Patricia Kathleen Chauncey passed away on Tuesday, 13th January,

Patricia Kathleen Chauncey  passed away on Tuesday, 13th January,
 Her memorial service is Patricia Chauncey; A Celebration of Life & Art
Saturday, 24 Jan. 3-5pm for remembrance and 5-9pm for her Wake.
Chapel Arts, 304 Dunlevy Ave. in Vancouver. 

 Patricia Chauncey passed in her sleep on Tuesday morning at 4am, the result of a brain hemorrhage. Tim was able to make it to her side before she passed, and in his words: “We had a good life. Our worlds were bigger and better because of each other.”
Her resilience in her 14 year fight with cancer was extraordinary. As recent as this weekend, Pat, in her Mayne Island home, was energized and actively collaborating with three other artists to produce her next show. 
A Celebration of Patricia’s Life and Art will be held on Saturday January 24th at Chapel Arts, 304 Dunlevy Ave. in Vancouver. All friends and family are invited to this event, which will have the format of  3-5pm for remembrance and 5-9pm for her Wake
. 
Details and a Facebook invite will follow and be posted to her wall. Please spread the word and come celebrate her life with us. 
Instead of flowers, and following Patricia’s values of “Justice, Not Charity”, please support an anti-poverty advocacy group and the principle of adequate public funding for public education.

Tim.
timhurley1952@gmail.com

Hi there, Patricia (patchaunceymemorial@gmail.com) wants to share some files in a folder called "PatChaunceyMemorial Photos" with you via Dropbox.

Still here.

I am still here. Change keeps happening. My son is waiting for his first niece, She is now due. I am still alive. The babies are happy about us excited. B and Dane are seeing if they can keep
I feel more alive. Not less but the measurements measure differently

Home.

I am in my house on Mayne Island. Just for a few days.
It is wonderful.
So wonderful.

Letting Go and Hanging On For Dear Life

Right now, after weeks in the hospital expecting to die but living has changed so many things.
I am now very medically fragile and will continue to be. My husband has left work which he deeply loved, to care for me. He has to do things like give injections and negotiate care and does so by leaving piles of dignity. And manage an impossible long list of medications and medical appointments. All his management skills have kicked in. Along with dedication and love.

Steroids to keep my lungs functioning, Sometimes I can walk and sometimes I can't do it very well. Sometimes communication is nearly impossible because of pain and frustration.

I was about to end all medical treatment and silently start to let go but waited a little too long. I can't do that now. Because the cancer cell count has plummeted but a tumour is in my skull and in T3 in my spine. The adjuvent chosen has killed cancer when that wasn't expected. The booster to the adjuvent has destroyed my core health. And the huge blood clots came from late stage cancer.

Both of us have let people go from our life. Without much sadness at all really. The sadness of this far outweighs other loss for both of us. This one is just far too big to deal with other people who don't come through or make anything sadder or more difficult.

We are truly surrounded by caring and friends. There is quality to life for this precious while.
And after 33 years with all that means we get this next little while.

I watched death in the hospital a few times when I was there. I could not see it but knew because the environment changed with the routine and the caregivers burdened faces. They were moodier after. Less patient or sometimes a little more giving. Families could be heard a little but it was their walk out of the room that was so clear. Almost single file with eyes straight ahead.

It is like that now. Eyes straight ahead when needed.

But I get to go back to Swee

thaven for the weekend. Tim has surrounded me with my art supplies and I have played a little and he has started reading me a series of interconnected myths and sociology about living solo in a crowded world. He has explained why our relationship exists, continued to morph and then thrive. And that had to do with both our capacities to speak truth (loud or not) to maintain intimacy and recognize quiet and personal agency. We spend time with others and simply end up retreating into what no longer needs tinkering with. Just us.

I have always thought it had a lot to do with his genuine open minded patience and respect for others. And certainly for me. He has almost no capacity for cruelty and may judge others but from a genuinely fair lens. He is unbelievably kind.

I have not once felt to be a burden to him. Not once.

Detail of quilt made by my Great Grandmother Mabel Della Wells. It was a gift to my Grandmother for her marraige. Cotton with a lamb's wool batt. I slept under it as a little girl on the farm.

Day with Mother

Today my mother showed up and I had a chance to grill her for names. And arrival times in Canada` from Ireland and England.

And we sat there holding some sad facts. Her mother and her mother's mother were dedicated to textiles. My great grandmother was placed in an Ursuline Convent in Quebec when she was very young and like many Irish girls of the time were essentially enslaved to embroider white work to make profit for the Catholic Church, She was very clever and considered beautiful.

Her strength was legendary. One day a masked man came into the shop she owned in Montreal. He had a gun and in an instant reaction she leapt on the counter and slapped him hard a cross the face and became a ferocious being and grabbed his gun. He was so shocked he ran fast from the store with Mary Josephine cursing him all the way down the street.

The Church continued to control part of her life well into adulthood until the priests told her she had to bury her mother in a High Mass and pay for it. She only wanted to pay for a Low Mass. She had already dedicated much of her life to helping them raise money. After working very hard for every dime as did her husband. So she would not. She held her ground. Fiercely. And she won. But it changed her dedication to the Church. And it changed my grandmother's dedication who chose to leave when she married.

And one daughter only to each of them. Except me. I have only sons.

A few years ago my mother chose to return to the Church.

My mother is giving me my Great Grandmother's picture. Mary Josephine. I have seen it once or twice. She had beautiful auburn hair. But my mother and her mother had jet black hair. I am blond like my father. We are Hiberno- Norse genetically with a little Spanish Armada on that side of my family.

My hands have run over the leather of the Prayer Book from Ireland and the Rosary beads.

Stitches on this done by Mary Josephine, Mary, Kathleen Mary, Patricia Kathleen .
French knotted silk stitched on hand drawn linen. Started in the 1920's but an ongoing project.

Beautiful carved black leather and silver clasps. When I was twelve I went through it page by page. Generations of women had placed blossoms on the pages to press. And there were writings in the margins. My Grandmother writing that she was struggling but deciding to leave the church. "My Lord I forsake Thee!" in a childlike and emotional hand. I cried. The same Grandmother called "Nanny". I have the dresser from  Mary Josephine's house. And my Nanny had crawled underneath and drawn a picture of Mary Pickford in a beautiful pencil drawing that she had managed to etch the wood with. My signature from first grade with the girl with braids picture I drew.

Nanny was my primary parent when I was  young. I watched die as a little girl. And my mother Katy had to reclaim me. But I was completely lost and abandoned. I did not belong to her. I did not know about gene pool.

Brewing

Medications in line right now. Body adjusting. Going in for infusions today. Tim and I negotiate injections every day. He gives them to me and sometimes they hurt. I am still afraid of them. I would have been the worst junkie in the world. Just hope the blood thinners are working.

Have learned I need way less pain killer if they are available and I take them with regularity. Down to half when things are managed carefully. This means I can think. Plan. And create. Having all this time has started to fill up sketchbooks with ideas that are cohesive. Having dreams about full projects really helps. Everything there. Including visuals on materials needed. And I can read again. Real words. Academic papers instead of small articles. About fiber, Vikings and burial containers. All directed by a stream of genetic connection and personal history.

And one of the nurses in the hospital heard I was a fiber artist. He came and talked for a long time. About a museum for Islamic textiles. He brought in images of some of the breath taking 700 year old protection garments. Gold and precious metals woven into script. And fragments of the prayer cloths from Mecca.  He is a calligrapher who works with fine vellum made from baby deer. He thinks they can be stitched and have been. My desire to work with the fundamental kicked back in Mayne. I pulled him together a list of contacts. He made sure I had oxygen, shots and medication. And inspiration. And true compassion. Sharing of ideas.

Arthur came by. I insisted I be listed as atheist when asked about a spiritual advisor. I only wanted a Unitarian Universalist who was a humanist or atheist support. Impossible. But he actually existed. And he came. And helped. Really helped shake me from the terror of being in a huge institution and powerlessness.

And a young nurse who just graduated from school in Montreal. Bright blond Irish and from between Cork and Wexford. From my mother's neighbourhood in Montreal. Comfort. When I experienced distress late at night she figured out I needed something else besides Atavan or Hydro-morphone. She scooted down the hall and found some potato chips. And closed the door and shared them because potato water was in our blood. And laughed.  All anxiety dissipated immediately.

Never doubt cracks in the walls where true human beauty pours out.

I didn't die. I was completely ready. But once more life continues for awhile. More damage than before and more challenge but this can be handled. Upright far more often now. Pretty shaky but getting some core energy back. I am so well cared for. Bren. My mother. Christine. Gayla. Birgitta.So many people. And lots of people dropping in. And Tim kicks everyone out when he sees me going under. I have a hard time noticing that. He is very conscious and protective. And more than real.

The sun streams into this apartment. It is a soft and lovely place to do this. Such a sweet little cave.

Old thoughts on Mecca. "Return to Mecca" Portion of a five meter length of velvet. Complex cloth.
 Done by me and in the collection of Christine Basque. 

New Landings

I have been in the hospital for the last 16 days.
I came home last night to my little Vancouver apartment and slept in my own bed.

My postings have been non existent.
 I am still alive. I was rushed by ambulance to Acute Care from the Cancer Clinic with lungs full of pneumonia. I had no wait in the Emergency Ward and was placed on oxygen and pain killers immediately. I was surrounded by more specialists and nurses than I can imagine. I have almost no memory of a week of my life.

Sometime during that time I was placed in a room alone. The room was gorgeous and overlooked the ocean and the beautiful city. I woke up and fell to sleep to the sight of ships and clouds through huge windows.

My lungs started to collapse and I fell into an abyss fighting for every breath. I would wake to my mother, my children, my vigilent husband, my brothers, my closest friends and extended family.

I started to lapse into release. Letting go. But I was constantly bouyed by my pod who kept me floating. To nurses who heard my need for some comfort and to the biggest stream of Doctors and baby Doctors I can imagine. Specialists doing their best to claim part of me. I railed against their direction at times and Tim kicked in as the most loving and incredible advocate  who without fear explained me to them in a way no one else could.

They decided to take away some drugs I relied on to make my life work and suddenly it really started not to work. Avalanches were caused. Everything hurt worse. It was ferocious. The terror and blood pressure became worse. I developed blood pressure problems. Veins started to clog up and develop a deep vein thrombosis and clots that are more than 16 inches long.

And then they did what I needed them to. They did the worst thing I can imagine and made a decision to wash my lungs. To try and identify if I could be treated for a chemical pneumonitis or continue to be treated for infection. There was never infection but a drug interaction that was doing this. A mistake and side effect. The lung washing will leave me with terror for the rest of my life. But it kicked in my lungs and my care. There was no infection anywhere. I was no longer the threat to infect others. I just needed to be rescued from a very bad drug.

I was given other tests that showed more and more. The cancer has left my lungs and some of my lymph nodes. It has not just kept still and even. Cancer has died. I am just on an adjuvent which is acting like a chemo. It is killing some of this cancer. The cancer is in my skull but is not showing up in my brain. I am not cancer free. Just freer of cancer. Less there.

The issue for the last few months was a drug that was a booster to the adjuvant. It would help the statistics slightly. But it back fired. Big time.

I am left with a permenent condition with the chemical pneumonitis and will be on blood thinners for the rest of my life. My voice has been changed. The collapsed lungs will never fully repair. But I can stand up, think and create once again. I tried to sing. No possibility. And I am so deconditioned it will take months to repair my strength. I cannot walk without help to the car. I can no longer lie flat in my bed.

When I was being dismissed yesterday one of the Doctors turned around and said, "You are one strong woman. Go home. Don't come back!"

I have to deal with the mess and the expense that are left but I am home.

Spent my first day out in a wheelchair. I can walk a bit but not for long without breath.
Breath is so precious. So is good, clean air.

Me. Trying to catch my breath. 

Day before release minus most of my hair. Day 15.

Beloved Butterfly who made it to my window as a gift one morning. I needed to be reminded of frailty .

One little stitch at a time.

Marja Van!!!!

Tim went to the post box and pulled out a little package and it contained the whole world.
This beautiful piece of marvel was made by M-a-r-j-a Van.  She teaches in the Far North.
 Postmarked Inuvik.

Thank you Ms. Van!

Photo taken in bed. Better shot tomorrow. This is a detail of the beautiful natural dyed scarf
Marja Van has made and gifted me.

Spiritual Artists

Spiritual practice and art are not the same thing. Not to me.
Your flimsy and exploitive marketing tactic is more than tired. There is nothing remotely deep in most people's work that is described as spiritual. It is tiresome and often reflects a shallowness I didn't imagine was even possible to achieve. Appropriated crap. Not spiritual.

Art, to me, is best when it reflects self, environment or connection. Sometimes the simplest line can do that. Simple object well thought out and resolved. Refined. Pared down. Matured. Of self and effort and talent.

It takes more work than to hysterically figure out label after label for yourself. Don't call yourself anything if you are sampling and exploring. You are not a conceptual artist until you have explored concept. Really explored an idea and not shit it out for amateur show or two. Lived it.

Needing to describe yourself in early practice is unnecessary but learning is okay. The labels really don't let you get away with anything.

I love blind jurying. It separates the wheat from the personality or attractiveness. It removes the bimbo factor, the friendship, the potential connection. It is scary. No artist's statement to dazzle and distract jurors. No fancy stories over ridiculous work. Just it... Raw presentation. The cream always rises and the substantial holds an honest place.

Your true art will stand out as it is if you shut the fuck up about it. Cliche description is worth nothing as the work stands there naked.

Needing to use labels like Soulful Art. The Sacred Feminine. Etc. dismisses it all for me. As does making a bloody mess and experimenting and hanging it on the wall because you are afraid of the strength of one single piece. Nothing but the best you have. Not from an experiment but from a long term exploration and mastery. Effort. Hard,hard work. Research. And admitting what belongs to you and what belongs to others.

I could give a damn about your spirituality.

Pale Butterflies

I have been withdrawing from the methadone that they gave me as a substitute for the morphine I can't tolerate. Turns out that withdrawing is pretty rough. Not as rough as the side effects. I am now stunned to discover I can't take narcotics without big trouble.

Not great. Luckily my pain level has subsided a bit with the lack of activity.

Life is made easier by my husband. We are now alone. For three days.

He is trying so hard. I am being really sick and difficult. I have held down two meals in a month. I struggle to keep fluids in. The coughing retching uses hours a day.

I visit people and can barely sit up. Not very good at being a sick person.

My anger stuns me. Keep having to remind myself that it is a side effect of two drugs. And that anger is part of this.

I am doing the best I can.

Tim found me three beautiful pale butterflies that died in the windows during the mating frenzy.

Post Box

I love having a post box at the end of the Sweethaven Road.
I never know when a surprise will arrivve.

My favourite gifts are hand written letters. I love the personality and love each hand drawn word each person makes.

This mornings mail brought this beautiful letter from Abbe. I have know her for so many years.
My eyes danced across her words. What a beautiful gift! It will be placed on the wall at the foot of my bed to remind me of the kindness and thoughtfulness people have by giving of their time to share words of encouragement and friendship.

Bad Drugs

I had a great appointment at the BC Cancer Agency today.
Not what I expected. Our discussion moved from cell counts, dosage and severe side effects to quality of life issues.

Tim was ferocious regarding what happened to me during the MRI. I was physically hurt through complete willful belligerence. He was furious about the fact my Oncologist actually expected many of the side effects that have happened to me not as a result of the hormone blocker but as a result of the booster drug. It was not a necessary drug and the other drugs work fine without it.

I have been in bed most of the time since August and have had such serious side effects I had to be watched 24 hours a day. These side effects were severe vertigo, vomiting enough to lose an enormous amount of weight, at least one nose bleed a day and bad pain. I also developed severe and debilitating reactive airway symptoms that managed to make it so breathing was difficult and my oxygen sats dropped 6 points. The depression and emotional impact of the drug was also huge and life ruining.
All off this not part of a necessary drug regime.

Tim had to take time off work when it may not have been that necessary and friends have had to come in and care for me. We have had to hire someone and buy expensive off protocol drugs to get me through this. Tim was sure that I was not going to make it through the fall.

I am definitely not through it yet but one day off the drug the side effects have dropped by half. I can almost breath clearly, I stood up without fainting or tipping over. I ate real food and kept it down.

Tim and Femke are hovering in the sweetest way. I hope they can stop doing that. But to have their love and care is enormous. And I will never doubt my beautiful husbands dedication and love again.
I look at him and he glows with the most serene and beautiful light. He has barely had a minute to himself or a good nights sleep in weeks. I am overwhelmed. His generosity and kindness have made this almost worth it.

He put up the beautiful antique canopy bed in our bedroom. He painted the hallway and the second floor. He lovingly created another space for me to sleep in the big window in the living area. It meant he had to re purpose and construct platforms while Femke, Chris or Judy  watched me. It is a beautiful, peaceful space where I can take part in the life of Sweethaven while still in bed.

Tim on the Mount Park just behind Sweethaven. 2014.

Femke pulled out my needle bag and handed me wool. It was very hard to coordinate myself at first but it is now happening. I am using my hands today.

It looks like I might get a little reprieve where I will hopefully be able to finish documenting my work and try to make some new work. All the plans are there. The material is there. And so is a little bit of energy.

Time for all the crap to get shoveled out of here and scrapped off my shoe to make way for decent people and experiences. I have learned so much this fall. Lots of it not happy. Some of it shockingly ugly. But lots of beauty. There is clearly no more time to follow any other agenda but the one Tim and I define. He is with me for six months if we are lucky enough to have six months. If not... we will make other plans.

I am deeply in love with the man I chose to spend my life with and raise a family with and start to grow old with. Even though it has been 33 years. It is better right now than it has ever been because of the deepest connection possible. He is a truth teller, has nothing selfish or shallow about him and he lives with integrity every single day. I could never measure up but I will seriously try.                                                

Right now I am hungry. For the first time in weeks.

Direction

There is a consequence to making a decision to work with and surround yourself with people who are differently directed or less skilled. Sometimes the consequence is regression of your own art practice. It can also result in having to reclaim your path and contacts. Or find you are surrounded by copy artists, Sunday painters or posers.

I made a decision to change direction a few years ago. It happened at the peak of mid-career success. I quit organizations, stopped teaching, let memberships lapse and didn't follow up on extraordinary invitations that were coming in internationally.

At that point I was winning International Awards like the one from Hand Weaver's Guild of America for Innovative Practice, being published in Textile Forum Austrailia and in the European Textile Network Magazine. I was also guest speaking and teaching with an Invitation to teach at the National Taiwan Craft's Institute. There were other things like a life profile in the Column Left Atrium with the Canadian Medical Association, a documentary and invitations to show in New York, England, Holland and Hong Kong.

But I decided, perhaps out of fear, that I desperately needed a studio up North and to open a gallery.
It allowed me time. It allowed me a whole new perspective and some grounding time. It did not allow time for creative growth and eventually choked my creativity almost completely. I was surrounded by bad landscape painters, people who attend art events to get laid and used the nearby art school as a glorified summer camp or by artists who have dated prescribed practice and messages. Not all of course. There was meetings with  Peter Von Theissenhausen, John Hall and Harold Klunder.  Got to work with Claire Kudjundzic and Bill Horne, Carolyn Anders, Corey Hardeman and Paula Scott.

Hard lesson from all of this. In some ways the time spent in Wells was wasted and destructive on both a personal and professional level. Except I made friends and lived the intimate but invasive life of a small town. But professionally artistic life ground to a near halt. There may not be time now to reclaim it.


I can only blame myself for what happened.

A Picture of Superman

Got me through another hard night. Superman got up three times. No sleep for either.
Awoke to blueberry smoothie and fresh made tea. Hydration.

Christine

Christine came and stayed and cooked, held me, made me laugh
played with Tim, read to me, dragged me to the beach and did everything magic she does.

Our house rings with laughter and love.

This kinda sums up who we are.

My Christine. Always.

Christine Basque and Patricia Chauncey. Sept. 2014

Long Term Illness Sucks

i have no enthusiasmI have now been dealing with the same slow growing cancer formally for 12 years. I was in my forties. I have had no success with the series of chemos, radiation and surgeries. Some of those treatments have left me sicker and close to death. I have pulled back from death at least 5 times.

It is normal for me to leap back into a life that works for awhile and diminishes again.
Each time less of me comes back.

The cancer has started a whole new phase. This time fierce. Nausea so bad I can't sit up or walk around easily. A skull bone that aches all the time. Legs and balance that no longer work reliably
Pain. In my chest and under my arm. In old radiation on two places in my spine. Breathing problems. Vomiting that is hard to control.  Sleeplessness and sweating.

I am lucky and  know that. But there comes a point where there is now very little value I offer the world. Where the motivation to get up is leaving and I just have the energy to stare at a wall. I have gone from lookin forward to visits to avoiding many of them because I find social enery the hardest to manufacture.

The cancer clinic experience has changed. I am still in Ambulatory Care. But this is now done with a walker and an assistant. It would be impossible for me to go to an appointment on my own.
 People no longer say how well I look. They are startled. Black and green circles and a palor startle my friends. Their eyes well up all the time. I talk on the phone and I hear them react to my voice weakness and breathlessness.

I was not diagnosed at Stage 1. I was diagnosed at Stage 3. Now diagnosed as palliative Stage 4. For 2 years.

My patience is short. Very little left for fools who push alternate diagnosis and faith healing on me. Positive thinkers who are convinced I somehow created my own genetic malady by feeling and reacting to stress in the wrong way. Who attempt to silence me with stupid mantras and magical thinking. Who abandon me because I am cranky.

My attempt to get up and take part in life takes more than most understand. It is my belief that people suffer silently not only to protect others from pain but because they have given up trying to use their own voices. They are tired of trying to be allowed to express what they need and want. Of having personalities and roles imposed on them. Sick people don't say things like that. You are a saint. I am not a saint. You are so brave. I am terrified. You expect too much. Seriously. I am expected to wait for hours for appointments. Sit in dirty clothes. Wait for food when an empty stomach burns and burns. Stand on buses. Be stood up at the simple drop of a hat.

I am a grouch. I do not have my regular instant smile and trust. My attitude is the best I can do. I am not needing to suffer...

I didn't manufacture a single fucking thing except feigned happiness and excitment at life. The things that make me truly happy are nearly all gone.

I am no longer thankful for another day. Just grateful for the life I was enabled to have after diagnosis. And so glad about the life and love I had before all of this. It was full. It was rich. And I loved it. Right now I don't because long term illness without hope just sucks.

Navigating Through

I have been invited more than three times to show in a gallery and the possibility of doing so causes me distress because I will be required to cross over the personal with the professional.

The personal is very unpleasant. The professional is important only in that the invitation is from someone who has been a dedicated follower and advocate of my work for many years.

The personal requires a super human effort to be civilized. Even sort of civilized. Even sort of human. It is hugely upsetting. It involves the ridiculous unnecessary drama resulting from a situation that was heart breaking to me.

This is going to require thought. The person who invited me has asked repeatedly for a few years.
He collects my work. His board of directors include two people who have hurt me. One very intentionally through the theft of ideas and personal betrayal and one without personal knowledge and as a result of manipulation by another.

The whole idea of the gallery looms before me and makes me feel sickened. I have even avoided the community at all costs.

How do other people address dilemmas like this? Where does there capacity to ignore trauma and deep personal insult come from?

My work from the Wonderland show at Numen Gallery. 

I am an honest person who has a difficult time hiding feelings. My feelings in this case are raw and new. I feel invaded on many sides by a personal experience manipulated by another that has left me with enormous self doubt, self consciousness and fear. The selfishness of his actions has invaded two communities that were important to me. I no longer feel comfortable in either.

He had almost no recent successful connection to the creative community before he connected with me. Stepped over me. Carved a swath through my professional life. To say nothing of the impact his selfishness had on me personally at a time I could not protect myself from any of this.
In more normal times this would be a small obstacle. I could muster my own personal shield. But everything is more significant when at my most vulnerable. Life and Death vulnerable.

But my friend and follower wants to show my work in a beautiful gallery out of caring and admiration. He asked again last night. Last week. The week before. Last month.
I just sit here not unsure of his commitment to my work but in a full terror of showing there.

I told him that I will try my best and that I have other obligations I am not meeting. and the truth is I will try my best. I told him my agent will organize it with him. Hopefully the show happens posthumously. Easier that way.

Piano Man

Earle Peach playing my piano in the early morning light. Beautiful sounds from

an amazing man. Such a nice way to wake up. He stays at Sweethaven when giving concerts on Mayne.

Cozy, Cuddled and Loved.

The artist Judi Porter just gifted me a beautiful quilt that has pictures of my life all over it.
I made some fabric for her daughter Amanda's wedding last summer. I had no expectation at all that I would be given something as heart warming and beautiful as this wonderful quilt.

It will serve me very well. No one has been able to get me out from under it today. Or in the near future.

I am so deeply touched. Couldn't get my eyes dry for at least an hour this morning.
So loving and delightful. And from dear friends. Judi and Amanda. I love you!

                                                    Judi Porter's Quilt. 2014

C.B.C. Radio

Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, our state supported public radio has experienced massive lay-offs and letting go exceptional journalists, writers and researchers.

But something has happened this afternoon. The words "Bad Shit" are being sent out over the radio waves.

We haven't quite figured out if it is simply a stutter or a political action. More than 15 minutes of it so far.We are laughing so hard. We have had enough of the austerity programs in Canada . It is time for some extreme action to straighten out the mess that is being made of each and every public service.

We used to have live announcers who were delightful. Now there are pre-recorded loops. Now we just have "Bad Shit"!

That's it!