what happens. Friends like him are rare indeed.

This week's theme, open, comes to us courtesy of Mojo. It's a great theme for me to return to, as it represents what lies ahead, what's possible, what awaits us and how we intend to make it ours. It's a lovely little metaphor for life, and I think it'll be good for the soul - mine and, hopefully, yours - to explore it and ponder the bigger meaning.

Our youngest son, Noah, contributed the appropriate body parts for this particular photo. He was having some alone time with me and my wife, as his brother and sister were in Montreal for their summer adventure with my in-laws. At that moment, everything was possible as we sat at our table in a neighborhood restaurant and bantered with him. No one knew how close we were to such profound change - definitely a "before" day.

Yet as I look at this photo of my son's hand with the full benefit of hindsight, I feel it represents a future for him that he simply needs to reach out and grab. He's that kind of kid, and if anything can change my world view and snap me back into something resembling a functional life, it'll look - and feel - something like this.

Your turn: Please share an open-themed photo on your blog, then post a link in a comment here. Repeat as often as you wish: This is supposed to be fun, and G-d knows we all need it. For more details on how TP works, please click here.

Seeking the light

Hello darkness
London, ON, May 2009

I opened my laptop last night and stared into the screen, the cursor blinking at me as if it were mocking me to finally write something. After what seemed like an eternity, I closed it and put my head down for the night. The words just didn't want to come.

It's the first time this has happened since we got the call about my dad, and as I drifted off to sleep I wondered if and when it would happen again. Beyond losing the people closest to me, this may rank as my biggest fear. My writer's voice represents who I am. It's also my primary means of keeping this insane carnival ride - otherwise known as my life - spinning. It's how I provide for my family, and how I keep myself whole when the world around me is anything but.

So I was thankful when I woke up this morning, grabbed the laptop's lid and dove into a document, any document. I could still write, still create, still live. I just needed to learn that my new normal may include the occasional moment when my voice will go silent. And that's perfectly fine.

About this photo: I often capture mournful moments not because I want to bring anyone down, but because I need to understand the full range of life to better appreciate what I've got. To wit, a picture of a homeless woman shooting drugs in broad daylight makes me appreciate my family that much more, while a perspective of a crumbling piece of urban infrastructure teaches me to treasure the home my wife and I have built.

Light-piercing-the-night photos have also figured in my past, including this one taken immediately below my parents' home. Scenes like this challenge me to seek the light even when I'd rather curl up in silence in the shadows for a bit until I'm ready to once again find my voice and carry on.

His #1 fan

Pull my chain
Deerfield Beach, FL, December 2008 [Click to enlarge]

Our eldest son, Zach, took this pic. Whenever the opportunity presents itself, I've been handing the DSLR over to him and letting him wander with it. I have to admit a certain, profound level of parental pride as I watch him slowly ponder the merit of a given scene, then decide how he wishes to record it. Like me, he's a deliberate shooter, often hovering over a subject for an inordinately long time before raising the camera and composing.

Often as not, he shakes his head - another trait of mine - and decides the picture simply isn't worth it. In many respects, it's somewhat uncanny to sit off to the side and watch him work. If ever I feel like my footsteps are being followed, it's during moments like this.

My wife and I have always believed in allowing our children to choose what artistic direction they wish to pursue. So when Zach began getting curious about photography, we bought him a point-and-shoot and turned him loose. Now that he's gotten a good feel for this more serious tool, he's becoming more vocal about asking for the camera whenever he sees a story that needs telling.

The game plan is for my current camera to become his when I eventually upgrade. For a teenager, it's a pretty hefty goal. But I wasn't much older than he is now when I walked into a store and bought my first SLR. The difference then was I had no one in my immediate family to guide me. Thankfully, Zach will.

Your turn: Instilling vision in the next generation. Please discuss.

One more thing: Thematic Photographic returns this Wednesday. Theme? Feel free to suggest one. I am profoundly grateful to Mojo for so generously and ably taking over the reins these last few weeks. He didn't just keep it running: He helped guide me toward taking my first tentative steps back into once again capturing, sharing, and doing the things that make me, well, me. I don't know how we'd have fared without such incredible support from such incredible friends.

The circle of life

I'm at the hospital today. I was here yesterday, too. I was here less than a couple of weeks ago, and I fear I'll be back again soon.

My mother-in-law has been here for three weeks. Surgery #3 is scheduled for Tuesday, but you'd be forgiven for writing it on your calendar in pencil, as these things tend to be delayed about as often as Iranian presidents claim their nuclear programs are for peaceful purposes.

We've been spending time with my mom this weekend, our first visit without my dad. It isn't only weird: It's surreal. And running back and forth to the hospital adds another unreal dimension to the proceedings. Not fun, and it won't change anytime soon.

I know that this strange juxtaposition of death, illness and ongoing life holds a number of life-continuity lessons for me. Problem is, I suspect I'm not in the right frame of mind to appreciate them. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps soon.

Which, in the end, is the most important lesson of all: Take the time. I'm slowly starting to get it.

What dreams may come

Distant
Laval, QC, September 2009

I'm not sure what they were dreaming of here. I hoped it was of something soothing and comforting, but I'm almost certain it was anything but.

This was the first of four photos I took on this day, the morning of my father's funeral, barely a day after he died, barely a few hours after we pulled in to my in-laws' house after the saddest, most traumatizing day they had ever experienced. I wasn't sure I should even be taking any pictures, but as I stood in the doorway and watched their sleeping forms, I didn't want to forget what it felt like to still have...them.

We so often say the words, "Life is precious." But I'm not sure we always mean them as deeply within the depths of our respective souls as we really should. So I picked up my camera - the very act of which brought me a small sense of physical comfort - and took their picture. Because they truly are precious. And I never wanted to forget how powerful that felt as I watched them sleep.

A "before" day

A day at the beach
Grand Bend, ON, September 2009 [Click all images to enlarge]

My wife and I believe in simple traditions, one of which revolves around going to the beach on the last day of summer vacation. It's a tangible way for us to transition from the relatively unstructured to the completely structured. More importantly, it's something we think - hope? - our munchkins will carry with them until long after they're munchkins. Simple moments, after all, seem to stick with us far longer than any others.

So we loaded the wondervan with our most treasured things - the kids - and headed north to the shores of Lake Huron. The weather wasn't promising, with low clouds dimming the Tim Horton's parking lot - another tradition - as we topped the little people off with breakfast. Predictions of rain only added to the "Why are we doing this?" mantra that hung over the day. But still, we went. Because traditions are traditions.

The beach, as predicted, was virtually empty. As we unloaded the boogie boards, towels and chairs van in the near-empty parking lot, my wife and I fretted quietly about the weather. The kids? Didn't care at all. They shrieked happily that they had the whole beach to themselves.

In the end, it didn't rain. But weather-fearing wannabe-beachgoers stayed away in droves, anyway. As ever, the kids frolicked in the chilly water. As ever, I took pictures of them. As ever, I took pictures of random birds and waves, as well. It was a typical Levy day at the beach, and as we carted our tired crew home through the achingly beautiful agricultural hinterlands of southestern Ontario, we knew we had succeeded in creating another memory for them.

As I look back at this day, Monday, September 7, 2009, Labour Day, I can't help but think of it as a so-called "before day". A day when we knew no better, when we had no idea that our world would soon change, when we simply enjoyed without worry. A few days later, my parents came to visit, and reviewing pictures of this day, and of the similarly sweet and simple time they spent with us at home, I wish I could go back to the moment these were all taken and freeze time.

In so many ways, the before days are infinitely preferable to the afters.

Way station

Lonely
Ingersoll, ON, September 2009

On the last stop before arriving home, I stood outside the wondervan while Debbie picked up some snacks inside with the kids. It was unseasonably, shockingly cold and windy, and I suddenly seemed underdressed in my sandals, cargo shorts and hoodie. But still, I stood there, because it nevertheless felt good to have the cold air on my face. It reinforced that I was still alive and that I could still feel.

As I waited in this transient place, I found myself staring at the fuel pumps across the parking lot. This little island of light in the middle of a forgettable night seemed so mournful, so uninviting to anyone who had some extra time and was looking for a place to hang. But still, I stared.

And I took out my camera. Because that's one of the things I do when I need to feel normal, myself. And I leaned carefully against the car, relaxed every fibre of my being to compensate for the fact that I was about to shoot handheld in the dark (can we say blur? I knew we could.) As I carefully adjusted the controls, composed the shot and squeezed the shutter, I felt a sense of, if not normalcy, then at least a sense of partial control.

Before long, my brood returned, ready for final leg of a long and difficult journey. As I accelerated onto the onramp, the limitless loneliness of this fluorescent-bathed place in the middle of an endlessly dark road was gradually replaced by the near-musical chatter of three sweet kids, an amazing wife and a feeling deep in my soul that somehow, together, we'd all figure out the next step on our journey as a family.

Paintings in the sky

Faces in the fading light...
London, ON, October 2009

A friend of mine has been e-mailing me from far, far away with perspectives on what it's like to move through loss. His family suffered an unimaginable tragedy a few years back, and his hard won experience has been instrumental in helping me lay down some roots from which I can begin to grow into whatever it is that I'll be afterward.

One of the things he suggested was to focus on a hobby or other familiar activity as a way of giving my mind a break from the otherwise constant context of sadness. Thankfully I've got a few. I had brought my camera with me to Montreal because not having it on my shoulder would have made me feel lost - well, more lost than I already was. I didn't take a lot of pictures while we were there, and the times that I did open up the lens were marked by intense internal debate over whether it was or was not appropriate for me to be doing so at that moment.

Even after we returned, albeit temporarily, home, I just didn't feel the urge to capture. I was seeing the world in blacks, whites and greys, and I just couldn't will myself to take in my surroundings in my usual three-dimensional color as I thought through each composition. I grabbed the occasional snap from my BlackBerry, but I'm sure when I work up the desire to look at them they'll be as pallid as my mood.

This past Thursday night, though, my friend's words bounced around my head. I was walking the dog and noticed the sky setting up for a spectacular post-sunset. After bringing him back home (wiggly puppy + camera = lousy photos), I picked up the camera bag and told the kids I was talking a walk alone. I wandered a few blocks away from the house, toward a large park that offered somewhat decent sky views. The shadows were already deepening, but the sky offered enough varied light to make it worth my while.

I'm still not quite sure what to make of what I captured on my memory card that night, but it marked a brief moment where I could once again see in color, however muted.

Critics take different forms

My mom called today to tell me she had seen me on television in Montreal (don't have the link yet. Will add it once I find it.) She enjoyed watching me, and spoke endlessly about how in control I seemed. I guess I hide it well.

While she loved what I had to say about Nortel and all the related fun geek stuff, she focused her feedback on one thing: She said I had circles under my eyes, and I looked tired.

I had to laugh. It was comforting to hear a small smile in her voice, even if it was only for a small sliver of time. I guess I'll just have to keep making excuses for her to tune in or otherwise be proud of everything we're up to. I know she is, and that's yet another small thing to hold on to as we try to figure out how we go on from here.

One more thing: Canwest filed for bankruptcy protection and Bell and Telus both announced they'll start selling the iPhone in Canada next month. So my phone was busy, and I did a ton of media, including:

• A bunch of CBC Radio, including Home Run with Meegan Read, Radio Winnipeg, Radio Regina and Radio Montreal, the last of which I did live and in French (stop laughing.)
  
• CTV News Channel with Sandie Rinaldo (first time I've been interviewed by her...she's a legend around these parts.)
• Business News Network with Michael Hainsworth (no one does tech-business interviews as precisely.)
  
• CBC Business News with Fred Langan (which because they couldn't confirm a studio, I did via Skype from home.)
• CJAD News in Montreal (my hometown's main newstalk radio station...)
• Reuters, Canadian Press and the Globe & Mail

I didn't have a whole lot of time to dwell, which in retrospect was a good thing. As I got into the car following my last interview, a bee flew in the open sunroof and refused to leave. I opened every window and door and tried to shoo him (her?) away, but the more I shooed, the more stubborn he/she became.

Eventually, the interloper got tired of my antics and flew into the nearby bushes. As I drove home, exhausted and thankfully unstung, I thought about the lessons I learned from childhood that were helping me get through this day - on the phone, in front of a camera, doing live radio from the parking lot or simply flinging e-mailed answers back to reporters before the tea was ready. I couldn't help but think about how well prepared I was. Someone clearly did a good job, and I was sorry he wasn't around to take a bow.

Missing my critic

Today I took a trip I've taken so many times before, to the television studio a few kilometers from our house. It was a nice day, so I biked the route, leaving early enough that I could cruise along and feel the wind on my face.

I was scheduled to chat with CTV Montreal, my hometown station (also known as CFCF and Channel 12) about Canada's tech landscape in the wake of the Nortel asset selloff. It was my first television interview since my father passed away, and I was scared that I wouldn't make it through the 4-ish minute chat without freezing up or otherwise losing it.

We were taping it, so I knew there was a bit of a safety net. But I've never liked safety nets, and every time the red light goes on, I chat away as if it's live even if it isn't. So this time, as I settled into the chair, I stared intently at the red light, focused on my voice, reviewed my talking points in my head and prayed I had what it took to make it through.

In the end, the hit went well, and I was happy that we covered the ground we wanted to cover, and I didn't melt down on camera. For a few brief minutes, it felt good to bear down on a topic and explore it in detail with an anchor, Todd van der Hayden, who clearly understood the guts of the story. For a few brief minutes, I was Carmi the analyst.

After we were done, I got back on my bike and slowly headed back home. As I turned the first corner in the quiet suburb, I thought about how this would be the first interview where my father wouldn't be around to critique my performance, or comment on how little time they gave me, or share his thoughts on the shirt/tie combination that I wore that day. I guess I'll have to get used to not having my built-in critic around from now on.

If you're in Montreal, the interview airs tomorrow (Tuesday, October 6) on the noon-hour newscast. It'll probably hit the air sometime around 12:30 p.m. EDT. I'll post the link here when it's uploaded to the station's website.

The view from the balcony

Everything changes
Laval, QC, September 2009

In a prominent spot on the wall of my parents' house, there's a framed picture of a scene I shot from a hotel window in Colorado just about three years ago (click here, I'll wait.) When my father saw the picture, he asked if I'd blow it up for him. It's my first commission, and every time I see it on the wall, it reminds me of him, and of a quiet moment in a faraway place that connected us.

During shiva, I often found myself staring at the image. I tried to understand what it was that he specifically liked about it. Initially, I thought it was the color and texture of the brightening sky. But the more I stared into it, the more I was drawn to the silhouetted community below. And I saw a fully formed, slowly awakening world there that had completely eluded me when I first composed the scene. Between the water tower, the houses, the businesses and surrounding landscape, I had captured the essence of a community: Which, at the end of it all, was what my father lived for.

I took this photo a few days after he passed away, from the same balcony where he used to tend his plants and watch the boats glide by below. My mother had noticed the trees beginning to change and said it was something he always appreciated. So I took my camera out, stood where he once stood, and snagged this image.

We'll be blowing it up and framing it for display right next to the Colorado sunrise one. Because the community and family life that was so important to him thrives on reflections like these.

Looking back in time

Life happened here
London, ON, September 2009

I decided today that flipping through the photo archives might help soothe my soul. I'll let you know how that works out in the days to come. For now, here's one glimpse that I wanted to share.

It was early on a Saturday morning, our daughter's 12th birthday, three weeks ago today. A lifetime, it seems. My parents were visiting us. I had a blood donation scheduled, so as I slipped out of the darkened house as quietly as I could, I couldn't resist the urge to lean over their sleeping forms and kiss their foreheads just as they so often did when I was a kid.

We had a busy day of cake and togetherness planned, so my goal was to show up at the clinic first thing and sheepishly beg for them to take me as early as they could. I suppose I could have cancelled the appointment - and in retrospect, it would have given me more time with them - but since I became serious about donating blood when my father first got sick 12 years earlier, I knew he understood why I felt the need to do this. It was a neat connection, one I know brought him joy.

So as I pulled into the clinic's parking lot on this clear and sunny morning, I realized I had misread the schedule, and had arrived about half an hour before the doors opened. As it's located on the grounds of London's largest hospital complex, I grabbed my camera from the passenger seat and went for a walk.

I didn't get far. The ivy-covered wall stopped me in my tracks. I've shot ivy before. It intrigues me because, depending on its condition, it can signify life in its various stages. And even when it's just bare tendrils on a concrete wall, you can't help but hold out hope that despite it all, it'll find a way to grow again.

I ha no idea how prescient this photo - or that lonely moment on the quiet hospital grounds - would be.

Disengaged

I've been told that grief is like a roller coaster. I believe it, but I'd like to amend the definition somewhat: It's like a roller coaster in the dark.

The ups and downs are the same, of course, but you never know when something's going to hit you and send you reeling in a new and unexpected direction. At least if we had the light of day to work with, we could prepare for whatever comes next. In reality, no such luck.

So today's surprise was a gloom that settled in from the moment I opened my eyes and once again chimed in to the awful truth of the recent past. I'm pretty sure I've moved past the "it's like a nightmare and I hope I wake up soon" phase, but there's still a heartbeat of time every morning when it hits me that I no longer have a dad. While most days up until now that moment of realization has resulted in a wave of teary sadness, today it made my body ache and my spirit turn grey.

So all day long, that was me: quiet and unable - and probably quite unwilling - to smile or otherwise engage in the usual back-and-forth of everyday life in the not-so-big city. While I went through the motions of bringing the kids to school and chatting with parents and staff, I felt a curious mixture of lifelessness and pain that I couldn't fully cover up with a forced smile and happy-sounding voice. I've never been a good actor, and today didn't change that.

Yesterday I did my first interview - a taped chat with CBC Radio's Meegan Read - and today I did my first live radio interview with CJOB Winnipeg's Richard Cloutier. I spoke with CBC Money's Dave Simms and with David Friend from the Canadian Press, and we mused afterward about how good it felt to be back. And as good as it felt to be hearing and actively working with these professional, caring people, and as cathartic for my soul as it was to once again be the analyst and deliver crisply built perspectives on biz-tech issues, as soon as I hung up the phone I once again saw only dull grey.

So here I sit, reflecting on a day when not even a walk through the grocery aisle with my BlackBerry's camera was enough to budge my mood, when it hurts to lift my arms to type on my laptop, when I simply want to curl up and go to sleep.

Maybe it's OK to have days like this. Maybe this is where the rollercoaster was destined to go. I just wish I could see it coming.

Those who know. Those who don't.

Had an interesting epiphany today, courtesy of my ever observant, ever lovely wife. She said we think that we're walking around with signs around our necks announcing what our family has just been through. But the truth of the matter is not everyone knows what's happened.

So when a friend or acquaintance approaches us and congratulates us on a nice quote in a national newspaper, or pulls out copies of their new magazine from the trunk of the car and stuffs them excitedly in our hands - both of which happened to me today - we should resist the urge to look at them funny and wonder why they don't get it. As devastating as loss can be to immediate family members, it's often just a blip, if that, to folks located further toward the periphery of our existence.

From now on, I'll remind myself of this perspective every time I read the obituaries page in the paper. Within the context of each affected family, entire worlds are being irrevocably changed. My distance from them doesn't change any of that. Nor does magazine-trunk-lady's distance from me change anything for me.

One more thing:

Speaking of my ever lovely wife, I can't continue without sharing a thought on her own, additional, burden these days. Her mom's been in the hospital for nearly two weeks. She had surgery earlier this week and is scheduled for another date with the knife tomorrow. Her road back to health is long, challenging and uncertain. Even without my dad's passing, this alone would have been enough to slam lesser folks into uselessness.

Not my wife. While she's been moving heaven and earth to be there for me, to cushion me from the harsh realities of the planet while I try, pathetically, to heal, she's been wrestling with being there for her mom and keeping it together for her marathon man of a dad. She's also been single-handedly parenting our three kids, integrating herself back into her teaching and keeping the increasingly psychotic dog from camping out on the kitchen table (story for another day, I promise.)

I recently wrote about our daughter's backbone, about her strength of character that seems to defy any force that comes up against her. She gets it from Debbie. Who clearly got it from her parents.

If you have a spare moment, I'd like to ask you to please say a prayer for Deb's mom. While we can't get back what's been lost, we remain hopeful that everyone else in our orbit can return to a happy, healthy and fulfilling life.

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Related link: Debbie's blog. Feel free to say hi.

Writing in the dark

I often write things in my head long before I get anywhere near a keyboard. I don't think I control the process as much as it controls me: Any time, anywhere, the words simply begin to dance.

And so it was this morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, as I lay in bed with the furnace/dog draped over my legs. A column that I had begun to slash out on my laptop before bed last night decided to complete itself. So I got up, grabbed the laptop and its handy dandy gooseneck USB LED light (best $7 I ever spent, btw) and parked myself on the living room couch to finish it off in earnest and send it halfway across the continent.

It's my first piece of beginning-to-end, actual, professional writing that I've done in what seems like an age. I re-read it countless times to ensure it flowed OK and wasn't rife with evidence of my decidedly less-than-focused state. Confident it didn't read like a Swahili-language breakfast restaurant menu, I sent it on its way.

I can't say I enjoyed the process. I still feel overwhelmed with thoughts and feelings that I can't understand, let alone adapt to. I still feel like I've lost my edge, and worse, I've lost one of the most critical members of my audience. But if the show goes on for the proverbial performer, it has to go on for the proverbial writer as well. Write, invoice, live. It goes on...albeit painfully.

One more thing: I wrote and published this piece for Betanews, My father's laptop: A humble machine's simple lesson, last week. I hope you'll take a moment to give it a read and let me know what you think.